Page 33 of Beauty and the Mafia Boss

“La piccola Rafaella? La figlia di Carmo?[62]”

Sofia responds, but this time I don't understand most of what is said. She speaks too fast and uses a lot of words that are unusual to my ears.

I only understand the confirmation that Rafaella is Carmo's daughter, the words United States and sir. But whatever was said makes the already not-so-friendly expression my friend had on her face become even less welcoming.

Tizziano, without caring about the fact that the girl's mother is right next to him, gives her the same investigation he gave me, but unlike me, Rafaella doesn't blush and lowers her head, she looks at him as an equal. Even I know she shouldn't do it.

Sofia watches the interaction with absolute horror, but for some reason the reaction seems more focused on Tizziano's strange interest than her daughter's obvious insubordination.

“Bentornata, Rafaella[63]” he says to my friend before smiling at her, a smile that seems to me to imply many things, but I must be misunderstanding it.

“Grazie” she replies reluctantly, and Tizziano still looks at her freckled face for a few seconds before turning towards Sofia.

“Mia madre ha i dolori. Avvisa Luigia[64]” he says to her before turning around and leaving the kitchen.

Sofia blinks her eyes several times, and I can almost see smoke coming out of her ears as she thinks. Finally, she turns to us and opens her mouth to speak, but then she seems to change her mind and just turns her back to us before returning to her tasks on the other side of the kitchen.

***

Rafaella is distracted in class today.

It's the first time Luigia has left us alone in weeks, becauseSignoraAnna needs her presence. I think she was so flusteredby this that she forgot to ban our class like the other two times when, for some reason, she couldn't supervise us.

We ended our day an hour early, as usual, and came to the solarium, but instead of the hour of wasted conversation I thought we would have, the last fifteen minutes were spent in almost absolute silence. The video Rafaella gave me to watch was the only sound echoing in the brightly lit room.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, my Italian still very precarious.

I'm sure I didn't say it the right way, but it was enough for my friend to understand. Rafa looks at me with a frown, she analyzes me for several minutes before deciding to respond.

“It was something my mother said earlier today,” she answers in the simplest way she can for me to understand. I need a minute to process all the words and another two to think of a response within my limitations.

“I didn't understand much of what she said.” Rafa sighs and gives a sad smile. It's the first time I've seen one of those on her face.

“Have you ever wanted to be free, Gabriella?” She asks and, soon after, rolls her eyes at herself. “What a stupid question. You must want this every day,” she says, and I recoil, feeling her words almost like physical aggression.

First, because we've never discussed my condition so openly, and second, because the total lack of truth in her assumption pokes at an open wound in my chest. I should want to be free. Anyone in my place would want freedom, would be doing everything to get it, but me, with each passing day...

“I think we should see each other tomorrow,” I say, because I don't know how to say what I really want. Rafaella blinks in surprise before sighing.

“I'm sorry, I... I didn't mean to be insensitive.”

“Everything is fine.” I nod my head. “You aren’t well. We continue tomorrow.” I start to move to get up from the chair, but Rafa gently holds my arm.

“I'm sorry, please!” She says the words very slowly, even though I know I would understand them no matter how fast she was speaking, and I know that, in fact, she is asking me to stay. I nod, and my friend closes her eyes, then opens them, and looks up before letting go of me and pulling the laptop towards her.

She pauses the video that was playing and opens the translator tab. Rafaella turns off the volume on the device before typing the sentence into the translator for me to read.

“I came back to Italy to get married.”

My eyebrows rise, completely surprised. My first instinct is to look at her right hand for a ring, but then I realize what a stupid search it is. If Rafaella wore an engagement ring, I would have seen it before, and besides, I only see her during work hours, and Luigia forbids the use of accessories during office hours. More than once I have seen her reprimand one employee or another for violating this rule.

I bite my lip before opening my mouth to respond, but Rafa shakes her head from side to side and puts a finger to her lips, in the universal gesture of asking for silence. I look at the doors, checking, there is no one in sight.

I stretch my arms and pull the notebook between us both, so that we can both use the keyboard and read the screen. I reverse the order of translation, as Rafaella taught me as soon as we started using the computer and type my question.

“But don’t you love your fiancé?”

She laughs, and I can tell it's humorless.

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