Whispers.

There is a thousand crystals on the chandelier that hovers above the ballroom floor of the Governor’s house. The light is reflected everywhere and I take a moment to drink it all in. Everywhere is illuminated and so very beautiful. The women stand around laughing and drinking, blatantly ignoring the prohibition regulations. There are no laws for the ones who create them. There is only laws for those who cannot afford the price to be above them. The men stand away, their Cuban cigars lit and sending spirals of smoke into the air. The jazz plays on behind everyone but nobody is dancing. Everything is beautiful because it is art. It is a painting. There is no movement, but there is colors and fabrics, and feeling. It invokes something within me. Makes me feel. I do not know what the emotion is, maybe envy that they all have a role in this meusuem quality production. Or maybe it is anxiousness because I have a role as well- the collector. 

Domenico squeezes my hand lightly and I look to him, a bright smile plastered on my face. It is perfect. I know it is, because I have practiced it in the mirror many times before. 

“Domenico!” The Governor is before us and he claps his hands in delight at the sight of my husband. I have met the Governor twice before. He is kind and humorous, and when he speaks of being president one day, I believe him. 

“Governor Smith, how are you?” My husband greets him with the same excitement and extends his hand. This is how this world is, crime and capital go hand in hand. There is no definitive line between those who create laws and those who break them. There is only recognition and understanding of power. I used to have power once. 

“And Mrs. Cattaneo, how are you?” I extend my arm like a robot, and pretend to be delighted when he kisses my hand. 

“I am well, thank you very much. Where is your wife this evening?” I ask him and Domenico nods in approval. 

“Oh she is over there, talking it up with all the other ladies I am sure,” He replies in good nature. I like the Governor. He reminds me of all the aspects I wished my father had. His familial warmth rolls off him like a wave to crash into. 

“Oh I simply must go catch up with her!” I exclaim, effectively excusing myself. I say my quick goodbyes and hustle away. I count the tiles on the floor between me and the flock of gossips. Twenty-seven. There are twenty-seven stones that separate me from the ladies of high society. And although I am one of them, I feel as though I am twenty-seven stones separate. 

They all laugh and giggle amongst themselves, and when I arrive it is almost unnoticed. Their bobbed hair and feathered headpieces are luxurious looking. Each has a frock on made from high-quality fabrics and gloves that are adorned in jewelry. They are a real sight to behold. There is a beauty within them that is grander than even the chandeliers. 

I navigate their waters until I find the Governors wife. She is wearing a more practical gown that is not adorned in the same way as the others. She is stoic and watching and for a moment I wonder if she is on a mission all her own. It is not until I come up to her that I notice she is not paying attention to anything at all. 

“Mary, it is so nice to see you,” I say to her and she looks at me with feigned interest. This is the way of all of us. We are only playing dolls. 

“Bria, how are you?” She asks me in a tone she has, no doubt, rehearsed. 

I laugh and sit myself on a bench, and lightly pat the cushion for her to join me. She does. I can see her boredom. My father has taught me that boredom is the key to conversation. The most quiet of all are the ones who hold the most. I do not like my father, but I do remember his lessons. 

“I am well enough, I suppose,” I tell her. “Domenico always has me on the move, there is hardly a moment to rest.” It is a lie that resonates and she heaves a sigh. 

“I know what you mean. John has us doing dinners and meetings all days this month. I can hardly keep my eyes open. If it were not for all the gossip swirling around I probably would sleep against the wall.” She chuckles and I laugh in return. This one is genuine. 

“Is there any good gossip? I have missed quite a bit lately, I am afraid.” Mary looks at me, her lips pull into a mischievous smile and she leans in. 

“Well, nothing too scandalous I am afraid. Mainly just boring bits about holidays and families. But you remember Elizabeth Jackson?” I nod. I do remember her. She was beautiful, with flaxen hair and bright blue eyes. She had all the men wishing to be with her, whether they were married or not. I had seen her on multiple occasions running her fingers along mens trousers and whispering things in their ears. But these are things I do not spread. I do not release information. Only hold on to it until the moment is right. When I was young I used all the rumors I had overheard to tarnish reputations of those I did not like. I used my observations to manipulate situations to my advantage. I was my fathers daughter. To an extent. I said nothing about Elizabeth Jackson. I did not have to, she faded into obscurity over the summer months.

“Of course.”

“Well, I heard, and of course you did not hear this from me-” She waits for me to confirm interest and moves on with her story. Her lips form each word as though they are sweet like honey. “-I heard her father sent her away last year. Said she was having unpure thoughts about women.” I nearly sigh when she says this. Although scandalous there was nothing here to help me. 

I allow my attentions to drag away as she continues her story, delighted to have someone to gossip to at last. I look for an exit and send out a prayer to the universe to intervene. The music rushes into my ears and I am a bird, soaring in and out of musical notes. I get carried away. When the song ends I look back and Mary is gone. I must apologize for being rude, I know this. But the music is so beautiful. I played piano when I was a teenager, but I was never any good. Had I been, I think I would have liked to play jazz. It was sultry and warm. I wish I could reach out to the music and pour myself within its waters. What a beautiful escape it would be. 

“I thought your husband told you to keep your eyes open.” 

I groan as the seat depresses next to me. My indulgences are cut short and I look upon Lilliana. She has the same expression she did the night of the wedding. Dangerous. She belonged with the Cattaneo family. She was poised and ready to strike at any given moment. Her dress was the color of midnight, and I suspected it was on purpose. She was not meant to blend in. She was meant to stand out. The ladies looked upon her with unobstructed envy. It was well known the Cattaneo and Leonetti families had wealth and status unlike anything anyone could hope for. But only one daughter embraced it. The other sat between two families, in a grey territory all her own. 

“He said that a long time ago,” I tell her and she purses her lips. They are a brighter red than before, if only by a shade. It brings out the pink in her cheeks. Her onyx eyes give away nothing. She drapes an arm over my shoulder, ignoring my attempts to shuffle over and create space between us. 

“We are family now. So I will tell you some things.” She purrs her words out to me as she scratches lightly on my shoulder and I shudder involuntarily at the sensation. For a second I wonder why I was so elated to have her here. How I had ever thought she would be different. 

I feel her breath on my ear and I flash back to being in Domenico’s lap. It is nearly seductive. 

“There are rules, pretty girl.” Rules? There are no rules. We live within the absence of rules. We have handcrafted a limbo for our families between heaven and hell. Rules do not apply. There are standards, but there are no rules. I very nearly scoff, but the feeling of her nails applying pressure on my upper arm keeps me silent. 

“I do not understand,” I say passively. I try not to let her know she is getting to me. I do not know if it works, because her smile grows wider. 

“Oh yes you do.” 

I lock eyes with Domenico across the room and his focus is locked on us. I try to send him a silent plea for help but it goes ignored. “The first rule,” She grabs my chin and drags my attentions back to her. “Is never, ever, close your eyes.” 

When I look back my husband is gone. 

“We are not Leonetti here, Bria, we are Cattaneo. You are Cattaneo now. You must act like it.” I know that her words are not meant to be an insult, but they sting at my pride. 

“It is all I have done since I got here,” I reply to her trying to curb the bitterness in my words. 

“No, Bria. All you have done is exist. Do you not miss it?” I look to her, confused.

“Miss what?” 

She removes her arm from me and extends it out, snagging a drink from a passing waiter. It takes only seconds for the gregarious woman to finish the whiskey. I am vaguely in awe of her, as much as I do not want to be. The characters of this family are intimidating and intoxicating all at once. They have a presence my own family never has. 

“Living, Bria. The feeling of being alive.” I do miss it. God, I miss it so much. 

Her words register in the recesses of my soul and I nearly cry. She does not seem to care. She belongs with them. She is just as calloused. “The second rule is always make sure you live a life worth remembering. This family can be everything good in the world, Bria. You just have to earn your place in it.” 

“What is it with this family and fucking earning things.” I say to her then and stand to my feet. I am defiant in my pain and I walk away from her, desperate to end the interaction. I wish I could simply disappear into the wooden walls and allow nature to reclaim my bones. This sea of shame and loneliness has no end. No shore calls me home.

I am suddenly choking. The collar of this stupid red dress Domenico insisted I wear is too tight on me, I want to claw it off. I want to rip it into thin strips the same way this new family has me. It is restricting my air and the room is spinning. I need to get out. I look towards the balcony and the curtains flying around the doorway. It sings to me a song of salvation and I nearly break my legs running to it. Nobody notices my desperation. They only see the woman who others called beautiful gracefully making her way out. They cannot see past the mask I have placed. Only I know how my lungs are filling with invisible water. 

I nearly throw myself over the balcony in my haste. I tuck my body around the pillar, happy to have found a small place nobody could see me in. Here I can breathe. Here I can exist without earning anything at all. I can close my eyes and listen to the sound of the wind lapping on the surface of the Governor’s pond if I want to. And I do. For one glorious minute the air stops grasping onto my lungs and I am free. I am free and I am alive. I see the twinkle of lightning bugs on the grass below and I want to chase them. I was never allowed to as a child. I would watch other children run and play. I was not allowed that. I was only allowed to learn. I know what it is like to shoot a gun, but not what it is like to have a true friend. I know what it means to walk in a shop and get whatever I want based upon my name, but I do not know what it means to share it. I have had everything, and yet nothing at all. 

Realization that I have never lived a life barrels at me and crashes with the force of a thousand stones. I choke back a sob. People have made their way out to the balcony and I do not want them to know I am here. I do not want the sanctity of my spot discovered. 

I do my best to pull myself together and try to fall back into the quiet of the night, but I can’t. The people nearby are whispering too loud. They are too far to hear all of their conversation and I do not care. I just wish for them to leave me alone until this night is over and I can sulk back to my captor and go home to my cage. 

Several minutes pass and the couple is replaced by another, and another until the moon is high over the sky. I know that my absence will not be missed by Domenico. I cannot bring myself to care. 

Two people stand near the railing now and I watch them careful as they tuck into one another. They are passionate, their hands roam freely, tracing the curves and indents of one another bodies. I am entranced. These speak to one another slowly, carefully, the opposite of the pace their bodies have set. Their conversation hold my attention, and I strain to hear it. 

‘All ours,’

‘Once they’re out of the way,’

‘Stealing shipments Thursday,’

I cannot make out much more than words but I know what I have is valuable. I look at them through the moonlight and strain to see their features. The effort is futile. It is far too dark. All I see is their hands, moving against their bodies in a hunger I have never felt. 

It feels like forever I watch them and I feel disgusted with myself for not tearing my eyes away. But I can’t. She is like a charmer controlling a viper. She is not his equal. She is above him. He begs her for release, for touches, for tenderness. She is not embarrassed or ashamed of who she is. She is only seduction in human form, a siren on land. I want her courage. They dance in the way only lovers do, with unbridled passion, until finally he cries out softly into her neck and she tucks her dress down and plants a soft kiss upon his lips. I can smell the scent of passion and it smells like sweat. They do not try to hide it as they fix their clothes and duck inside. They did not care who saw them, but they should.