Page 27 of Giovanna

I had a nice time with him tonight. One-on-one, Elio is smart and funny, and engaged. That his phone remained tucked in his pocket for the entirety of our evening has been a welcome surprise. As has his apparent genuine aim to put me at ease.

We dined at a ridiculously expensive and highly exclusive establishment overlooking Darling Harbour. It is tucked on the upper floors of what looks on the outside like an office building, but only those in the know, and willing to pay an arm and a leg for membership, know it even exists.

It has a deliberate old-world approach to service that is very un-Australian. We don’t go around calling each other ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ here. We are famously classless; not so much in the sense that there aren’t vast differences in wealth, but in that money doesn’t stop us from all being a bit bogan; rough around the edges. My time in England showed me just how relaxed our social interactions are Down Under compared to the motherland.

In their crisp white shirts and tailored black jackets, the staff seemed to be almost role-playing and the pianist in the corner looked like he could have stepped out of an old Hollywood film. It was an experience that’s for sure, but one that I would be happy to have infrequently.

Elio didn’t seem to be phased by it all, but then he has a membership; this is his world. I’m just a tourist. As he raised his glass of South Australian Shiraz in a toast to us, I wondered how many other women had sat in this prestigious dining room with him; senators and movie stars dining nearby.

Only a fool would think the twinkles in his eyes are just for them. The quirk of his lips has sent tingles through many bodies, his practised sincerity creating the illusion that each one is the only girl in the world.

I hunger for someone whose slow smiles are mine alone.

It isn’t that I am jealous. The truth of it is that I don’t have any feelings for him whatsoever. What I am fearful of is humiliation and disrespect. When I have so little control over the fundamentals of my life, all that is left to me is my self-respect and dignity.

I will not be the mafia wife who turns her cheek while her husband philanders and makes her the subject of gossip and pity.

My father’s first wife was subject to exactly that when he took up with my 18-year-old mother. Although she was far from his first indiscretion. One year later, Wife #1, Karen, had been discarded and my parents were engaged with me on the way.

I don’t blame Karen for the hostility with which she has treated me and my mother in the 24 years since. I would be the same.

The only thing that does make me sad at times is that because my father destroyed his relationship with his older children when he humiliated their mother, I have no relationship with my half-siblings.

Well, I thought I didn’t until Stefan’s strange familiarity at our engagement party.

He is a year older than my mother, which naturally didn’t help the awkward dynamics. My half-sister Claudia is only a few years younger than Mum. I have nieces and nephews, but we have never met. Even before I was shipped off to London I hadn’t seen Stefan and Claudia in a few years.

As far as they’re concerned I am the mafia brat that resulted from their middle-aged father taking up with a gold digger their age.

Massimo and I jokingly call ourselves the ‘Secondi Siblings’. The second course; the main course. Really we aren’t as important as the main event at dinner, we are the afterthoughts. The tag-a-longs. The leftovers.

Massimo’s relationship with his three half-siblings has always caused me little prickles of jealousy. His situation is a little different from mine though. His mother wasn’t discarded as if she were out of date before even reaching menopause. She died. Not that dying is a preferable outcome. It just meant that Peta didn’t oust Sandy’s first wife, Maria, she just replaced her after she had already gone. Breast cancer killed her and the Marinos still do a lot of donating to related charities.

Peta is a lot younger than Sandy, but still older than all his children. She gets on well with them too. Giovanna and she seem to be friends even. Everyone seems to agree that Peta is too good for her cantankerous husband. She isn’t thirsty for status and luxury like my mother, but she has plenty of both.

Witnessing the dynamics of mafia marriages has left me hyper-sensitised to what life is like for mafia wives. Looking over at Elio’s handsome face, with its subtle laugh lines and crow's feet, I am reminded that when I am his age I will be ‘getting old’. My shelf life is short. His worth will never diminish though. By the time I’m in my 60s, his mistresses will be my granddaughters’ age, if he hasn’t disposed of me all together.

Knowing all this and fiercely protective of my dignity, I was surprised to find myself enjoying Elio’s company. Sure, I would have traded him for his sister any day of the week, but she has made it clear that she is not an option. Pining for her is only going to hurt me more in the long run.

“If I wanted a wife, I’d want one like you,” Elio confessed as we tucked into our delicate starters.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

His face told me he thinks that should be self-evident. “Of course.”

“Telling me you don’t want to marry me all the time is kind of a buzzkill. I don’t want to marry you either. We’ve established this. We’re both here because we think we don’t have much choice.” I shrugged and popped a spoonful of Moreton Bay bug and veloute in my mouth. It was delicious and I groaned softly. It was reflexive, but I probably could have suppressed it.

“Fuck. Keep making noises like that and we’ll consummate our marriage right here,” he chuckled.

I looked at him pointedly waiting for him to respond to my earlier statement.

He sighed. “Yeah, I’m here because Dad and Gio won’t let up about me getting married. I’m here withyoubecause there is no one else I want to marry. I refused to marry you at first, but then I saw you,” he flashed me a smile so sexy I bit my lip. “I figure I may as well marry the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen if I have to marry.”

“Oh come on. Do you tell all the ladies that shit?” My wine glass was halfway to my mouth, but I laugh hysterically.

“Stop laughing, you little shit,” he snorted, waving his fork at me. “I’m complimenting you.”

Lifting a finger from my glass I wagged it back at him. “No, you’re charming me. You’re laying it on fucking thick.”

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