The Name.

Domenico. My husband’s name is Domenico. The world flips around on my tongue like it is acidic and I cringe. He pulls me too and from around the large ballroom and introduces me passively to guest after guest. He moves so fast I cannot even remember the faces of people I speak to. 

“Please,” I ask him “Slow down.” My feet ache and my muscles are sore. I have long since dropped the flowers on some random table, hoping silently they would burn and take the building and everyone in it. My fingers grasp onto a glass and I gulp down water quickly, my throat parched from flimsy small talk. The wedding will be in the papers. I can see the headline now- Two Crime Families Put Aside Differences; I knew the papers would sell quickly. Crime sold. I would know. My name had been in the papers since the day I was born thanks to my father. New York would tremble underneath me if I wanted it to. I dripped in cashmere and pearls, had more stones than most could ever hope to have. I had a city underneath me. 

But I no longer belonged to my family. I no longer got to see my precious New York tremble under the name Bria Leonetti. She no longer existed. Instead I was Bria Cattaneo, whoever she may be. 

“Why?” Is his answer and for a moment I think to reprimand him for talking back. Instead my teeth fit into the familiar bite pattern I have created within the flesh of my cheek. I no longer get the luxury of requests. I am no longer a human, only a vessel for his happiness. My heart is no longer a seed to be planted and grown. It is only a withered oak tree, ugly and weak. 

“My feet, they hurt.” I say weakly and he rolls his eyes. Surely this is not what he wanted with his life- a wife who was unable to even meet his eyes for longer than a second. This could not be the future he saw. If he saw one at all.

His reply is apathetic. “Deal with it.” 

I hate him. I hate them all. I pick at my dress again. I would smother myself in the lace if I could. 

Jazz music swirls around us. It is my only reprieve from the goings-on. My eyes take in the ocean of bodies around me. I know so few of these people. Each sees me looking and raises a glass in good will. I smile in the way I practiced so many times in the mirror. Each pull of my muscles is like daggers pushed into my spine. They do not see the anguish I feel. They only see the bliss of a new wife. I pray I am playing the part well. 

“After You’ve Gone” begins to play and I close my eyes and allow the words to crash down upon me. The mental image moves around me and I am no longer here, no longer on this dance floor with these dangerous people. I am only a bird, free and angelic, flying somewhere far away. 

“Open your eyes,” Comes the demand and I am suddenly back, shackled and empty. Domenico stands there, a look of contempt on his face. His fingers are wrapped around a glass of whiskey, certainly not his first of the night. I pray he is not a violent drunk. 

“Keep your eyes open all night.” When I go to ask him why he gives me a look that silences me. “There is more than just our families here tonight.” I understand then. I am not safe. We are all vulnerable tonight. A combination of families who have waged war with one another for territory, for power all stood in this room. Some held feuds that went far back in time their roots seeded in the hills of Italy and watered by the ocean. 

It is the first caring thing my husband has said to me. 

“I am sorry,” I supply to him and I ignore the clench of his jaw. He is scanning the room like I did before. Only I looked for escape, he looked for threats. 

I see my father across the room talking in hushed whispers to other men in our family. Each held a glass but showed no signs of being drank. I wonder what is so important that he has left his wife with the other woman and his daughter to drift through her own wedding alone. Part of me does not care. Part of me wants the glass to blow in on the building and shower us all until we are all so cut up nobody knows who belongs to who. 

“Will we leave soon, Domenico?” 

“Don’t call me that,” He retorts. I am stung by the rabid violence in his tone. 

“Then what shall I call you instead?” I ask, trying to mask my offense. 

He says nothing, only disappears in the crowd of people in front of us and I wonder for a moment if he is even human or if he is only a breathing ball of rage- an imposter of humanity. 

People are staring at me. They have seen the exchange between us, and they know that we are not happy. It is not unknown that this was set up. My own father has bragged about him playing match maker. Their attempts at salutations look like pity. Bile raises once more in my throat and this time I cannot force it down. 

I can only run outside before I empty the contents of my stomach into the bushes, my hidden tears finally dripping down my face. I retch and retch until all of my shame comes out of me. I dry heave up my fear. And when I am done I collapse back onto the steps, the cold neutrality taking its place once more. 

“It is not good to be out here all alone,” Comes a voice from the darkness. I see no face, only the ember of a lit cigarette. Anxiety builds within me. I have no body guard with me. “Relax, I don’t plan on doing anything.” Reassurances do not come. 

“Who are you?” I speak to the night. Whoever it is chuckles and I feel my body building the strength I will need to catapult myself back inside to safety. When the figure steps forward the moonlight illuminates their frame. Two eyes come into view, obsidian orbs look up at me through feathered eyelashes. It is a woman.

Her lips are painted the color of dark cherries, and her hair is cut short into a sleek bob. She wears a feather in her hair and I want to be her. I want to have the image that I do not care. I want the beaded frock she wears, and the autonomy it gives. God, I wish I was her. 

But she is she, and I am me. And she is a stranger standing alone in the dark.

“I do not know you,” I point out and she shrugs.

“Nobody knows anyone really,” She replies pensively as she continues her smoke. “Lilliana. I am Domenico’s sister-in-law.” The name is foreign to me. Everything is foreign to me. “And you are Bria, the new member of the Cattaneo family.” The way she says it strips me once more of my identity. The use of the word new is not lost to me. I have proved no worth. “Bria Cattaneo, bride to Nico. Has a nice ring to it. It’ll look pretty on a headstone.” The stone steps beneath me suddenly feel much colder. 

“Relax,” She pouts. “I am only kidding.” She is not. Anyone could see the lack of humor in her statement. I knew this dance of giants. 

“I am sorry,” I tell her. “I think I hear my husband calling me.” Husband is a word dripped in blood. The ring on my finger is a prison sentence. I want to go home.