Page 39 of Renata Vitali (The Five Syndicates)
“I have a friend.”
“In De Luca territory?”
“You can’t ask about Vitali things. You gave up that right.” Her patient smile does little to soothe me, especially because she can’t even begin to understand why I left the mafia. “Either you’re out of the mafia or you’re not, Renata. I pulled a lot of strings to get you out.”
My eyes shutter closed. I left because this world embodies everything I hate. The fractured childhood. Being alone all the time. Letting Angelo De Luca and his stupid picture of Ludovico De Luca run me out of Devils Ridge.
I open my eyes and meet her gaze. “And I thank you for that.”
Any other Vitali wife wouldn’t have the power, but Maman makes friends everywhere she goes. She’s friends with the wives of every powerful Vitali man, and Papà is so afraid Maman will leave him that he’ll listen to her—to an extent.
“Then, truly thank me for that by moving on. Do what’s right for you, Renata. You can move on, look to the future, thrive in your teaching job. I know you love learning and education. You should be happy.”
“I am.”
I’m not.
She sees past my lies, her eyes so understanding. “You’re not. That’s okay. He’s your first love, Renata. First loves will always be the one you compare everyone else to. They’ll live in your heart every day, and no matter how much you think you’ve moved on, they’ll always have that special piece of you. For you, it’s every time you step into a library and remember the memories you two shared in them. It’s whenever you hear Texas in the news, and you wonder what he’s doing right now. It’s a million little triggers. It’s a million little things. And if it were just one thing, you could bury it. But you can’t bury a million little things, Renata. There’s only so much space in the world.”
“How do you know this? How do you know that’s how I feel?”
“If you don’t feel that way, he was never your first love in the first place.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I love you, Renata. I want what’s best for you. You either need to go back to him or move on. This in-between state isn’t healthy.”
We both lied to each other. How can we trust each other again? It’s not like trust comes with a free refill. My biggest fear is going to Damian and being told he doesn’t want me anymore. That fear seizes me up every time I think of flying to Texas and begging him to believe I’m not just another person who disappointed him.
Don’t be weak.
You’re a Vitali.
Vitalis don’t feel fear.
I repeat Papà’s mantra twice in my head before I tell Maman, “I can’t go back to him.”
She releases my hand. “Then, move on.”
It’s not that easy, I want to tell her, but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to hear her replies. I don’t want to confront her logic.
Instead, I gather the courage to tell Maman, “When I was in Devils Ridge, Damian said I was sent there.”
I told her nearly everything that happened in Devils Ridge—falling in love with Damian, fending off Angelo, and faking a fight to flee after finding the picture of Ludovico De Luca in Damian’s room. But I never went into the specifics of the fight. Too painful.
Her brows draw together. “You were. We’ve been over this. Your father sent you there. He forbade me from visiting or contacting you.”
I shake my head. “But
why did you listen?”
Her remorse slithers across the table and into my heart. Making Maman feel guilty is like finding a stray dog and leaving him in a ditch. You just don’t do it.
She dips her head and eyes one of the chess pieces between us. “I thought if I listened, he’d cut your trip short and let you come home to me.”—He didn’t.—“One of many regrets of mine.”
“But Damian mentioned I was sent there. He implied it wasn’t by Papà. I—” I take in her eyes. They’re on the verge of tears, and I know if I push, she’ll cry. One of many reasons I’ve never pushed. I take in a deep breath, then expel as much of the past as I can. “I’m sorry I brought this up. I know it upsets you.”
“Oh, baby.” She stands, rounds the small table, kneels in front of me, and grabs both of my hands, making me feel like I’m a kid again. “I love you, Renata. I worry for you. You have to stop asking for Damiano De Luca. You have to let him go.”
“I will,” I lie, because I’d rather break Maman’s trust than admit to her that there’s no letting go.
Loving Damian is trench warfare. It’s digging deep, then clawing your way out. But sometimes, you have to accept that there’s no way out.
