And yet, even as I said it, I could see the ring in my underwear drawer, a beacon of despair.
“You know I’m right. Don’t tell her I said that though. She would kill me. Just give her a hug for me. Where is she now? With your mom?”
Sophie thought she was here and so I had to lie. “Busy as always. Okay. Let’s refocus on the cane, will you?”
“You’re no fun.”
If only you knew.
We talked another few minutes about the cane, and I wrote down her preferences while my mind stayed fixed somewhere else entirely. By the time I ended the call, I understood two things. The first was that Emily had not trusted me to keep my word to her sister, which bothered me. The second was that she was about to spend Christmas alone, and for reasons I preferred not to examine too closely, that disturbed me even more.
I left my room with the vague intention of finding my mother and my aunt and asking whether what I had done was actually the right choice or merely the most dramatic one.
By the time I reached the main sitting room, however, I stopped short.
The three women were together near the fire, all of them laughing at something my mother had clearly just said. Violet was rubbing one hand over the curve of her belly with absent affection, Elena had tears of laughter in her eyes, and my mother looked brighter than she had since my return, as if being surrounded by other women who knew exactly what our lives were had steadied something in her.
On the rug, the younger children were busy with each other while the older ones orbited around them in shifting alliances. Yuko and Victoria appeared to be engaged in some kind of disagreement involving dolls, logic, and a complete disregard for volume, yet I found myself smiling despite everything. My sister was only two years younger than Yuko and already more than capable of making herself a lasting inconvenience in our cousin’s life.
Another burst of laughter from the women drew my attention back, and for one brief, disorienting second I looked at Elena properly. She was happy. Married to Matteo Genovese, arguably the most unhinged mafia boss in the country, and still unmistakably happy.
Maybe Ihadmade a mistake.
“Hey.”
I turned, startled to find Olivero standing there with an indecently large slice of cake on a plate in his hand.
“If you’re done moping for a minute,” he said, “you might want to know the men are in the library having a drink. Since you’re about to join the ranks officially, maybe you could go pretend to be one of them.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Who sent you?”
“No one,” he said. Then he shrugged. “But if you manage to get your head out of your ass, you may notice the entire house is tired of watching you suffer.”
Before I could answer, he turned and headed in the opposite direction, presumably back toward the staff quarters or possibly for a second slice of cake. With Olivero, both were equally plausible.
By the time I reached the library, the atmosphere inside was warm and steady, low male voices, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter that made my own mood worse. The second I stepped through the door, the chatter died so quickly it was almost theatrical.
I stopped just inside and narrowed my eyes at the room.
“Were you talking about me?”
“No,” my father said far too quickly.
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
Matteo, who had been leaning back in one of the armchairs with a glass of something amber in his hand, let out a long, put-upon sigh and took a drink before answering.
“Yes, we were,” he said. “And thank you for interrupting, because your little drama is becoming wildly uninteresting.”
“Well, nobody asked you, any of you, to discuss my love life.” I gave my father and uncle a pointed look. Both of them looked entirely unbothered, which only deepened my desire to raze the room.
“Nonexistent love life,” Matteo added helpfully.
That landed exactly where he intended it to.
I crossed to the sideboard, grabbed the nearest decanter without bothering to see what was in it, and poured myself what was probably the equivalent of three proper drinks into a single glass. No one stopped me, which was perhaps the clearest sign yet that I looked as bad as I felt.
I took a swallow. It burned beautifully.