Page 32 of Savage Beauty

Sasha

“So, why gnocchi?” I ask as I drop the little dumplings into boiling water.

Josie leans against the kitchen table, watching me. I turn and catch her eye, seeing the ambivalence in her.

She thinks I’m bad news, and why wouldn’t she? It’s true. But I know she wants me. She wants me like people in hell want ice water, and there’s nothing she can do about it.

Josie sighs. “Gnocchi reminds me of my mother.”

Her tone does little to hide the undercurrent of sorrow. I give her my back, hoping to make it easier for her to talk.

“How so?” I ask.

“She would save her smallest coins in a tin, sometimes for weeks, and then the day would come. We’d go to the Italian restaurant around the corner and order a portion of gnocchi with marinara sauce to share. It only ran to a few dollars, but it was still expensive to us.”

I feel a sharp jab of recollection. Mama and I used to share Italian food we cooked ourselves. It was our time, something just for us. But we weren’t poor, of course.

I don’t know anything about Josie’s family. Morgana always said it wasn’t her business to disclose personal information about her dearest friend. Now, as Josie chokes back a sob, I want to reach into her bruised soul and soothe her. I don’t even know how to do that, but God knows I want to try.

Josie sniffs and continues. “Mom knew it was my favorite treat, so we’d share it, but she always said she wasn’t hungry, so I wouldn’t feel bad about eating it all.”

I taste the sauce. The fresh garlic hits my tongue, and I’m happy. Just the right balance.

“Sounds to me like your mom was a good person,” I say as I drain the water from the gnocchi. “Where is she now?”

“Dead.”

I put the saucepan down and face her. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

She meets my eyes. “I never told anyone the whole truth, Sasha. If I tell you now, you’ll know who I am and what I come from.” She wraps her arms around her body defensively. “If you just wanna fuck me, fine. I can handle that. But don’t pick up my broken pieces just so you dash them to the ground again.”

The silence isn’t uncomfortable. Josie knows what happened to my mother, but not how I feel about it. Something passes unspoken between us—a bargain.

Emotional wounds? Sure. I got ’em. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.

“Okay, so you don’t trust me,” I say. “But I wanna understand you better, Josie. If you want some collateral, fine. What do you wanna know?”

“Tell me about your Mama.” Josie sets down her glass and takes the saucepan from me, spooning the gnocchi and sauce into two pasta dishes. “I know a little from Morgana, but I wanna hear it from you.”

I rarely talk about my mother. Even Vlad can’t draw me on the subject—he and I experienced her differently. Mama and Vlad had something special, and I could never burden him with the truth about how that made me feel.

“If I let you see my soul, you have to do the same.” I pick up a dish and sit at the table. “Marriage is nothing compared to that kind of trust, but if that’s what it takes to get you to drop your guard and open up to me, so be it.”

Josie stares at me for a long moment, then sits opposite me, her food in front of her. She nods.

“So my mother Stefania was forced to marry my father, and he was a piece of shit. Raped her, mistreated her. You know this, right?”

“I know.” She eats a piece of gnocchi, nodding as she does so. “This tastes so good, Sasha. So damn good.”

I love giving her pleasure. It sure as hell won’t be the last time.

“So Vlad was the kid your parents focused on,” she continues. “How old was Stefania when she had the twins?”

“Too old.” I take a bite and chew slowly, gathering my thoughts. “Mama was deeply attached to Vlad. He saved her life by giving her something to love and live for. But he was groomed for leadership, not me. I was the second son, the understudy if you will. My father barely noticed I existed, except as a tool to coach Vlad in some lesson he thought he needed.”

Josie furrows her brow. “Dulcie told me Vlad used to beat you instead of letting your father do it. That can’t have been easy to take.”

I close my eyes. I can see my brother’s face, torn with regret and fear as he punched me again and again, knowing if he didn’t, our father would leave us both bruised and bleeding. He thought he was teaching Vlad to be ruthless, but my brother and I grew close in our shared trauma. This is why I don’t hate Vlad, even though—

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