Page 102 of Rosetti Family New York
“He said to show you how to shop without overthinking.” She pulls a bright, silky dress off a rack and shoves it at me. “Like this! Try it!”
Her enthusiasm is contagious. Soon, we're surrounded by a rainbow of fabrics, each one brighter than the last. She piles me high with dresses, shirts, pants—all things I don’t usually wear, fewer structured collars and more flowing fabrics. As I step into the dressing room, I wonder what my father would say. He trained me to be efficient, to never waste time or money. Here, I feel like I’m breaking all the rules.
The dressing room is large, full of mirrors that reflect my every move. I take a deep breath, feeling a bit daring and a bit nervous. The gown Carmela has picked for me is bold, breathtaking, so different from anything I’ve worn before. Its fabric is a deep emerald green, rich and silky, shifting as if it's alive when it catches the light. The cut is dramatic, off the shoulder and sweeping down to the floor like something a princess might wear for a grand ball. I hesitate for a moment, remembering the careful, conservative styles my father insists on. This dress would make him furious. The thought sends a thrill through me, and I slip it on. It feels like a rebellion.
I step out of the dressing room, my heart racing.
Carmela spins me around like I’m her personal doll. It should be annoying, but it’s not.
“You look amazing,” she says, admiring how the gown shimmers in the light. “That’s the one!”
“I don't think it's—”
“You have to get it!” She doesn’t let me argue. I feel dizzy with color, texture, and choice.
“Your family will think I’m ridiculous.”
“My family loves parties,” she says, picking out a yellow scarf. “You can wear it to your birthday!”
“Birthday?” I try not to sound too shocked. “We never celebrated birthdays.”
“Never?” Her eyes go wide.
“My father said serious crime families don’t do that.”
“Wow.” She ties the scarf around her neck and looks thoughtful. “Well, we do! You can wear it to your first Rosetti party!” She throws the gown over her arm and skips to the register, leaving me to follow. I hesitate for a second, but there’s no point resisting. When Carmela sets her mind on something, it happens. She’s a lot like Dom in that way.
Carmela insists on paying, waving me off with a laugh as I open my mouth to object.
“I’ve got it.” She’s not taking no for an answer.
I follow as she skips to the register, the gown swinging on her arm, as lively and bright as she is. She hands the dress to the clerk with a brilliant smile that almost sparkles.
“We’ll take this!” she cheers, and soon the gown is being wrapped in tissue paper.
As the saleswoman rings it up, Carmela chats away, telling her how it’s a gift for her new sister, how she has amazing taste, how they’re celebrating. The clerk gives me a quick, knowing look, and I smile back, feeling like I’ve been swept up in a whirlwind.
Carmela swipes the credit card, clearly an expert at that, and turns to me, eyes gleaming.
“Let’s find you a purse!”
We leave the store and head to a handbag boutique. I feel lightheaded, almost giddy. Like I’ve lost track of who I’m supposed to be. Maybe the Rosettis aren’t my enemies. Maybe I’m not theirs.
“Okay, Besa,” Carmela says, linking her arm through mine. “Do you like leather or faux leather? Tan or bright? Actually, don’t answer that, we’re getting you something bold and wild.”
The next store is smaller, but every bit as expensive. A bag in the window costs more than some people earn in a year.
The store is sleek and glossy, with glass walls, high ceilings, and perfectly arranged displays. I try not to gasp at the prices. Carmela doesn’t flinch as she strolls in like she owns the place. Her confidence is unnerving and appealing at the same time. The clerks eye her Rosetti determination, and I think they know they’re about to make their biggest sale of the year.
"The only thing you should be worried about," Carmela says, nudging me, “is how you’re going to carry all these bags home."
We float through the aisles, each bag more extravagant than the last. Soft leather, rich colors, gold accents—everything screams luxury and excess. Carmela watches my every reaction as if she’s trying to figure out what I might like. I’m not even sure I know.
"Let me guess," Carmela teases, smirking at my hesitation. "You’ve always dreamed of a conservative, brown briefcase?"
“More like a canvas tote,” I say, teasing her right back. But, of course, I would never leave home with anything less than a Jimmy Choo.
“Not today, Besa," she laughs. “We're going wild, remember?”
