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2021-07-14 07:47:17Home is an apartment on Park Avenue. The walls are white with gilded golden lights fixed to them. The curtains are a sky blue and they are blowing inward with a night breeze. I am in love. The furniture is large and tufted, and they screamed of class and comfort. I stifle a delighted giggle. It was not horribly large, but it was cozy. The kitchen was cramped with the stove taking up most of the space, and a small table was tucked away in the corner of the room. Given the business that was required of the two of us, I doubted much use would come to it. Their nights would be filled with business meetings or parties. A luxury not afforded to me until recently. I had no head for the business. My father’s business would go to my husband now. As would his fathers. One day my husband would be the most powerful man in New York and I would be the girl who turned a blind eye to his affairs and raised children he did not care about. He wore his own shackles in this, but his were crested in diamonds.
“It is not much. Our house is being built.” I look at him and I notice he is disgusted by the space. He takes no joy in this home. It is too cramped, too empty, too much of a reminder that I was here.
“I love it.” I tell him and its true. It is the first good thing that has happened to me since we were joined. Seven days had passed since then. Seven silent days were spent near the ocean by two silent people in two separate rooms. It was the honeymoon of dreams.
He rolls his eyes and I bite down on my tongue. He was petulant and distant. The most he had spoken to me was when he told me the members of his family. He had two younger brothers- Nicola who was married to Lilliana, and Giovanni who was married to a woman named Frances. His father is Maritzio, Don to the Cattaneo family. He says nothing else about his father. He does not need to. I already know.
Maritzio Cattaneo was a cantankerous man, prone to actions beyond logical thought. Many times my grandfather told me of the blood spilled within our family by the Cattaneo family and Maritzio seemed more than happy to keep the tradition alive, only giving in to peace when the prohibition started and trade became substantially more restricted. The rivers of blood the Cattaneo family had spilled flowed into my veins, and the throb of betrayal raveled itself in my body. I wanted to shed my wedding ring and throw it out the window. I held no loyalty to any family, but I did not think it right that blood be spilled at all over a few roads in a city.
Domenico sits on the couch and I drop down next to him, tucking away extra bits of dress fabric. My family has gifted me lavish gowns for wedded bliss, each more annoyingly long than the last. My step-mother had ordered me night gowns made in France to impress my new husband. I would never tell her that he had seen neither her gowns nor my flesh. He is reading a book, his shoulders relaxed and eyes immersed in words. I knew what he was doing. He was escaping. He was crafting worlds from words, living a million lives that were never his own. I did it too sometimes.
The fireplace was lit, casting light onto his cheeks. Like this he is beautiful. When he is not looking at me, he is beauty. But when he looks at me, I see more devil than god. I make no mistake, the calm man next to me is one of the most dangerous men I will ever meet.
“Will you tell me something?” I ask him and he stiffens and puts his book down.
“What?”
“Why did you marry me?” I ask him suddenly. I do not know why I ask the question. It is a question I already know the answer to.
“Because I was ordered to.”
The conversation ends there and he goes back to his book and I am left once more wondering who it is that I am married to. I craft a book in my mind and I dig out the tunnels of thought that I am trapped within. I give faces to the emotions that live within me. Shame is a vile man with dark eyes, and he lives in my mind. Melancholy has hair the color of snow and lips tainted blue. She lives in my heart. My eyes, my eyes are fear. I am a map of emotions and tunnels. I do not find a face for happiness. It is not a character I have met yet.
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I am drowning in my own tears. I have created a lake of salty droplets fallen from my eyes and I drown in it. My bones drag me to the bottom under their weight and nobody comes to save me. I am alone. So deeply alone. My husband stares at me, without concern, without love. He is just a warm body sitting at the same table, watching me drown. He eats a biscuit slowly as he stares, like he is enjoying the entertainment of a lifetime.I do not understand his disdain for me. Four months have passed since we were joined, and each day passes slower than the last. Our nights are filled with luxurious dinners and small talk with everyone but each other and then we return to this apartment and go our separate ways. His brothers appear for business during the week, but I have not seen Lilliana since that night. I find myself yearning for her company. At least she spoke to me.“We are going to a dinner party tonight.” He says suddenly, ripping me from my th
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I drive myself out of my corner and back into the ballroom where the party is in full swing. The band places loudly now and people are dancing, drunk off of spirits and high off cocaine. The floor rattles with the sounds of heels and I am momentarily overwhelmed. Bodies are everywhere, flipping in dance and crawling in lust in corners and I am standing there, looking for the people from the balcony. Everyone looks disheveled now, there is no way to tell one from another.I drift into another room and the music fades. Men stand around smoking cigars and drinking liquor and my eyes are traveling from face to face trying to find my husband in the land of strangers. I do not even see Lilliana. There are no familiar people here and I wonder for a moment if I have been left behind. Surely they would not discard me?“Excuse me,” I tap someone on the shoulder and he turns to me. His eyes are glassy and he reaks of liquor. He supports himself weakly by l
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I approach the dilapidated looking building with caution, wishing that my heels did not click so loudly on the street stones. Domenico sits behind the wheel of the car, a cigarette in his hand as he watched me walk. He had briefed me on the way over what to do and who to talk to, a small mission that was no doubt less about being successful at something and more about proving I am willing to do what I am told. After the conversation with his father I am afraid we are on thin ice and at any moment I may fall through. There are two men waiting near the doorway and when I approach they look me over. I am no threat and they know it.“Who are you here for?” One asks, his voice hoarse as though he has been yelling all night. He has a scar that splits his lip and I try not to stare as I answer. I will not be rude to these people. They are the only people keeping my family safe.“I am here for William,” My voice wavers and they stare at me,
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