“I would have run away,” I say.

  “You would have been found. By me or someone else. I tried to convince your zio to be brutally honest with you, but their choice was the right one. Telling you would have made it all worse for you.”

  “I’m starting to think they’re all cowards.”

  “They love you, Violetta,” Santino rumbles. “And there are times love has to lie to survive.”

  With the bath bubbles flattened and the water cooled, I’m falling into the trap of thinking of myself as a commodity to be bought, sold, and traded, not a full human making my own choices.

  “You had all the information you needed,” I sulk.

  “Knowing everything didn’t give me any choice.”

  “Wait.” I straighten, launching myself into a crouch as if I’m ready to pounce on the moment. “You’re talking about it as if you’re the one who was sold into a situation you wouldn’t have wanted. Right? Doesn’t it feel shitty?”

  “This is how things have always been, and how they will always be. It is our way.”

  “But it can be different.” I cling to his hand, relieved to know that for one minute, he can imagine what it’s like to have your life stolen. I can use that knowledge. “It has to be different. I’m different!”

  “You are different, Forzetta,” Santino says softly, touching the parts of my face as if memorizing them. “You are different because you are special. You are different because I want you. You are different because I love you.”

  He loves me.

  It’s crazy, because of the way we started and who he is. But it’s also completely sane, because the way we started is the only way I could have broken down who I wanted to be and found out who I really am.

  I collapse into his embrace, because he’s broken the dam, and I know I love him too.

  Santino helps me out of the tub and dries me off. He leads me to the bedroom in a flurry of kisses and caresses.

  I let him lay me down. I let him kiss me. I let his hands cover my body. I let him roll me on top of him and his waiting cock, and I straddle him, on top, in control. And I know, right then, that either I will follow him to the ends of the earth, or I will pull him to the limits of his world… but wherever we go, we go together.

  16

  VIOLETTA

  My body is sore where Santino used it, and in the half-sleep of morning, I’m aware of the pleasures of every ache. Yet my dream is focused on my hand. Though the stuck stiffness of the bandage is there, it’s Santino—standing in front of me, in a light blue jacket and white shirt with his palms up and elbows bent slightly—who’s bleeding from both palms.

  Apply pressure.

  Remove rings and bracelets that may compress nerves.

  Clean.

  Disinfect.

  Ice.

  Elevate.

  My feet are stuck. I can’t reach him. I tell him to come to me, but he looks back at me in distress, bleeding as if there are arteries in his hands. I’m frustrated, but the dream reveals that his feet are stuck in a mound of dried plaster. Then that he’s trapped inside a connected plaster grotto surrounded with pots of red roses, and then, I am as well.

  Church bells ring. His olive skin goes pale as paint. I reach for him, but he’s too far for the length of my arms, and his are frozen in place.

  “Mrs. DiLustro?” he says, and in my dream, it’s Italian for do not come.

  If I’d stayed in school, kept on my path to nursing, I’d live in a smaller house with fewer nice things, but I’d know what to do. My clothes would have no value, but my knowledge would be priceless, and I could stop the flow of this river of blood.

  The church bells in my dream are the only thing left as I wake, turning into the doorbell chiming over and over, with a pang of regret—not because Santino’s not in bed with me, but because by obeying him, I’m unable to save him.

  “Mrs. DiLustro?” Armando’s voice comes from the other side of the door, followed by a light rap I can barely hear over the frantic doorbell dings.

  Sun cuts through the windows, turning the view behind my eyelids bright orange.

  “Yes?” I say, hoping he’s here to ask a yes or no question. I want to go back to my dream and take control of the situation, get out of my plaster grotto and save Santino.

  “Gia’s here.”

  My bloodstream floods with cortisol and I bolt upright, remembering what I’d promised myself I’d do and who I’d do it for.

  The bell keeps ringing.

  “Did you let her in?” I hop off the bed, now really annoyed by the chiming. She must be trying to wear out the button. With all the security, I’ve never heard anyone actually ring it.

  “Yes, but she won’t come inside until you’re down, and just to say… she is upset.”

  “Tell her I’ll be right down.” I slap open a dresser drawer.

  “Thank you.”

  I jam my legs through a pair of sweatpants, throw on a tank, then a hoodie over it, and run downstairs without even peeing.

  Framed by the open front door, Gia pokes the doorbell repeatedly. Her cheeks are striped with mascara and her lips are wet and puffy, lines of spit connecting them.

  “I’m here!” I shout and run to her with bare feet and open arms.

  She stops jabbing the button and lets me hold her in the space between inside and outside for a few seconds before I drag her in. Armando closes the door. I mouth the word “coffee” and he nods, heading for the kitchen. To my new cousin, I whisper comforts and avoid asking what happened until she can breathe, then I take her hands.

  “What happened, Gia? What can I do?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, but her face betrays her. Her mouth twists and sadness just pours out of her like a broken dam. I have never seen someone so red with distress.

  I reach to hold her, but she slaps me. The sting on my cheek is nothing compared to the burn of her rejection.

  “Gia?” I ask, my hand to my face.

  “Whu-whu-why did you do it?” Gia huffs. “Papa is so mad at-at me and I… I… I… why?” The words catch between her tears and vanish. “Why did you ruin everything?”

  She rushes into me and I’m too naïve to flinch in fear of another slap. Even with my skin burning where she hit me, I’m operating as the Violetta of ten seconds ago, so when she collapses into me, I hold her.

  “We’ll figure it out.” I put my arm around her shoulder, stroking her hair. “Don’t worry. It’ll all be fine.”

  Gia presses her forehead against my neck and sobs as I lead her inside, passing the couches and walking her to the kitchen—where comfort resides. Celia’s setting up coffee and a cookie tray. I nod to her. She nods back silently as I sit Gia down on one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Now.” I take a seat, turning toward her so I can smooth the hair around her forehead.

  It’s nice to feel needed. I haven’t had a friend in a long time or felt useful in even longer. I hand her a paper napkin from the dispenser and she squishes it up and pushes the ball into her eyes one at a time.

  I’m ready to wage war against her father, Damiano, Tavie, and even Santino if I have to. I don’t know what caused this beautiful girl to break like this, but I will end them.

  “Oh, no, look at your face,” Gia says when she finally gets a look at me. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “But I’m still mad.” Her face scrunches up to stop the next onslaught of tears. “Papa is too. So mad he says he’s sending me back.”

  Celia slides the cookies and two cappuccinos onto the table. I thank her with a glance, and she leaves.

  “Here.” I lift the plate. “Biscotti makes everything better.”

  “I don’t think I can eat.” Gia looks pained to even say it. “I-I’m so sorry, I just… why did you break the flowers? I don’t understand it.”

  If I tell her, it’ll all be over. I won’t be putting the lube back in the tube.

  “Why is your father so mad?” I ask.

  “An insult. He said it’s an insult and he can’t show his face.”

  “Is it though?” I say. Gia looks confused. “They’re just flowers. You were ready for the date. Damiano showed up. All anyone had to do was lie about them falling or, you know, make a joke about how you wanted to see how far you could throw them, then you could drive over to Aldo’s.”

  Her puzzlement turns inward, as though she’s playing over last night’s scene in her head and can’t figure it out. “Dami said, ‘You backing out?’ and I thought he was talking to me, but my father answered him and said, ‘no, no, no,’ like he was the one who had to reassure him. It was weird.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then Damiano left really mad, and I ran out to the street to get him, but Tavie caught me at the gate. He said I was acting like a whore.” Retelling her brother’s insult makes her chin quiver. “But I just wanted to tell him it wasn’t me who broke it.” A fresh teardrop falls, then another. “Then they said it was you, but they won’t say why. Were you just mad at Santi?”

  “Well, yes… but—”

  “Can you tell everyone?”

  “Listen, Gia, those flowers…” Am I doing this? I should talk to Santino before I do. “They weren’t just flowers.”

  She’s hungry for answers, and there are plenty I could give her, but there’s only one truth.

  “They were a message from Damiano.” I’m doing this. The train has left the station. “To your father.”

  “What?”

  “That he closed his end of the deal.”

  “What deal?”

  She’s a product of this culture. I won’t have to explain that much. I want to look away, but that wouldn’t be fair.

  “You. You are the deal.”

  The vulnerability of her face melts on contact with the truth. “I don’t understand.” False. She’s lying to herself. Stalling acceptance. “Papa said his debts were paid. That’s how they had the money to come here.”

  “Damiano Orolio is paying them.”

  If I’d been told this before it happened, and if I’d believed it the way she has to, I would have turned the house upside down. Thrown any object that wouldn’t break against every object that would. But Gia’s not me. She’s no stranger to the idea of having her body being used to pay for a man’s foolishness.

  “I threw the flowers,” I say. “I was upset.”

  “Because it happened to you.”

  “Yes.”

  She nods, looking at her hands in her lap.

  “I thought he liked me,” she whispers, as if that’s the most important aspect of this entire mess.

  “I bet he does.” I thumb a tear from her cheek. “Does your family know where you are?”

  She shakes her head, looking through the glass doors to the backyard with her mouth tight in an expression of impending trouble.

  “You don’t have to call them,” I say. “I can tell them you’re here.”

  “Don’t. They’ll ask you questions, then come here to get me and… I can’t right now.”

  “Then Santino will tell them.”

  Her face lights up. “Can he? They won’t come if he says it.”

  “Absolutely.” The word isn’t out of my mouth before I’m already texting him.

  —Can you tell Angelo/Marco/Paola that Gia’s at the house with me and she’s fine—

  —Why is she there?—

  He won’t let me ask questions, but when I make the slightest request, he gets suspicious. I could tell him she just showed up and I had nothing to do with it, but he’s going to call Armando anyway. Let the man earn his salary.

  “Done.” I put down my phone.

  “Thank you.” She takes an oval cookie crusted with almond shavings.

  “If you give me the keys”—I hold out my hand—“I’ll have Armando pull your car out of the driveway.”

  She shakes her head and dismisses the idea with a flick of her wrist. “I always park on Foothill. There’s a secret spot.” She dunks the cookie in the coffee, bites, sips, smiles. “It’s good.” Her eyes dart around the immaculate kitchen. “I can’t believe you have a whole person just to cook and make coffee.”

  “Celia and I work together.”

  “Only for you and Santino.”

  Of course, having such a person is a ridiculous indulgence. Since I’m not at school, I could do what she’s paid to do. Celia would have nowhere to go, but explaining the situation would just be defensive and betray Celia’s confidence.

  “Yes.” I drink my coffee. “Just for the two of us. I guess more, if we had a party or something.” I shrug. “I don’t know who I’d invite. All my friends… they wouldn’t get it, and I don’t think the family actually likes me.”

  “What?” Gia gently rubs her eyes with the pads of two fingers. They’re dry now, but still swollen. “But you’re so… you.”

  I’m two people actually. One is a student at the nursing college across the river, and the other was small and silent until Santino dragged her out of the darkness.

  “Oh, God, I’m rubbing my eyes. They’re going to get even more puffy.”

  “I have a cucumber I can slice up.” I try to sound casual. No pressure. But I’m desperate for her to stay. “That’ll help with the swelling.”

  I quickly chop a cucumber into cool, wet coins and place them on a plate.

  “You’re so thoughtful, Violetta.”

  “No, I’m so selfish. I’m so sorry I wrecked your flowers and your date.”

  “You were upset I didn’t know. And now I do.”

  She’s half right, but I don’t correct the other half.

  Gia and I walk upstairs and down the hall, arm in arm. She pauses outside of my old room and touches the doorjamb. “Do you remember your first nights here?”

  “I do.”

  “You were pretty upset.”

  I have several choices to make here. I’m not sure which one is the least painful for this young beauty illuminated by sunlight, red-cheeked from grief, and I decide that though the whole truth would be cruel, a lie would be worse.

  “It was scary.” I go into the room first and put the plate of cucumber slices on the night table. “I hadn’t been away from home before. Not even to stay in the dorms at school.”

  Focusing on my boring history of sleeping arrangements is the most innocuous angle I can think of.

  “I’ve been away from home for a long time.” The way Gia says it—the coldness that settles over her—worries me. Before I can lead her on and change the subject, she sits on the bed facing the windows that overlook the pool. The sunlight on the water glints up at us.

  “Here.” I pat the bed. “Lie down.”

  She does and closes her eyes, folding her hands across her chest. Her next words come out as a whisper. “I won’t be scared.”

  You should be, Gia. You should be terrified.

  “Of what?” I feign ignorance and put the cucumber slices over her eyes.

  “Our first night. Because Dami’s nice, Violetta. He really is. And he has a house halfway up the hill with a view. And a Cadillac. And he said his businesses are doing really well, but he didn’t want to brag. And somehow it’s all ruined.” She sucks her lips between her teeth. “I don’t know what happens to me now.”

  Downstairs, the security sensor on the front door beeps, then keys clack on the front table.

  The man of the house is home early.

  “We’ll figure it out.” I throw a blanket over her. “Just rest here for now and we’ll talk in an hour.”

  Santino’s footsteps cross the living room, probably on his way to the kitchen to look for me.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “My pleasure.”

  Quiet as a secret, I tiptoe from the room and close the door. On my way downstairs, Santino’s deep voice crawls in from the backyard. He’s on a phone call, pacing the circumference of the pool.

  I open the sliding glass door just enough to slip out, then gently close it. Santino stands on the other side of the pool, legs apart, large and imposing, a statue under the high point of the sun. He looks like an angel. An angel of death, perhaps, but an angel nonetheless. He’s speaking in rapid Italian, the kind my inexpert ears can only pick up every few words of—like debt and escrow and flowers, and names like Damiano and Marco are especially clear.

  But his gaze tells me more than words in any language.

  He’s not happy with me.

  “Si. Ciao.” Santino drops his phone in his jacket pocket, looking at me across the water.

  “You’re home early,” I say.

  “Where’s Gia?” He crosses his arms.

  “In my room.”

  He looks up at the windows I’ve often stood behind to watch him swim.

  “She’s taking a nap,” I add. “She’s very upset.”

  “Of course she is. You smashed her flowers.”

  “So?”

  “You fucked up her life.”

  “Fucked—what? No, no, no.” I stomp around the pool to his side, ready to throw him in if I have to. “Totally unfair. I’m trying to save her and you know it.”

  “My sweet little American wife, these symbols have meaning. And actions have repercussions.”

  “So the deal is off?”

  He sighs the way you might before explaining the function of the circulatory system to someone who should already know how a heart works, then he gets behind a patio chair, shifting it into the shade. “Sit.”

  I sit, and he moves a matching seat across from me. Pauses, leans forward with his fingertips tapping between his knees. I feel like a student about to be reprimanded by a very hot teacher.

  “Marco lives inside Cosimo Orolio’s territory,” he says. “Dami is in mine. They received a blessing from both of us. This is not just some kind of permission. It’s a promise of protection.”

  “I thought Damiano and his father weren’t speaking.” I’m proud of this nugget of knowledge.