Page 68 of Twisted Vows

I set my tea down a little too hard.

She glides in on stilettos, her lips curled as if she’s biting back laughter.

“Nonna Rosa requests your presence for dinner tonight.” She meets my eyes with a knowing smile, like she’s already tasted the bait.

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “Is there a dress code? Or do I just need emotional armor?”

Izzy’s smile tightens. “Something demure. Respectable. You’ll be sitting with your family, after all.”

Her tone carries the edge of a threat. She leaves before I can reply, that distinct perfume trailing behind her like a warning.

Gio shows up an hour later with a black box and a small smile. Inside, I discover a dark blue dress, tasteful and clearly expensive. Modest neckline. Elegant sleeves. The kind of outfit that says yes, I married into the mob, but I still know how to set a table.

He also hands me a slim black phone. “Direct line to your mom’s ward,” he mumbles with lowered eyes.

“Thank you.” I nod.

He grins and turns to leave but pauses at the door. “Ma’am? Thank you for getting the don to warn Vito and Rocco.”

“I didn’t do anything, Gio.”

“Yeah, but he did it because of you. So thank you.”

The boy disappears, and before any other thoughts can spread in my mind, the screen lights up with a live feed. Mama sleeping in soft light, with white lilies that someone had taken the time to arrange on the table beside her. I clutch the phone like the picture might vanish if I blink too fast, and tears prick behind my eyes. She looks peaceful in a way I haven’t seen in months.

Enzo enters, picks up the dress, and holds it out, his fingers brushing mine. The charge between us is instant. Embarrassing.

His low, steady voice drops. “Need help?”

My throat spasms. “No.” A lie.

He assists me anyway, adjusting a strap here and smoothing the back zipper there until his knuckles graze the bare skin of my spine. The contact zings like lightning in a thunderstorm. I can’t help the shiver that runs through me, or the way my body responds to even the smallest touch from him.

His breath warms the curve of my neck as he lingers, close enough to kiss, close enough that I can feel the restraint radiating off him.

“You’ll sit beside me at the head table. You’ll be looked at. Measured.”

My stomach twists. “And weighed. Like cattle.”

He reluctantly slides his hand from my back, like it costs him to pull away.

He doesn’t disagree. Just turns toward the door. “Don’t give them anything to use against you.”

Dinner is smaller than I expect. Just Enzo, Nonna Rosa, Gabi, and a handful of Capos with their wives. I smile when spoken to, stay quiet otherwise, and count the minutes until we can leave.

I watch Enzo navigate the room, the way he speaks to Nonna Rosa with quiet deference, and how his jaw twitches whenever Gabi makes a snide remark. He never rises to the bait, though. The other men watch him, too, evaluating his every move. Nonna Rosa presides like a queen, her eyes missing nothing. Occasionally, she steers conversation away from dangerous waters with a single raised eyebrow.

Enzo’s hand finds mine under the table, once, and he offers brief, silent reassurance. You’re doing fine. I’m here.

Soon, the days start blurring together. More dinners, more polite smiles, more watching and being watched. The women stay distant but not hostile. I can feel that I’m still being judged. But slowly, the mothers start trusting me with their kids. Clara is the first to open up and ask me to meet Talia, her bouncy, curly-haired six-year-old daughter with a shy smile.

Within a few days, the kid gravitates toward me, asking about crayons and storybooks while the adults discuss shipments and territories.

Then one night, after dinner, Talia presses a paper into my hand. A stick-figure drawing. Me, her, and her dog. Miss Sophia, it says in uneven letters, accompanied by a huge heart shape.

Images of my kindergarteners suddenly flash across my mind. Tommy, who still couldn’t hold his scissors right. Lily, who cried every Monday like the weekend had personally wronged her. The quiet boy in the corner whose name I had to learn three times before it stuck. Do they miss me, or has another teacher already smoothed over the gap I left? I excuse myself from Clara’s table and rush into the laundry room to cry. After five minutes, I remind myself to put my old life on a permanent hiatus. With the Russians waiting, I could never go back anyway.

My mother and I must survive first, which comes with sacrifice, along with some complicity.