Page 78 of Giovanna
“That’ll be you two next,” Bex says in a cloying, sickly sweet voice as she looks over her shoulder at Elio and me. “You must be so excited.” Giovanna blanches.
It is agony to know that I will not experience the emotions that Tiny and Sarah are feeling as they meet at the altar. My husband-to-be won’t get choked up and think he is the luckiest man on Earth. He will drag himself to stand and wait for me because his family has him over a barrel.
“As you can see we are both super enthused by the thought,” I remark dryly, sharing a conspiratorial look with my fiance and not caring about pretence for a split second. At least we are united in our disdain for our arranged marriage.
She quickly turns back to face the front and again attaches herself to Giovanna’s side.
I wish I knew what Gio was thinking. Is she really into Bex? Or did she bring her because I would be with Elio? She must know by now that I would give anything to be standing next to her.
As we sit down to endure a long Catholic wedding service, I sigh and mutter, “I need to get drunk”. On either side of me, Massimo and Elio reply, “Me too” in unison.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Giovanna
The regret is instant. Bringing a date to Tiny and Sarah’s wedding feels like the worst idea I’ve ever had the minute I see Francesca’s face fall. Then her prick of a father has to stick the boot in and then David dares to show his ugly fuckin’ mug. What a complete shit show.
Logically, there is no reason I shouldn’t bring a date. I’m single and owe Francesca nothing. She’s marrying my brother. The whole reason I asked Bex to come was to provide a buffer and reduce temptation after what happened at GAYBAR last week. I knew Bex would be all over me like a rash and that would make it difficult for me to be alone with Francesca.
Naturally, now I desperately need to speak to her privately to check she’s okay, but all I can do is pathetically watch from afar and try not to get shitty with Bex.
I could throttle her when she makes a comment about Elio and Francesca being “next” down the aisle. She has always come across as pretty chill, but I told her their marriage is arranged and her comment was deliberately inflammatory. She wanted to take a jab at Francesca.
Bex is a good-looking girl and looks great tonight. Ordinarily, I would be planning to take her home with me at the end of the night, but not tonight. An angel, spectacularly beautiful but tragically neglected, has disrupted every nook and cranny of my life. Nothing feels right anymore. The only thing that brings me peace is the stolen moments with Francesca.
It’s like I’m pulled into her orbit whenever she enters a room. To drag my attention from her is as much of an impossibility as defying physics itself. I’m alert to every twitch of her lips and furrow of her brow and I foresee a life of torture where I am left to observe her every move as she marries Elio and has his babies. The only thing I can imagine would be worse is the alternative, a life without her in it at all.
How could she not mess with my head when she looks like that?
She’s the picture of elegance as she stands next to Elio in her deep green dress. Even the way she delicately holds the stem of her wine glass between her forefinger and thumb, bringing it slowly to her lips, is graceful. The gentle way she tosses her hair off her shoulder drives me as wild as the way she rolls her soft lips together to ensure her lipstick remains evenly spread.
All week I have been torturing myself with the memory of how good she smelled when we danced and how perfect it was when I had her in my arms. All week I’ve avoided her because I can’t have her, but I can’t resist her.
I’m punished by her haunted expression every time we make eye contact. She looks sad. Like I have betrayed her or broken her heart. She has no idea that I’m breaking my own as well.
I find myself sitting alone, nursing a glass of red wine and thanking the universe for giving me a reprieve from Bex. She went to the bathroom a while ago; I’m hoping she has made a friend and is entertaining herself.
From my seat, I can see most of the room. It staggers me that after a lifetime of being a part of this widerFamiglia, most of these people now technically work for me. There are a few non-Famigliaguests; you can spot them because they look like they’ve been taken on a safari. They probably think nothing of me, the dykey, grumpy woman in a suit, but the striking mafia men in their suits, towering above six feet leave them in awe.
With a loud sigh, Dad lowers himself into the chair next to me. I can practically hear his bones creaking. As is the case every time I look at him carefully these days, I see a rapidly ageing man. He needed to retire, there’s no question about that. I wish he would’ve brought me in on everything sooner though. This has been a baptism of fire.
“Papa,” I acknowledge him and take a sip of scotch.
His lined face registers surprise. “You haven’t called me that since you were a kid,” he states.
“Yeah, well, I guess I’m feeling nostalgic,” or maybe it’s just that he looks more like a Papa now that he isn’t the guy in charge.
We watch the room for several minutes and many guests cast glances our way. They know I have always been Dad’s protege, even if I was too ‘flawed’ biologically to inherit his ‘kingdom’.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard “If only she was a boy”. My answer is usually “If only we didn’t operate under archaic rules that would rather see an unsuitable male than a perfectly suited female lead the family”. Dad would then inevitably start a lecture about the importance of tradition and ritual in maintaining power.
“He’s a good boy,” Dad nods towards Tiny, his arms wrapped around his new wife on the dancefloor. “His Dad has always been good to me. Tiny will be loyal to you.”
“You mean to Elio,” I murmur, dispassionately.
He makes a frustrated sound and throws his hands in the air. “You know what I mean.” Then briskly changing the subject he asks, “Has your brother pulled finger and started treating Francesca right?”
Maybe it’s because of the drama before the wedding or because I’ve been forced to think more about David since Francesca returned home, but I find my usual controlled demeanour shaken by this comment. “Treat her right? When has anyone in thisFamigliaever treated that poor girl right?”