A high-pitched whimper sounded followed by a hard thud. When everything sounded far away, I put two and two together. She dropped the phone. Dropped me. Right then, I was just another person who let her down.
Her loud sobs broke me.
Ella argued like a woman, but cried like a little girl.
She never did come back to wish me goodnight. Instead, my father and I said our quick goodbyes and he left to deal with Ella while I moved to the bed, sat with my back to the headboard and contemplated what was truly important.
Keeping my family safe from a new threat.
After a long,sleepless night, dawn finally broke and a decision had been made.
Chapter7
Walk of shame
Vittoria
I didn’t sleepa wink the night before. Whenever I found myself dozing, I woke with a start, my heart racing as though I’d been shocked hard with jumper cables. The tension in my jaw had now rolled over to my temples and I could feel the beginnings of a migraine pinching just below my ears.
No matter how much it pained me, I refused to leave the bedroom I had decided to hide in all night. I would not go out in search of painkillers. If Ettore found me and asked what I needed them for, he would have glanced down at his injured shoulder then laughed at my precious condition, and the embarrassment would have crushed me.
It was a little after eight am when my bladder screamed for relief. I approached the door silently, placing my ear to it, listening closely for any movement outside. But I heard none.
A quick peek outside my room towards the bedroom Ettore had retreated to showed the door remained closed. Emboldened, I gripped the bottom of my dress and held it together as I tiptoed barefoot down the hall to the nearest toilet. I relieved myself quickly, washed my hands and made to sneak back into my chosen room, but stopped myself when I heard muffled conversation coming from behind the closed door that housed my husband.
Curious, I remained on neutral ground, not leaving the kitchen slash open living area. By this point, my head was throbbing and my stomach turned slowly. I helped myself to a glass of water, sipping slowly and when that wasn’t enough, I quietly searched the drawers in and around the kitchen until I found some aspirin. I knew it wouldn’t make more than a dent in my migraine, but took it anyways because something was better nothing.
I sat poised on the sofa, waiting for Ettore to make his entrance. I waited, checking the clock. Time passed slower than usual. My posture turned lax as I sunk into the back of the sofa and closed my eyes, waiting some more, but Ettore spent the better part of the morning on the phone. I couldn’t make a single word out, but the constant chatter reminded me that my husband wasn’t boasting with what he said the night before.
He was an important person. Between being a notorious capo and a single father, his time was precious and stretched thin. And I was just an obstacle he now had to navigate.
Maybe he was speaking to his children or maybe he had commenced damage control. The story of Ettore Scala being shot at the altar by his unwilling bride would have circulated by now. My gut tensed with unease because I felt awful about it.
It was so cozy on the sofa that my eyes grew heavy and just when I began to nod off, I scrambled awake as the bedroom door swung open. Ettore stepped out appearing well dressed, well slept and irritated as hell. He was fiddling with his left cufflink, popping it into place. His confident gait faltered only when he noticed me and I could see why.
He was clean and showered and looking all kinds of sexy.
I, on the other hand, looked like warmed up shit served three ways.
I could see it aggravated him to ask, “Why are you still dressed in that?” He worked on the other cufflink and said, “After the shitshow you orchestrated yesterday, the least you can do is make it so that we’re on time for lunch at my dad’s. Go shower and change.”
Sometime during the night, the bruising around my neck had my voice turn hoarse. I swallowed through the pain and spoke quietly, “I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t? Where’s your bag?”
With each additional question, I shrunk deeper in on myself. I did not want to speak but when a man like Ettore asked you a question, you answered. “I… didn’t pack one,” was my reluctant response.
Things seemed somewhat lighter this morning. I was going to miss that when the ball dropped in a few seconds.
“Why didn’t you…?”
Three, two, one.
His face turned somber and he stilled.
There it goes.
The sigh that left him was bone tired. Then he nodded slowly, letting out a hostile laugh. “Because you never planned on making it past the ceremony. Why pack a bag? You don’t need fresh drawers when you’re dead, right?”