It makes me sick to think about it.
“I don’t know,” I finally answer.
Lorenzo takes his time to reply. “You’re the don, Settimo. Do what you want.”
“If it’s a boy, he’ll only be half Italian. I won’t be able to raise him to be don.”
“Do you want him to be?”
A minute passes before Lorenzo’s footsteps echo down the stairs, and I don’t look his way. He doesn’t need to wait for the answer, we both know it.
A small amount of bitterness coats my tongue, the same as it does every time I think about his beautiful, not-Italian bride. My brothers were never held to the same standards as I was. They weren’t burdened by the expectations of a future don.
Neither will my child.
The End
21
ALEX
Ican already hear the church bells ring.
What a dramatic thing to say. Do they even ring church bells for weddings anymore? All I remember about the ends of ceremonies is throwing rice onto the newlyweds, which no one seems to question, even though it’s odd as fuck. So that’s it.
I can already feel the rice pelting my back.
I laugh at myself, but it does nothing for my foul mood. All it does is twist the knots in my stomach tighter.
The church appears up ahead, and I get déjà vu pulling into the near empty parking lot. I spot a few men standing casually on the side of the church, and my brows crease.
Security detail already, huh?
I park my car and reach for the joint in my glovebox, but I pause. I splay my hand over my stomach and look down. A sigh skates over my lips, and I close my eyes.
I wonder who you’ll be, what you’ll look like. Will you have your father’s dark hair? My eyes? Will you have that smirk, that beautiful annoying smirk?
I hope so. Even though it’ll kill me.
I pull the joint from the glove box, roll down my window, and toss it out. With a deep breath, I pull down my sun visor and take a look at myself in the mirror. It’s probably useless to care what those guards think, but it’s better to be cautious. I don’t want them thinking I’m not a happy bride, gleaming with excitement.
I rub at the mascara under my eyes and reach back into my glovebox for my eye drops. By the time I’m done, I look half decent. Like maybe I stayed up all night with excitement instead of dread.
Paolo didn’t come home last night. I must’ve called him a dozen times, but he never answered. When I messaged him this morning, asking if I’d see him at the church, I half-expected him to be dead, but he messaged me back saying he’d see me here. He must’ve found out his father died and drowned himself in liquor instead of coming home. I get it.
Oddly enough, when he texted me back, I was relieved to know he wasn’t dead. Paolo isn’t the best guy. He’s hurt me and been heartless, but in his own way, he was trying to protect me. Make me shut the fuck up, lay low, be invisible. I can do those things for him now. Well, maybe not for him, but for my child.
This might not be so bad. This might be something I can live with. A fake marriage with a man who will never touch me and never have the insidious motives others might. He’ll be an okay father to my child, and we won’t have Paolo’s father around pulling strings. No more demands. No more grand expectations. A simple life. A loveless marriage, but a love for a child.
I can do this.
I grab my purse and get out of the car, my heart beating hard. One of the guards at the back door nods at me as I approach, and I nod back.
I can do this.
I can do this.
I can do this.