“Here,” Mario says, handing the tray with the last chicken cutlet on it to Orlando. “I’ll even let you have the last one tonight.”
“Pfft, last one,” his mother says, rising. “As if I only made one tray.”
“Hope you were paying attention,” Marialena says, sipping a glass of wine. “That is the one and only time my brothers actually didn’t fight over food.”
The only one that doesn’t talk throughout the whole meal is the brother just older than Orlando, named Tavi. When I thank them for a delicious dinner, he eyes me seriously, sipping his wine with a look that makes me squirm. Does he know something about me? Does he suspect something?
But when I go to leave with Orlando, he rises with the rest of them out of respect, then presses a shiny white package into Orlando’s hand. It’s then that I remember. Tavi was the one who was supposed to be married before Orlando. His betrothed took her own life. I bet seeing me with Orlando is bittersweet for him.
Soon, Orlando and I are heading upstairs. All I can think about is that phone in the drawer and my friend, when Romeo pulls Orlando to the side.
“Just a minute, Orlando. I’ll let you go, have to fill you in.”
Every conversation they have feels like it could be the one that reveals all. I jump when I hear a low chuckle right behind me.
I spin around to see Nonna standing in the doorway, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder. She’s looking at me as if she caught me sneaking out past curfew to a forbidden party. I give her a tight smile.
“Italiano,” she says with another chuckle. She’s really amused. My heartbeat quickens, and I swallow hard. I feel a little dizzy.
“Italiano?” I repeat.
“Si, si.” Her lips curve upward. “You?” Then she bursts out laughing and shakes her head, muttering under her breath as she walks away.
Oh God. Oh God. How does she know I’m not Italian? She might be the only one under this roof that knows I’m not Elise. She also might be the only one under this roof that just doesn’t care.
I briefly consider confiding in Vittoria or Marialena. They aren’t like the men. There’s an almost unspoken solidarity with them as women of The Family. But I’m too new here. I don’t know who to trust.
I have to get to the phone.
“Orlando, I’m going upstairs,” I say, risking interrupting his conversation with Romeo. Romeo blinks at me in surprise before he scowls at me, and Orlando shakes his head.
There’s a thread of authority in his voice when he responds, obviously displeased at the interruption. “You’ll wait for me.”
“I don’t feel well,” I lie. I hate lying to him. It’s the one thing he hasn’t done to me. “I’m going upstairs.”
I know immediately it’s the wrong thing to say. Romeo’s brows rise in surprise, as if he’s shocked I dare talk back to my new husband. And Orlando’s bright blue eyes darken. “You heard me, Elise.”
I consider going anyway, but instead I wait, dread growing with every minute that passes. I wonder what he’ll do when he has me alone, but for long minutes he’s silent.
I’m preoccupied, though. I can’t fully pay attention to anything, and Orlando knows. When his mother, who I’ve since learned is named Tosca, brings out trays of chocolate mousse in elegant cups, he walks over to me and whispers in my ear, “Are you overwhelmed? You’re very quiet. You’re also in hot fucking water.”
Overwhelmed is an understatement.
I nod.
“We’ll take ours upstairs,” Orlando says. He reaches for my hand, and Mario catcalls.
“Course you will,” Mario says with a smirk.
“Someone’s gonna get his ass kicked,” Orlando says with a smile in a singsong voice.
“Boys,” Tosca warns.
Mario’s undeterred. He shoots Orlando a lascivious wink. “Go, go. Bambinos, bambinos!”
Nonna smacks him across the back of his head and takes him by surprise. “Hey! Nonna!”
She curses him out in Italian, much to Orlando’s amusement. Orlando still gives him a warning look. “One more word, Mario. One more word, it’s your last warning.”
Mario finally holds his hands up in concession. “Alright, alright. Jesus, settle down. You said you want—”
Orlando’s hand swings out so fast, I gasp. He’s got Mario by the throat, pinned up against the wall. Mario’s eyes bulge but he’s still grinning, his palms up in the air in surrender.
Romeo rolls his eyes and gestures for staff to refill his wineglass. The man called Santo checks his phone. Tosca rolls her eyes, and Marialena says something to Vittoria that makes her laugh.
“Sorry,” Mario sputters, his face reddening. “Jesus, man.”
Orlando drops him to the floor. Mario hasn’t stopped grinning.
When we get upstairs, we undress in silence. I’m fixated on the drawer that holds my phone, but also nervous about the air of expectancy between us.
Orlando sits wearily by the bed. He’s wearing nothing but boxers, and I’m dressed in a small camisole and panties. I yawn, exaggerating it.