“Please,” I wail, really getting into it as I reach across the table to clutch his hand in both of mine. I’ve replayed my last conversation with Mom a thousand times.
“I didn’t even know you liked acting,” I said to her as we sat on the edge of my bed and she explained that she was going to be just across town, that she’d visit any time my father would let her. That she felt a calling to follow her own passion, and it was time to do that.
“I’ve never been in a play before, but they’ll say I’m a natural,” she said. “I’ll know differently, though. I’ve got years of experience. Ninety percent of being a mafia wife is acting.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I’d been numb since my brother died, walking around like a zombie, my body going on like usual while my mind had disengaged from everything.
“It’s what I have to do,” Mom said, wiping away a tear. “It’ll be best for everyone. You’ll see.”
“You’re right,” I said, and I smiled big at her, just the way she liked. I didn’t know about being a mafia wife. But I already knew something about acting.
I didn’t know what she meant about marriage then. I was eight fucking years old. But somewhere along the way, I figured it out. I figured out something else, too. The best actors aren’t the best liars. They’re the most honest. All I have to do is call up the seed of fear at the thought of marrying the monster who destroyed my family, andvoila. There’s the start of a great scene. It only needs to be nurtured in order to grow. Give it the sunshine of your attention, dwelling on the horror of it. Add some water in the form of tears. Soon, the little seed has exploded into a shaking, tear-stained, snotty mess that couldn’t possibly be fake.
That’s the key to acting. It isn’t fake. It’s real.
I always knew the day would come when Daddy would marry me off to someone important, either a boss of another family or some old retired don who’s no longer in much danger but hides out like he’s in wit-sec in case anyone finds him. Knowing my father, with his insistence on me having three bodyguards, he’ll want me as far from danger and as guarded as possible, so that’s the route he’ll take. He’ll give me to some old geezer who paid his dues and deserves to be rewarded with a virgin sacrifice.
Because that’s what marriage is to a woman—the sacrificing of her freedom. Men in the Life get to run around doing whatever the fuck they want, shooting up their enemies and dunking their dicks in whoever they please. Wives are nothing more than glorified maids and baby factories. If I had my way, I’d rather be someone’scumare.At least they get the passion while it lasts. Then they can walk away. You can’t walk away from marriage. It’s a noose tied around two people’s necks, two people who make a life out of looking the other way and pretending not to feel the shame of their own dirty secrets.
Wives get to sit around resenting their children and worrying about their straying husbands, worrying which night he won’t make it home. And when he does drag his ass in at dawn, he’s more often covered in someone else’s perfume than blood. I grew up in the Life. I know how it works.
And now I’m being resigned to the same fate. Al Valenti is three times my age, but it’s not enough. I’d rather have someone five times as old. Still, Al’s a don. He could go at any time. He has at least as many enemies as Dad.
“Calm down,” Dad orders, yanking his hand from mine and casting furtive glances around the bistro. Lucky for him, there’s only two other tables occupied by strangers. “Al’s not interested in marrying again.”
“So… Who?” I ask, wiping at some of my tears.
“A relative of his,” Dad says. “Don’t worry, he’s a made guy. We both thought it would be a good match. You’ll be meeting him next week.”
So, this is it. The day I knew was coming, the one that made me party hard and try to forget. But that’s all over. Too soon, I’ll be slaving away in some man’s kitchen and his bedroom, waiting for him to keel over dead or get whacked by some hired muscle like Tommy Fatone.
Maybe I could get Tommy worked up into a jealous rage, have him do it…
If I’m lucky, it’s Al’s old man or something, someone too old to get it up more than once or twice a year. One too many Italian feasts will catch up to him, and his heart will give out if a hit doesn’t find him. I’ll bury him with gravitas, mourn like a good little wifey for six months, and then I’ll be a free woman before I’m twenty-five. By then, I won’t have the lure of virgin flesh, and my father won’t get to marry me off. That’s the best-case scenario.
I won’t think about the worst.
I’m sure as shit not going to make the mistake of getting married again after my husband croaks. I don’t want to be owned by any man. I want to be my own woman, living life as I choose. And I’ll choose exactly what my mother did—freedom. I don’t blame her for leaving any more than I blame my brother for getting killed. It’s not Mom’s fault that she left. It’s Al Valenti’s. Dad may be ready to forgive and forget, but I will never forget what that family took from mine.
five
King
I sit with my back to the wall watching a pretty blonde walk into the bar, a swanky little joint in midtown with potted plants hanging above the polished wood bar. The hostess catches my eye and smiles, but I’m not looking for women here. My hand is already promised, and the last thing I need is word getting back that I’m not taking this shit seriously.
The blonde sits at a table for two, though it’s just her. I check the other patrons, wondering if my guy is already here, if he’s casing the joint or checking to see what I’ll do. I don’t do anything. I just wait.
“Can I get you anything?” a waitress asks, coming by my table for the second time.
“Water,” I say, tossing a five on the table. “Thanks.”
The waitress smiles and asks if I’m sure. I don’t even look at her. I’m sure.
She leaves, stopping by to take the order of the blonde at the table by herself.
A tall, dark-haired guy enters and glances around, his eyes landing on me. He swaggers over, giving me time to size him up. He’s got Al’s athletic build and Roman nose, but he’s thinner and not as hard looking.
“You the little punk I’m babysittin’?” he asks, sliding in across the booth.