Giana
The lies hung in the air, thick and metallic, impossible to ignore.
Franco stood in the foyer, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon to get back to me. He held up his phone, the screen displaying a text I couldn't read from where I stood.
"It's Dante," he said, his voice laced with a calculated panic. "He got into an accident on the 95. I have to go deal with the cops before the media finds out."
I nodded. I didn't ask why his friend, a man who drove like a grandmother, was speeding down the interstate at midnight. I just watched Franco grab his keys.
"Go," I said. "Family first."
He kissed my forehead. His lips were dry. He smelled of expensive cologne, layered over a cloying, sweet vanilla scent. Her perfume.
As soon as the elevator doors closed, I grabbed my jacket.
I didn't take my own car. I took the nondescript sedan my father kept in the garage for the cleaners.
I knew where Franco was going. He wasn't heading for the highway. He was going to the safe house in Queens. The one my father had left us for emergencies.
I parked two blocks away and walked. The night air was biting cold against my skin, but I didn't feel it. My blood was boiling too fiercely.
The lights were on in the living room. The curtains were drawn, but not completely.
I stood in the shadow of an alleyway and looked through the gap in the glass.
Franco was in the leather armchair. Camilla was straddling his lap.
She wasn't crying anymore. She was laughing, head thrown back, her hands tangled in his hair. His face was buried in her neck, his hands gripping her waist with a desperation I'd never seen in him, a hunger that bordered on manic.
This safe house, he'd told me, was for business. For the war.
It was, I realized. Just not the war I'd imagined.
A wave of nausea hit me. Not heartbreak. Disgust. A physical, visceral revulsion.
The man I was supposed to marry brought his mistress to the house meant for our future children.
I turned away and almost vomited.
The next morning, news broke. Not about the accident. About a brawl outside a restaurant in Queens. A made man had knocked another man unconscious.
I drove to the hospital. Franco was in a private room, his knuckles wrapped in bandages.
He looked up as I entered, his eyes widening.
"Gia," he started, trying to sit up.
Then I heard the sobbing.
Camilla was sitting in a chair in the corner, holding an ice pack to her cheek. She looked small and fragile.
"A drunk got handsy with her," Franco said quickly, his voice laced with false righteousness. "I had to step in. It was a matter of honor."
I didn't look at him. I looked at her.
She lowered the ice pack, her tear-filled eyes meeting mine, a tiny smile playing on her lips.
She raised a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face.
Sunlight glinted off the jade.
I gasped.
On her wrist was the Vitielo jade bracelet. A single piece of ancient jade, so green it was almost painful. It was an heirloom. My grandmother had worn it. My mother had worn it. I was supposed to wear it on my wedding day. Franco had asked to have it cleaned just last week.
He didn't have it cleaned. He took a piece of my history and gave it to his whore.
My nails dug into my palms. Hard enough to break the skin, to draw blood.
The pain was a lifeline, a brief reprieve from the ocean of rage.
It reminded me to breathe. To wait. This humiliation was a spark compared to the bonfire I was building for our wedding day.
I looked at Franco. He saw where my gaze had landed. His face went pale. He moved to her, blocking my view.
"Gia, wait," he stammered.
I looked at him. Really looked. I didn't see a mafioso. I saw a common thief. A coward who robbed his own house to adorn another woman.
"I'm tired, Franco," I said.
I turned and walked out.
"Gia!" he called after me.
I didn't stop. I walked out of the hospital and into the grey morning light.
For the first time in eight years, I didn't look back to see if he was following.
Had I loved him? Yes. I had.
But don't underestimate my resolve. I was going to make him weep.
