Page 39 of Bitter Poetry
I roll my eyes. We’re hidden away in my bedroom, where she is supposed to be catching up on some schoolwork, and I’m doom-scrolling Instagram, trying to think about anything but the wedding.
Anything but the wedding, and, now, Christian.
And Dante.
Better add Helena and her personal mission to erase every beautiful thing my mother did with the house.
An image passes my feed of the former swimwear model that Dante was sleeping with.
The algorithm really hates me.
“It’s been an eventful day.”
I put a block on her account.
“Did you slap him? What did he do?”
Jesus!“No, and nothing.”
“His right cheek was red, and I thought I heard a sound when I came back to find you… so I just hung around outside the door.”
“He was just rude,” I say.
First babe and then Mrs. Gallo. I can’t be Mrs. Gallo. I might throw up over the vestibule if I have to go through with this farce.
Only no one is coming to save me. Thinking about Dante makes my heart compress in my chest. He’s now a capo and gone from my life.
“Dante has been made a capo,” I say quietly.
“Why?” Jessica asks. “He was always Papa’s advisor. What does this mean?”
“I don’t know,” I admit.
I get a strong impression that this was not done in the manner of promotion. More likely control. I still don’t know Ettore. We should have gone for dinner on my birthday, but something came up, and he’s been busy the last two nights.
I was relieved about it.
“We need to tell Papa,” she says.
“I expect he already knows.”
“At least Christian is still here. He’s one of the good ones, hey?”
“Something tells me in the days and weeks to come that you’re going to need something to rage at, someone to slap, punch, whatever.”Then he took my stinging hand, uncurled my fingers, and rubbed it so gently I wanted to cry.“I’m here for you.”
Christian is definitely not one of the good ones. I think he might be one of the worst. But in times like these, one of the worst ones might also be the best. “Yeah, I think he is.”
CHRISTIAN
“That was a shame about Dante,” Jero says conversationally as we drive through the downtown traffic. “You two are close, mate?”
“I guess so,” I say, staring out the side window. Carmela and her sleuth sister are safely back at the house, and now I’m on my way to a job with Jero. “Not like we lived in each other’s pockets. When I moved in with him, we mostly just passed occasionally and grunted, you know?”
A truck cuts us off, and Jero breaks sharply, waving his fist and cursing.
Jero is alright. I get on with him. Life is never dull, and I get to thump a deserving asshole every now and then. But he’s also Ettore’s man. The fucking enemy now.
His questions could be a casual chat between two guys who work together or digging on Ettore’s part.
