Giana
The silence at the table was thick enough to choke on, heavy with the scent of stale cigar smoke.
Franco's hand remained on Camilla's waist. His thumb moved in a familiar stroke against the thin fabric of her uniform.
It was muscle memory. Intimate. Unthinking. Devastating. He wasn't even aware he was doing it.
I stood up. The legs of my chair scraped against the floor with a harsh screech.
"Gia?" Franco looked up, blinking as if waking from a daze.
He pulled his hand away from Camilla.
"I'm going to the restroom," I said, my voice low and even.
I didn't wait for his response. I just turned and walked away.
I pushed open the door to the ladies' room. It was empty. I gripped the edge of the cold porcelain sink and stared at myself in the mirror.
Stay calm. Don't let him win.
The door opened.
Camilla walked in. She wasn't crying anymore.
She moved with a loose, clumsy gait, taking up more space than necessary. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it, arms crossed over her chest.
"Oops," she said, a smirk playing on her lips. "Did I ruin your date night?"
I turned to face her, unhurried. "Camilla. You're playing with fire."
"You're a blind fool," she retorted, a certain venom in her voice. "He doesn't want you. He wants your last name. He tells me everything. Tells me how boring you are. Tells me he has to think about me to finish."
"If he wanted you," I said quietly, "you wouldn't be serving drinks while I'm wearing his ring."
Rage flickered in her eyes, twisting her features. "That ring is a copy! I have the real one!"
"I know," I said.
A flicker of disbelief crossed her face.
Before she could speak, the door handle rattled. Then a heavy knock shook the frame.
"Gia?" It was Franco.
Camilla's eyes lit up. She let out a calculated shriek.
"Get away from me!" she screamed, throwing herself heavily onto the tile floor.
She landed on her own ankle, twisting it with purpose.
Franco kicked the door open. The lock splintered, the door swinging inward.
He stormed in, his eyes wild with panic. He saw me standing by the sinks, arms at my sides, face expressionless. He saw Camilla on the floor, clutching her leg, sobbing.
"She pushed me!" Camilla wailed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She cornered me and pushed me!"
Franco looked at me. There was no question in his eyes. Just assessment.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demanded.
"Franco, look at her," I said calmly. "She's acting."
"She's hurt!" He knelt beside Camilla, examining her ankle. It was red and already starting to swell. "Just because you're a Vitielo, you think you can push people around? You think you're above the law?"
He looked up at me, disgust in his eyes.
I was stunned by his stupidity.
The law? From a mafioso?
And I'd never seen it before.
"Gia, you're a spoiled princess. You've never had a real day of hardship in your life. This girl works for a living, and you assault her because of a little jealousy?"
"Jealous?" I laughed. "Of what?"
Of her getting Franco's worthless love?
"She's the victim here!" Franco shouted. He scooped Camilla up in his arms, cradling her like a bride.
She buried her face in his neck, hiding the smile on her lips.
"I'm taking her to the hospital," he spat at me. "Find your own way home."
He walked out. He walked out of the club carrying his mistress, past his friends, past my associates, leaving his fiancée alone in a bathroom with a broken lock.
Five minutes later, I walked out of the club. Xavier tried to stop me.
"Gia, wait, he's just... he's emotional," Xavier stammered.
"He's dead to me," I said.
I took a cab home.
I walked into the penthouse and went straight to the living room.
On the wall hung a calligraphy scroll Franco had made for our third anniversary. It read: Forever.
I tore it off the wall. I ripped it in half. Then into quarters.
I went to the closet and pulled out every bag, every pair of shoes, every piece of jewelry he'd ever given me. I piled them in the middle of the living room floor like an offering to the ghost of what he'd made me.
I picked up the heavy kitchen scissors and started cutting. The blades sliced through soft leather, tore through silk fabric, shredded velvet.
Three hours later, when Franco came home, the apartment was dark.
He tried the bedroom door. Locked.
"Gia?" he called.
"Gia, open up. The doctor said she's fine. I just... I overreacted." He was realizing, apparently, that he still needed me until the wedding.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
"Gia, please. If you don't let me in, I'll sleep in the hallway."
I didn't answer.
Let him sleep on the floor. It's where dogs belong.
