That girl he was with tried to steal a lot of his money last week. It was the only topic of discussion at home.
“I can’t believe she did that!”
“He almost killed her.”
“Where is she at now?”
I became bored of the topic, until now. Curiosity fills me. So does envy.
“Not here,” he says with boredom all over his face.
Why would anyone ever want to be on the wrong side of Giovanni? He has everything going for him.
I try to piece together why he never dates anyone exclusively. I think he is twenty-seven. He should be settling down and building his empire, but from what I’ve heard, his father is still hanging on.
“I can see that.” I take the glass of red wine off the table; it was nearly full, and now it’s empty.
Giovanni crosses his arms and runs his tongue over his teeth. His stare stings my body as if he put a burned cigarette on my skin and held it there until it sizzled.
I raise my hand, kindly asking the waitress to fill my glass. She leans over me to grab the drink I just finished and pours more red wine.
I hold Giovanni’s stare and bring the glass to my lips again.
He leans over the table and takes the drink from me. “Enough,” he says, throwing the glass behind him, shattering it on the patio. Everyone directs their attention to us, giving me even more attention I don’t want.
My fists clench under the table. Does this man think he can control everything I do? He has been doing this for years. I’m getting tired of men telling me what to do, but I can’t do much about it because of the power they hold. My voice is all I have, and even that can cause consequences.
He finally breaks the stare down and rubs his hand across his mouth.
I tilt my head toward him, giving him a half-assed smile. I don’t know why he held his eyes on mine for so long, or why I allowed it.
So many people around us whisper to one another, curiosity flooding their minds. My papa clears his throat and fixes his black suit.
“Nina,” he says. I can’t tell if he is frustrated with me or not. Truth is, I never drink this much. But a lot has happened today, and my hopes are to not remember this night. If anything, he should be pissed at Giovanni—I didn’t even do anything.
“Yes, Papa?” I let out an overdue sigh, not breaking eye contact with Giovanni.
“Excuse yourself.”
Don’t mind if I do.I nod and push my chair back with my legs. As I begin to stand up, I notice a red spot on Giovanni’s white shirt.
A spot I know all too well and have seen far too many times with this family.
Blood.
Of course he has blood on his shirt—what else did I expect?
Is that why he seems different now compared to the other times I’ve seen him? He took someone’s life before coming to the joining of our families.
It wouldn’t be a traditional wedding in my family if someone didn’t die.
* * *
The kitchen is empty as I walk in, muffled laughter coming from outside. The lights above the island are dimmed, leaving the kitchen hard to navigate for someone as drunk as I am.
“Strawberries?” an all too familiar voice says, and my head whips around to the living room.
“Oh mon Dieu, maman!”I rush toward my mama as she drops her bags and nearly cries when she sees me.