“It can turn to shit in the end too,” I say, looking down at him. “And if you’re not careful, you’ll step in it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  It means that with his neglect and disdain, he turned me into shit, and it’s only a matter of hours before I mess up his fucking shoes.

  “My wife says I shouldn’t write fortune cookies.” I hold up my glass. “Salute.”

  We clink and he takes his leave to poke his pinkie into the hole of a black olive, eating it off like a child. What a joke of a man.

  Violetta charms Tavie and his girlfriend with a story about an afternoon we had on the beach in Italy. Our eyes meet and her cheeks warm in the most beautiful way, as I remember the way her naked body looked under the blazing Napoli sun. I wonder how much of that story she disclosed. Angelo charms her in return with a story about a fish. Zio Guglielmo and Zia Madeline laugh with her over the children trying to steal bread with their olive-tipped fingers. My second cousin, Oriana, passes her baby to Violetta, who rocks and coos with her.

  I didn’t know my mother, so I don’t miss her, but in that moment, I feel the empty place where she should have been.

  Beside me, Marco is replaced by Violetta’s zio Guglielmo.

  “She looks happy,” he finally says.

  “She is.”

  We are quiet once more, as I doubt whether I have the right to speak for her.

  “Thank you for raising her so beautifully.” I raise my glass in toast to him.

  “Anything is possible in America.” He raises his own glass, and we toast the country where dreams meet reality.

  Violetta clinks her glass of prosecco to announce dinner is ready.

  The lights are out and the little fires flicker over the red script of Happy Birthday Violetta. My wife glows, then during the last stanza of the song, she looks at me and smirks.

  It’s now, and she’s ready.

  “Make a wish!” Elettra cries, eyes big with her own wishes. Her mother brought the cake and Violetta gave them the 2 and 0 candles for the top.

  Violetta blows out her candles, and I know she has no wish. She has a demand that has turned into a plan. Everyone applauds and the lights go on.

  I stand and raise my glass. “To my beautiful wife, Violetta,” I say in Italian. “Who has made me the happiest man in the world.”

  Everyone awws. It’s like a fucking movie.

  “Salute!” I toast.

  “Salute!” everyone toasts back.

  We all sit and Anette starts to cuts the cake, when my Violetta stands and taps her glass with a spoon.

  “I have an announcement to make,” she says in Italian when she gets every last bit of attention.

  She gets a gasp and an uncomfortable titter from my left. It could be that she’s speaking Italian when so much has been said in front of her with the assumption she didn’t. Or it could be that a newly married woman usually has only one kind of announcement to make.

  “My husband, Santino.” She raises her glass to me, and I nod as if I suspect she’s going to surprise them with a pregnancy announcement, and approve by raising my own glass to her. “The man you men all call the king—while we girls pretend we don’t know why…” She looks around and the women giggle. “Is going to pay Marco’s debt so Gia can choose who she wants to marry.”

  Tavie leaps from his seat, shouting, “Yes!”

  The room falls as silent as death. No one will look at me. Outside, even the birds don’t dare to chirp. My house could burn down from the heat of their shock and awe. And in the middle, surrounded by blurred faces of confusion and horror, is my smiling wife, who lifted my world up with a beautiful party in a role she so masterfully played and then destroyed it with two sentences in Italian.

  I sit there as if I’m ignorant, as if I’m almost—almost—impressed by how she manipulated this situation. As if I wish she’d done it to someone else, instead of turning her genius against me.

  So I laugh. I laugh loudly and hard. I laugh so forcefully the others have no choice but to laugh with me lest they show their disloyalty.

  Even Marco—especially Marco—laughs as he’s supposed to. The hardness in his eyes, however, says this will require some smoothing over. I don’t like the way he’s staring at my wife or the glances he casts my way. Marco may have raised me, but once I became a man, it is for my zia Paola I show him respect, and now I will have to lean into that all the more.

  I straighten my sleeves, clear my throat, and make a show of taking a sip of prosecco. Everyone follows, and little by little, order is restored.

  Violetta says nothing as she serves the cake, but she stares at me with a sultry look, challenging me like a beautiful tyrant in stilettos.

  I follow her into the kitchen as the women clear the tables. Children weave between us, sneaking pastries and chasing Armando, who shoots me a few cryptic glances. I grab Violetta’s arm and pull her by the pantry.

  She tries to play coy and runs a finger down my chest. “I know you’re feeling frisky right now, but there’s an entire house full of people who want to play cards.”

  I grab her hand and pin it above her on the wall. “You are so fucking sexy.”

  “Make him an offer, Santino.” The smirk leaves her face and is replaced by something fierce and earnest. “Go be a king and a saint.”

  “And I’ll bring the devil to bed tonight.”

  Before I can kiss her, she slips past me, back out into the kitchen. Tavie runs in, breathless.

  “Is it true?” he asks, pushing through the women to get to me.

  Violetta returns to the dirty dishes as if nothing has happened. She’s ruthless.

  “Say it’s true!” Tavie shakes me from my brief stupor.

  “Tavie,” I warn, pulling him into a quieter corner.

  “It has to be true, because I’ll kill him if he touches my sister. I swear it on my mother’s life.”

  “Ma smettila!” I shush him. “Never, ever swear like that unless you intend to kill your mother.”

  “I swear it.” The boy points his chin up and scowls. The quiet cousin, who long kept to himself and never made waves, grows before my eyes into the man we joked he wasn’t. “On my mother’s life, I swear it.”

  “Go sit down, Tavie.” I lay a heavy hand on his shoulder. This is not his fight. “Go.”

  “Zio?” My niece, Lucia, stands behind me with her cousin’s baby on her hip, too young to know when she should be silent. “Is it true, Santi? Are you going to do it?”

  All the women stare at me expectantly. No one hushes the girl or scolds her for asking such questions. They want to know. This affects them, and it’s their business.

  “These are matters for the men,” I say, then leave out the back before I can see their reaction. As I slide the glass closed behind me, muffled sounds of kitchen life resume.

  Outside, the men gather for a quick smoke before the cards are dealt. Time to act as though I’m putting out a fire my wife started without me.

  As soon as I arrive, every man nods in respect before he puts out his smoke and silently goes back inside in a great exodus.

  Every man, that is, except Marco.

  He squares off and stares at me, blowing a line of cigar-reek from the side of his mouth, away from my face. I pull a single cigarette from the pack in my pocket and pack it along the box. Nothing is said as I reach for the steel Zippo in my breast pocket, or when it clacks as I open it and we breathe the smack of fresh kerosene. Not a word is said until it’s all back home inside my jacket and I exhale.

  “You may speak,” I say the second time I inhale.

  “You understand,” he says with just enough respect to counter his own insult at being bailed out like a child, “I cannot go home with this hanging over my head.” He rolls his cigar between wet lips, then puffs. “The contracts are signed. The business is done. Cosimo’s blessed it. Damiano wants the marriage and he is paying the debts. There’s no need for you to stick your nose in it. All due respect, of course.”

  “Stick my nose in it?” I shrug as if that’s an interesting way to put it that doesn’t deserve a more violent response.

  “With all due respect.”

  “When you sent Gia—your daughter—to America, you asked me to watch over her. You put her well-being in my care. And I took that seriously. I’ve kept her away from dishonorable men and risky activities. I gave her a job to keep an eye on her for you. Here, in America, she is my responsibility because you asked for her to be. So don’t you come here now and tell me it’s not my business.”

  “After all I’ve done for you,” he sneers. “This is how you treat me?”

  I snap his fucking cigar out of his mouth and point the hot side at his face. “All you did was ignore me. You treated me like shit on your shoe because I didn’t come out of your balls. You called me the little bastard of the house and wouldn’t give me three euro for a fucking train to visit my mother. And I still would have paid your debt from the beginning.”

  “I don’t want your money,” he says from the bottom of his guts. “I’m just going to pay the way I want. It’s my prerogative.”

  Marco’s got a little laugh to his tone that makes me want to break every bone in his body. It’s a chuckle of we’re all men here, and a wink of, così stanno le cose—it is what it is. What are you going to do?

  I stamp out his cigar.

  “My wife misspoke,” I repeat the agreed-upon lie. “But I’m not going to turn her into a liar. I will pay your debt, and in return, you will not sell Gia into marriage.”

  “You know your chickens,” he says without seeming to have a single reservation. “Look at how you came to marry your own wife?”

  Calmly, I wedge my cigarette between my lips as the skin under my collar runs hot, and my blood carries instructions to my body faster than a thought. In less than the blink of an eye, my fingers grip his throat.

  “I came to marry her out of duty, Marco.”

  Marco gags, gripping my sleeve. I didn’t realize how many years I’ve wanted to choke him, because it feels better than anything I’ve ever done.

  “Do you understand?” I squeeze tighter, sucking on my cigarette and exhaling out my nose.

  He nods against my fingers.

  “Liar.” I squeeze until his knees buckle. “You don’t understand duty.”

  My uncle’s face is bright red. He’s choking out something that could be apology or curse, and I let him go to hear which it is. He drops back, hand to his throat, landing on the patio couch.

  Behind me, someone coughs. All of the men are outside, staring at Marco gasping for air. No one runs to his aid.

  Bene. They need to see this.

  I turn to address the men gathered behind me. “Any of you. When I speak, I speak one time. You do not question me. And when my wife says I’m paying this cavolo’s debt, you assume it’s the truth.”

  I start back inside, where the women have set up the table for cards and the TV for the children. I can hear their chatter and coins clinking as if everything is back to normal. Violetta waves me in. I want to be on the other side of that glass with her more than anything.

  “Santino,” Marco calls timidly, so I stop and look back. “When my daughter returns…”

  The last part of his sentence falls into silence, but I know it ends with him telling me what I already know. That the wedding is happening as soon as Gia gets back, and if I want to change the arrangement, I have to tell Damiano and Cosimo Orolio. They can—and will—refuse.

  “Do not ask me another thing. Your job isn’t questions. It’s obedience. You’ll know when you know.”

  I go inside to play cards, and the men follow.

  27

  VIOLETTA

  “It was a lovely evening.” Zia kisses my cheeks and cups my chin. “You make me so proud, Violetta.”

  My cheeks flush red—in part because I have missed the connection with my zia in person, in part because her compliments always make me wonder what my mother would say, but mostly because I took a risk today and it paid off. That threshold between adolescence and adulthood was not only crossed but eviscerated, and my family got to witness it firsthand.

  Violetta Moretti is not a plaything. Violetta Moretti is not a toy. Violetta Moretti is a dangerous bitch who will move mountains to save people she loves.

  Violetta Moretti is going to be a good mother.

  “Thank you for coming. I have missed you so much.” I squeeze her in a tight hug.

  Zio comes from behind Zia and the three of us stand there for a moment, savoring this. I don’t know when I’ll be able to see them again, not after what I just did. I changed the rules.

  I would do it again in a heartbeat. The power I felt commanding that room, laying the groundwork for a plan I concocted? Intoxicating. And there was never a better cause. I swear on my life. These bastards aren’t going to steal another girl over money or territory or a few chunks of old metal ever again.

  “It was lovely tonight, Santino.” Zia nods politely to him.

  “You’ll come again,” he says.

  We stand outside, Santino and me, arms around each other, as these last guests climb into their Buick and drive away. I have so many memories of my aunt and uncle, but now I don’t feel grief when I think about them. Maybe I really have finally grown up.

  Their tail lights clear the driveway, leaving me alone with my husband.

  “Did you make the offer?” I ask.

  “I did.” He nods and goes inside.

  “And?”

  “I told you he wouldn’t accept.”

  I sigh and follow him. No words need to be spoken. We have to move to the second part of the plan.

  “Upstairs,” Santino says when we’re inside the house and the door is locked.

  I hesitate. Is he angry that we have to go to plan B? Or just surprised?

  “Now,” he barks.

  He’s so big when he yells, and all my defiance melts away, and I run upstairs. He catches me in the hall before I have to decide which room to run to, picks me up and carries me to his room, throwing me on the bed.

  “Undress,” he orders.

  My breath catches in my throat. I study his face. There’s something else there, something besides the desire to peel me open and devour the soft, sweet flesh inside. It curls darkly under his skin like blood set free of veins.

  “Undress,” Santino commands again, but in Italian as if that has more force. “Spogliati.”

  It does.

  My fingers fumble with my straps. Maybe there’s a different name for the power I cannot define.

  I’m naked in front of him when I see it clearly.

  It’s fear. He’s afraid of the partnership he’s offered me, and he’s afraid of what I’ll do with it. Or he’s afraid I’ll die. He’s afraid he can’t protect me.

  I can’t parse any of it, but it all leads to one conclusion. Santino is human. He thinks he’s showing me his power, but he’s lonely and desperate and afraid, just like me. I, Violetta DiLustro, am not just a wife to service him, but a companion and a mate who needs and who is needed.

  “Santino—” I start.

  “Basta.” His pants and underwear drop to the floor. He steps out of them neatly, revealing his powerful cock—more magnificent than ever. He grabs my hand and puts it on the glorious beast, and it hardens even more. “Succhiami il cazzo.”

  Suck my dick. I flush warm and drop to my knees, opening my mouth obediently. All insolence is gone. I just want him to use me. I want him to show me I fucking matter. Never do I feel that more than when his cock is in me and his hands are on my shoulders, as his powerful frame comes with ragged breaths.

  I take a deep breath to steady myself, so I don’t come before he can touch me. Mixed with the fear from only twenty minutes earlier, I want nothing more than to have my entire world obliterated in dark pleasure.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he says from above. “Tell me what you do first.”

  He pulls out his cock. I breathe. “Call Anette. Tell her I want to go with them to pick up Gia.”

  Santino takes my cheeks and squeezes, pressing my mouth open. He isn’t gentle. He’s forceful. He’s scared. He’s mine. His length threatens to choke me in one thrust, sending hot electricity through my veins.

  “You beg them,” he says. “You cry. You tell them I want you to live over the river and you don’t want to leave.” He twists my hair in his hands and pulls just enough, and I respond with gasp and a groan. “You don’t want to be alone in another house with only one kitchen, so far away.”

  I rule this man’s cock. I build into a quick rhythm, sucking and licking his length with each stroke from my lips, then he pushes me away.

  “I just can’t be alone right now,” I say, spit dripping down my chin. “I don’t assume Anette told him about seeing me at the drugstore. With the test… because he told you that, not me. But if he mentions it, I say I’m pregnant and I want to tell Gia right away.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Santino drops onto a high-backed leather chair, legs apart, elbows resting on the tufted arms. The fear is gone; the power is not. “Come here.”

  I stand between his legs and he turns me. In the mirror, my naked body blocks him. He puts his hands on my waist and guides me down, impaling me on him. We are slick and smooth against each other, root to root without friction or resistance.

  “Oh,” I gasp.

  “And then what?” he asks, spreading my legs open.

  I can’t see him. Just the edges of the chair and the place we’re connected.

  “On the drive there.” I move up and down on him. “I tell them you’ve been thinking… and you decided to set up Gia and Damiano over the river. And you want to show him a big surprise before Gia gets home.”

  “Do you want Gia to marry?” His hand snakes between my legs and fondles my clit.

  “Yes, I’ve…” I stop, unable to finish. He slaps lightly, bringing me back to my senses. “I’ve come around. Our babies can play together but… Santino… I’m so close.”