Believe me, if Papa wasn’t getting something out of my marriage, he wouldn’t have all guards around me and restrict my life so severely. I’m valued. I’m not sure about being loved. Maybe that’s why I’m closest to Giovi.
I long for one more solo flight of freedom before then. Just one, as a woman with an appetite for lovemaking I want a man to worship my body like he cares for me—not the family fortune. I don’t want to be traded like a commodity. However, it’s looks like my dreams will die a long agonizing death.
“You can help your mother with the gala we’re going to next month. Charity work is what your role is and don’t forget it.” His stern grey eyes meet mine as the table is cleared for the next course.
It’s clear I’ve hit his limit on any talk of change around here and turn my attention to Mama. We discuss a mother-daughter day at the salon, getting manicures and updos for the big event, about which my brother makes another wisecrack.
As a high schooler in Switzerland boarding schools, I didn’t have to ask for permission and was able to hobnob with socialites, including the princess of India, Priyanka Ramen. Those are fond memories, and we still stay in touch. Her father is a business mogul and she’s allowed to voice her opinions and strives to obtain more rights for women.
Ironically, Italy could use more women’s rights, as well.
Giovi agrees to watch the football game with Papa tonight. I know it’s the most popular sport, but I don’t enjoy it.
I spend as much time on the beach as possible just to get out of the house. Each day, the walls remind me that Papa has enemies, and the longer I remain here, the more suffocating it all becomes.
No price can be put on freedom. Even with none, I yearn for my days at college where life wasn’t so serious. Having a taste of a different life has given me an obsession to get it back.
There must be a way to outsmart these guards. In reality, I’m only one woman who wants to change my family’s traditions.
3
Massimo
I’m in a newer version of my old Mercedes heading into Prato when I receive a call from a guard at the house. He’s telling me after I left, following a heated argument with Lia, she decided to throw a bottle of red wine at a rare mural painted on the ceiling by none other than the one and only Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio. Currently, there is an entire floor at the Uffizi dedicated to his work. How dare she try to ruin my prized possession? Has she no regard for culture?
As history goes, I make poor choices when it comes to women, something I have in common with Caravaggio. His life was a rags to riches story that ended with a dual over a female prostitute. The woman belonged to Ranuccio Tomassoni, the gangster he killed in the duel, and the family got their revenge years later when the bill came due for killing Ranuccio. Knowing the gangster history that took place under that mural, anyone who knows me can understand why I immediately fell in love with the house. I had to have it at any cost.
My mother, on the other hand, is not a fan of Caravaggio’s work. Like most, she prefers Michelangelo, the ‘famed’ artist of Florence and the Vatican, because he made everyone perfect. You cannot say the same about Caravaggio, who painted people flawed and real, which caused a stir in the day.
As for Lia, she was apprehended by my staff, received a few kicks and a black eye for her insolence and is banned from the property. I never knew she had that much anger in her, but now that I do, I will take whatever measures necessary to protect myself and my sanctuary. Lia got off easy because if I was there, she would have received a punishment she’d remember every time she sat down.
It’s the rainy season, and after a week of nonstop drizzle, I wish I had the day off to enjoy the break in the weather. Instead, I find myself pulling up to the warehouse to meet Tommaso. He has a laundry list of things to do that are beneath me. He gets pissed when I’m late or don’t show, but my family comes first. I try to schedule my work around him, but life isn’t predictable or perfect and I don’t know how long I can keep up this charade.
I’ve met Marchello Micheli and we bonded immediately over our common interest in high end sneakers. It’s refreshing when one of the top families shows up in person and gets to know their crews. There is no egotistical machismo about him, and I wonder if that’s from his upbringing. My own mother had plenty of practice slapping me upside the head every time I mouthed off to her. In the end, I learned manners.
“Tommaso,” I greet the man in his late fifties, overweight but with a big heart for a man who runs the trucks and organizes the staffing needed to keep things moving.
Tonight, we’re moving trucks full of cocaine and pills. The pills are actually heroin made to look like OxyContins. We do this because the penalty for trafficking in heroin is stiffer than getting caught with Oxy. It’s ingenious, really.
“Massimo, we have a shipment coming, and I would like you to go to the port in Livorno tonight and make sure there aren’t any problems. I don’t like to leave things to chance,” he explains.
“No problem.” I nod in agreement. Cocaine has never gone out of style and is still popular all over Europe. Because it comes from as far away as South America, there are any number of things that can go wrong getting it past customs inspectors and opportunists out to hijack the load on its way from point A to point B. It wouldn’t be the first time the shipper double crossed us and slipped it to someone else, claiming it was confiscated at the port. I know this because it happens to all of us sooner or later.
Because people lie. Especially in this business. Penalties are harsh for us on the street and in prison.
“So, how was your weekend?”
“Great, no complaints; except for a pissed off girlfriend, all is well.” I grimace at the thought of Lia.
“Yeah, girlfriends are the downfall of many a man. Be careful,” he chuckles and his belly jiggles under a t-shirt he has clearly outgrown.
“You’ve been married forever, what’s the secret?”
“Ah, I guess when you meet the right one, you know. It helps when they’re your friend and lover. Y’know—the one you want to go home to at the end of the day. But on the other hand, what do I know? Maybe I got lucky.” The smile reaches his heavily hooded eyes and I know then that, even though he complains his wife won’t let him drink too much, I think he enjoys that she still pays attention to what he does and gives him shit about it. It means she cares.
I would love to have someone like that in my life, but in this business, it’s easier if we don’t get too attached to people. My job is my life, and both can get messy.
“I’ll remember that,” I reply, opening my car door and getting in.