Farewell, My Loves Page 11

And it made me crazy with jealousy over the years.

  Any woman who half glanced his way, and my hackles were raised like a cat with her claws out.

  Giorgio somewhat loved my jealousy over him. That had to be a macho thing.

  But I hated the insecurities it brought out of me. I turned to my so-called looks, because without a baby to make a father out of my husband, I needed to keep him around somehow.

  You better believe I put it on him, whenever, however, and I made sure my body was the best it could be.

  Long gone were the cannoli curves and the youthful, plush cheeks because I loved the pasta. I kept my figure at a size four, not being able to slim down any more than that with the useless child bearing hips I was blessed with.

  God, I couldn’t wait for this fucking dinner to be over already.

  They should’ve just come to the club last night to celebrate instead of gathering us all together like one big happy family.

  But no, Chiara likes to pretend she’s the kind of mother she used to be and host a private family dinner for her son’s birthday.

  I bet the woman’s forgotten how to cook after all the years she hasn’t lifted a single manicured finger.

  I can only imagine that I have, too.

  I just don’t pretend I’m nothing I’m not.

  My husband wanted a trophy wife? I made sure he got a gold one with me.

  I walk into the dining room and act like her trifling words never echoed to my unsuspecting ears.

  Giorgio reaches over and cups my cheek for a moment, maybe trying to comfort me. Or maybe he’s comforting himself.

  Nonetheless, I take the affection for what it’s worth.

  “Okay, good, let’s bring out the cake now. Sandra! Get Giorgio’s birthday cake,” Chiara demands her poor maid.

  Once we sing his Tanti Auguri and the cake is sliced and served with espresso, Matti can’t help bring up family business like the airhead he is.

  “Did you see the paper this morning? The Fiores took out two cops; one was on their payroll. Fuckin’ idiots. They’ve started a war. Maybe they didn’t pay them enough, eh?”

  “Not everyone can be bought,” I mutter under my breath.

  And then suddenly a quiet moment passes, and when I look up from my untouched cake, I see Domenico staring at me with his hard look.

  “What? You know how it is, the wine, the lips, yadda yadda. I’ll be quiet now,” I wave it off nonchalantly, but fuck, he scares the hell out of me sometimes.

  This wine really is making us all loose with the lips tonight.

  Matti, always the idiot continues, “Father, we need a meeting with the five families.”

  “Matteo. Zitto! With the five families. Not with this family,” he points around the table.

  And because he’s the Don, he can talk business at the family dinner table and not his sons.

  Unless it’s his golden boy, Giorgio.

  “Get everyone together,” he demands like Matti didn’t just suggest it.

  The Rizzos, Battaglias, Espositos, and Fiores make up the other four families.

  “This needs to be dealt with immediately. We have too many pigs on our payroll to have them reneging on our deals over their fallen comrades. That asshole, Adair is problem enough. Let’s take this to the den.”

  I immediately turn to Gio with large indignant eyes. “But—”

  Giorgio cuts me off with a small squeeze on my thigh.

  I try silently pleading with him, but he shakes his head at me.

  “It’s just any other day, bella. I have work to do. I’ll tell Pasquale to round up the car for you,” he says as he stands.

  “But I have another present to give you,” I try to keep my voice from hitching with the immense disappointment I was drowning in.

  I had been looking forward to giving him these photographs I had printed of me in color, posing as a pin-up girl in boudoir-styled shots.

  I was saving what I thought was the best for last.

  “You can give it to me in the morning. I’ll get your coat.”

  “Gio, please, can’t this wait until tomorrow? Can’t I have one day with you uninterrupted?” I was beginning raise my voice, getting myself worked up with the never-ending frustration I felt.

  He sighs trying not to lose his lose patience with me.

  “I’ll be home later, baby. Put on something nice for me and we’ll open your gift in bed. Va bene?”

  No. It’s not.

  It hasn’t been va bene in a long fucking time.

  This fucking family was smothering, and when they’re not, they’ve got him so busy with work all the time, I’m always alone.

  I can never have a day with my husband in peace.

  I stand and don’t bother making eye contact with anyone to get my Christian Dior white and grey zig-zag mink coat from Sandra, whose already holding it out for me.

  Sulking, I give my reluctant respect to them, “Ciao a tutti. Chiara, thanks for a lovely dinner.”

  “Bambina, how about we go shopping tomorrow. That’ll cheer you up! Gucci has that new collection of Flora scarves the princess of Monaco was recently seen in that are to just die for,” her fake attempt at cheering me up weighs heavily on me.

  I hate how shallow we all are.

  A fucking scarf is what’ll make it all better that my husband’s never home?

  Don’t they know I just want to be with him on his birthday, without work meddling? Or to have any evening alone with him to relax, for that matter?

  Their priorities... they’re poisoned.

  “Sure, I’ll call you tomorrow when I’m ready,” I tell her, because I can’t turn down his mother’s offer and what else do I have to fucking do anyway?

  God, this is so depressing.

  Giorgio walks me to the car and opens my door for me.

  “Don’t pout, bella, you threw me a great party last night and we had a somewhat... nice dinner tonight...” he starts laughing at his own lie with the latter part of his statement.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Bella...”

  “Go, handle your business, amore. I’ll be fine. I have to put on a mud mask tonight anyway,” I pretend like it’s more important than being with him.

  “Give me a kiss. A good one. And then I’ll finish off what you start at home,” he tells me in his syrupy voice that always works on me because I’m that starved for his attention.

  But more often than I’d like, he gets home so much later than I can stay up for and then I wake up to him already getting dressed for work in the morning.

  Sometimes we get to enjoy a meal together, but the rarity of those moments have been the norm now.

  When he finishes smearing my lipstick with a kiss that expressed both his apology and his affection, he closes my door and pats the roof of the car to send us off, making me cringe at the sound.

  Too many times I’ve heard that damn thump, thump, signaling my ass has to go home—alone.

  I’ll be ruining my mascara in front of the mirror tonight with a good cry, after all.

  I was watching him silently from bed as he got dressed one morning.

  A black Armani suit today. Black shirt and a black tie. He’s putting on the onyx, monogrammed cufflinks I got him a few Christmases ago.

  Monochromatic... guess it’s going to be one of those days.

  One where he’s doesn’t want to let any blood show through his clothes.

  You know, just in case.

  Giorgio opens a drawer and winds up a thin metal wire and tucks it into the inside pocket of his blazer.

  When he turns to me, he smiles that winning smile.

  That charming, I-don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world-because-I’m-King kind of smile that usually makes me want to kiss him, but today it makes me want to smack the smirk right off his face.

  If only I could get away with it.

  “Does that piano wire come with the new Armani collection, Giorgio? Hmm? What’s it inspired by? The Italian Grim Reaper? I
can see the billboards now: ‘Classy till their last breath!” I taunt.

  Because I’m fed up with being put on the back burner.

  I don’t care about his work anymore. I think I’ve been lenient and understanding for far too long.

  I want his attention, goddamnit.

  Chiara running her mouth that night of his birthday dinner burrowed under my skin and has been blistering since.

  So it only makes me angrier that my comment doesn’t get a rise out of him like I wanted it to.

  Instead, he walks right up to me in bed. Towering over me, I should feel menaced, but instead I feel disgust.

  How can I even joke about killing?

  When did I become so jaded?

  He bends down to my ear and whispers his warning while running a hand up my stomach to cup my breast on top of the covers.

  “Be a good girl, Gianna. Unless you’re looking for me to remind you to behave? Is that what it is?” He squeezes. “You know this classy grim reaper only kills so you can sleep in the best silk, trot around town in the sexiest pumps and be able to sit back and relax all day so you’ll have the energy to endure the best fucks too, bella.”

  He kisses my neck, my jaw, and then straightens up and smooths out his coat.

  “Don’t wait up. I’m gonna be late tonight.”

  Meaning he’ll have a body to dump in fresh cement.

  And with that he walks off without a worry in the world.

  But I’m itching to fight.

  My life is that of a fabulous façade.

  It was full of unnecessary luxuries. Stupid glamorous dresses. Countless lunches with fake friends who were real foes.

  It was all bullshit honestly, but it’s the life I have.

  After a few years passed by and we still hadn’t conceived, Gio finally relented and let me work as a secretary part time with the Italian-American Civil Rights Organization.

  Mostly it was so that I wouldn’t lose my mind being numbed by the nothingness that was my life, and also to make sure the Moretti name was tied to something positive, besides all the negative news headlines.

  I chose my own hours and do nothing ‘strenuous’ per Giorgio’s demand.

  So in other words, I went in for maybe two hours a day, sometimes three days a week and filed papers or typed out letters.

  That’s about as much as Gio agreed to.

  It was nothing, but it was something.

  The Morettis owned a textile dye factory in the Design District; Club Roma in Manhattan; they were silent partners for Belucci & Son’s construction company over in Long Island; and they owned a quaint, but very busy Italian bakery and cafe, Pistacchio, in Bryant Park.

  Giorgio named it after my favorite flavored gelato, in hopes that it would bring me a smile like the treat did on our first date.

  I love my husband.

  I really do.

  I just still wish things weren’t as they were.

  But I don’t let those wishes cloud my mind anymore.

  And I definitely don’t like being in the dark. When I walked into the warehouse those few months after I got married, I was so disappointed in Gio.

  But I was more disappointed in myself for not seeing it.

  I’d rather know everything than not, but it doesn’t mean I liked knowing there was anything to know.

  At least this way I couldn’t be disappointed anymore because I knew what to expect in our marriage and in my life.

  And most importantly, I wouldn’t wish for things... or people, I had no business thinking or wishing about.

  My cattiness lately seemed to be doing the job because I was on my way to meet Gio for lunch today.

  He woke me this morning with tender kisses and told me to skip work so he could see me this afternoon.

  Of course, I didn’t let on how giddy that made me. I had an image to keep up and so far, the hissing cat was working.

  I picked up his favorite pastrami sandwich and a salad for myself from a deli, even though I typically didn’t eat much.

  I’m too curvy as it is; if I eat I’ll explode.

  So I only indulge with my husband.

  Since these shared meals are few and far between, my figure shouldn’t suffer. Espresso, wine and cigarettes are what sustain me the rest of the time. Otherwise if he sees me dieting, I’d have to hear him lecture me that I should be eating more, I looked great, yadda, yadda, yadda. I didn’t want to hear it. He couldn’t understand.

  When I was at the salon this morning getting my hair done, I overheard the Governor’s sister-in-law telling a friend all about the affair the Governor’s wife was having with their neighbor’s young son.

  I’d never met the sister, so she didn’t have the slightest idea who she was gossiping right in front of.

  I couldn’t wait to tell Gio the scandal at lunch! Finally, a topic that had nothing to do with his work.

  Good old-fashioned gossip instead of hearing his frustrated rants about ‘that fucking detective who doesn’t back off’, or about ‘the self-righteous pig who won’t accept the bribe’.

  I get to the office of the club and don’t bother knocking when I step in. He invited me, he knows I’m coming.

  So when I see some asshole on his knees sobbing his remorse to Gio, my blood boils hotter than a pot of water ready for pasta.

  “Please, Signore Moretti, forgive me of this small transgression. It’ll never happen again,” the guy cries.

  I’m about to walk right out and throw the bag with our lunches across the room when Gio calls out to me.

  “Gianna, come here. He was just leaving.”

  “Please! Signore—”

  “You came here unannounced, after disrespecting me and my family name, and you think I’m gonna care because you’re a grown man crying on his knees? You’re a pussy, is what you are! I said to get the fuck outta here. My wife is here to eat lunch with me and you’re in her way,” Gio dismisses the crying man.

  “I beg your mercy!” he tries again.

  But Giorgio just shakes his head at the man like he’s being an insolent child, and motions for me to come to him with a pat on his lap.

  “Faustino,” Gio calls out to the opened door, “come and clear out this room, please. I’d do it myself but I’ve got important company right now. Vieni qui, bella.”

  Faustino comes in and manhandles the guy off the floor, dragging him out as he screams and begs still.

  What’s disturbing about all this is that it doesn’t faze me anymore. Once they cleared the entryway, I pranced right in, sat in my husband’s lap and unpacked our food like I didn’t witness a man just begging for his life.

  What else am I supposed to do?

  Make a scene?

  All it would do is direct my husband’s anger toward me, and I only made that mistake interfering with his work, once.

  A lot of things that at first used to trouble me don’t even make me flinch now.

  Bomb threats of the building we’re in, rushing out of restaurants after shootouts, rotten fish and equine heads, it’s all so normal.

  He does his best to keep me from seeing it, but sometimes, things slip through the cracks.

  We start eating our lunch and I tell him all about my morning and what I overheard in the salon.

  “Oh, baby. You just don’t know what you served on a platter for me with that little tid bit,” Gio tells me as he finishes up the last bite of his sandwich.

  “It’s just gossip, amore.”

  “Yeah, but that gossip is just what I needed to push the governor into facilitating the permits for Belucci & Sons. It’s a lot of money for us if we can participate in the construction of Madison Square Garden. A lot of good exposure too, bella.

  I’m gonna put a follow on her so they can snap photos of the affair and then have a meeting with him. He’ll appreciate my discretion by not going to the papers with this scandal. Did you catch her name, baby?”

  “Gio! What the hell? That’s not why I shared that with you. I ju
st wanted to chit-chat and you’ve managed to make anything I do or say relate to your work! I don’t want any part of this! I’m not the fucking Bonnie to your Clyde,” I yell in frustration.

  But because it’s been building up in me, I just let it all out.

  “We never spend time together anymore. We never get to talk about anything that doesn’t have to do with La Cosa Nostra. I’m fucking lonely, Gio! Your wife is bored, and alone, and waiting all goddamn day for you to give her an ounce of attention. And when you do give me your scraps, you soil it with this shit! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see how much I need you?” I tell him in a fit of tears.

  “I’ve had enough of all this. I hate your stupid fucking Mafia! I hate that you left me behind for years, and I waited and waited, and guess what, Gio? I’m still fucking waiting for you! When does it end? When do I get a piece of you, like everyone else does?”

  “Bella, calm yourself,” he tells me gently.

  “No, don’t tell me to fucking calm down! Are you having an affair? Is that what it is? Are you spending your free time having bastards all over the city like your mother prays for every night?”

  His face falls with the realization that I know all about her wishes and he starts to assure me he’s not doing any of that, and I know he’s not, but I’m so worked up I can’t stop.

  “Tell me, Gio, why does everyone else have a hit man to do their dirty business, while you go out and do it personally every time? Hmm? Is it because you’re lying that you’re working? You don’t find me attractive anymore? Tell me!” I bang a fist on his desk.

  “What is she on her period or something? Wrap this up, figlio, we need to talk.” My father-in-law prances right in, interrupting and dismissing me all at once.

  I fucking hate him.

  I hate them all.

  And I hate myself right now.

  I hated how weak, and whiny, and utterly ridiculous I sounded, but it all just kept spewing uncontrollably like an erupted volcano.

  I wished that I were enough for Gio, to leave it all.

  I wished there was a way out of it.

  I snatch my purse ignoring Domenico, and Gio offers to walk me out.

  “Don’t bother. I can see myself out,” I tell him angrily and then kick one of the chairs at his desk for the hell of it.