eyes that tells me it’s not worth fighting him. I come in and sit, perched carefully on the edge of the chair. He heads back to his chair and sinks into it, dropping the newspaper on the coffee table. “Now. Let’s talk.”
“What about?” I don’t quite meet his eyes. I don’t want to have this conversation. It’s just like conversations we had when I was sixteen. It’s infuriating.
“About your attitude.”
If I clench my teeth any harder, I’m going to crack a molar. Then he’ll have to pay for a crown, and won’t that make him happy? “My attitude?”
“I don’t like the way you flout my authority.”
“Your authority?” It’s all I can do to keep my tone even. It’s certainly more than I can manage to contribute anything to the conversation beyond repeating his nonsense.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled. His expression is the epitome of reason and fatherly concern. “You’re living in my house, spending my money. While you’re here, you do what I say.” Leaning back again, he gives me a dark, level look. “Until you get married, you’re my responsibility.”
Your property, you mean. I don’t say that out loud, but damn, this grates. It’s not like I don’t know this is his attitude. This is just the way things are in this family. The women do what they’re told and the men do what they want. They run the “family business.” That’s not a venture women should dirty their hands with.
“Then maybe I’ll just get married and move out,” I shoot back, but it sounds a little weak even to my ears.
“That’s fine with me. I’ll discuss the details with Carmine.”
My fists clench. “I am not marrying Carmine. Forget it.”
Again, he speaks with careful reason. “I don’t understand this, either, honey. Carmine’s a good guy. We’ve known him since he was a kid. Shit, since he was born. He’s from a good family. He’s been raised right.”
A mob family, he means. And by “raised right,” Pop means Carmine has learned from right at his father’s knee the “proper” way to treat a woman. How to keep her under control. How to make sure she doesn’t know what’s going on. That she’s kept ignorant and controlled and covered in furs so maybe she doesn’t know she’s ignorant and controlled. He demonstrated that all too well tonight.
That’s not me. I won’t do it. I won’t be that. I’d rather live on the street. “I don’t like him.”
“Oh, you’ll learn to like him.” He picks up the paper again. “Your mother learned to like me.”
Did she? I’ve always wondered. Mom had seemed fairly content, but there was no way to tell. She never crossed Pop, never did anything he didn’t approve of. And if she came to breakfast with a purple eye once in a while—carefully disguised with make-up, of course—well, no one ever said anything about it. That was just the way things were.
I decide it’s not worth my time or my energy to argue with him anymore. I stand. “Maybe. May I go?”
He’s already starting to disengage, figuring he’s dispensed all the necessary chastisement. “Yes.” He flicks the paper and gives me another level look. “Don’t plan to go anywhere tomorrow. I need you in the office.”
“Fine.”
I swivel and head for my bedroom. I’m too angry even to cry.
I’ve known since I was about eight that I’m supposed to marry Carmine Romano. There’s never been any question about it. It’s like Medieval England or something. But there’s something dark in Carmine, and he showed me that tonight. Again. He’s never actually raised a hand to me, though he’s come close. I’ve been careful not to give him an excuse.
There’s darkness in Cain, too, but somehow, when I’m with Cain, I feel safe, even though he’s seething with danger. With Carmine, even though he’s safe in the eyes of my family, I feel desperate, like I’ve got my leg in a trap and I’m going to have to chew it off to get away. Cain
“What about?” I don’t quite meet his eyes. I don’t want to have this conversation. It’s just like conversations we had when I was sixteen. It’s infuriating.
“About your attitude.”
If I clench my teeth any harder, I’m going to crack a molar. Then he’ll have to pay for a crown, and won’t that make him happy? “My attitude?”
“I don’t like the way you flout my authority.”
“Your authority?” It’s all I can do to keep my tone even. It’s certainly more than I can manage to contribute anything to the conversation beyond repeating his nonsense.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled. His expression is the epitome of reason and fatherly concern. “You’re living in my house, spending my money. While you’re here, you do what I say.” Leaning back again, he gives me a dark, level look. “Until you get married, you’re my responsibility.”
Your property, you mean. I don’t say that out loud, but damn, this grates. It’s not like I don’t know this is his attitude. This is just the way things are in this family. The women do what they’re told and the men do what they want. They run the “family business.” That’s not a venture women should dirty their hands with.
“Then maybe I’ll just get married and move out,” I shoot back, but it sounds a little weak even to my ears.
“That’s fine with me. I’ll discuss the details with Carmine.”
My fists clench. “I am not marrying Carmine. Forget it.”
Again, he speaks with careful reason. “I don’t understand this, either, honey. Carmine’s a good guy. We’ve known him since he was a kid. Shit, since he was born. He’s from a good family. He’s been raised right.”
A mob family, he means. And by “raised right,” Pop means Carmine has learned from right at his father’s knee the “proper” way to treat a woman. How to keep her under control. How to make sure she doesn’t know what’s going on. That she’s kept ignorant and controlled and covered in furs so maybe she doesn’t know she’s ignorant and controlled. He demonstrated that all too well tonight.
That’s not me. I won’t do it. I won’t be that. I’d rather live on the street. “I don’t like him.”
“Oh, you’ll learn to like him.” He picks up the paper again. “Your mother learned to like me.”
Did she? I’ve always wondered. Mom had seemed fairly content, but there was no way to tell. She never crossed Pop, never did anything he didn’t approve of. And if she came to breakfast with a purple eye once in a while—carefully disguised with make-up, of course—well, no one ever said anything about it. That was just the way things were.
I decide it’s not worth my time or my energy to argue with him anymore. I stand. “Maybe. May I go?”
He’s already starting to disengage, figuring he’s dispensed all the necessary chastisement. “Yes.” He flicks the paper and gives me another level look. “Don’t plan to go anywhere tomorrow. I need you in the office.”
“Fine.”
I swivel and head for my bedroom. I’m too angry even to cry.
I’ve known since I was about eight that I’m supposed to marry Carmine Romano. There’s never been any question about it. It’s like Medieval England or something. But there’s something dark in Carmine, and he showed me that tonight. Again. He’s never actually raised a hand to me, though he’s come close. I’ve been careful not to give him an excuse.
There’s darkness in Cain, too, but somehow, when I’m with Cain, I feel safe, even though he’s seething with danger. With Carmine, even though he’s safe in the eyes of my family, I feel desperate, like I’ve got my leg in a trap and I’m going to have to chew it off to get away. Cain
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