She Married The Mafia Heir I Married The Next Don Chapter 02
Did I Win?
The guard reaches me before I can do anything else.
Then the gun is gone, and my mother is holding me so tightly I can barely breathe.
“Mara. Look at me.”
I struggle against her.
“Let me go.”
“Please.”
Her voice breaks.
“Please don’t do this.”
I can’t stop shaking.
For a moment, I’m back in the apartment where I grew up.
Someone holding my arms.
Someone telling me to shut up.
I push harder.
“Let me go.”
My mother loosens her grip, but she doesn’t release me.
Across the room, Bianca wipes her face.
“I’ll leave.”
My father turns.
“Bianca—”
“It’s all right.”
She tries to smile.
It looks painful.
“I’ll go.”
I stop struggling.
She looks at me.
There is hurt in her face.
But no anger I can recognize.
“Just don’t do that again,” she says. “Please.”
My mother starts crying harder.
Bianca touches her shoulder.
“You found her. You shouldn’t lose her again because of me.”
For one awful second, I feel like the cruelest person in the room.
I hate her for that, too.
My father stands beside the table.
He looks older than he did an hour ago.
Finally, he nods.
Bianca goes upstairs.
The next morning, a car takes her away.
I watch from my window.
My mother stands on the front steps until the car disappears.
My father keeps a hand on her back.
Neither looks up at me.
I have her room cleared that afternoon.
The pale curtains.
The photographs.
The little dishes of jewelry beside the mirror.
I tell the staff to pack all of it.
My bags are carried down the hall and put in her closet.
It is bigger than the bedroom I shared with the people who raised me.
I stand in the middle of it and wait to feel something good.
Relief.
Satisfaction.
Anything.
The maids who laughed about the dresses are dismissed.
After that, nobody whispers where I can hear.
They lower their eyes.
They say, “Yes, Miss Mara.”
The house is quiet.
My parents are quiet, too.
At dinner, my mother asks whether I need anything.
I say no.
My father asks whether I’m keeping up with my lessons.
I say yes.
That is most of the conversation.
I decide I haven’t tried hard enough.
So I try harder.
I practice walking in heels until my feet blister.
I learn the names of my father’s associates and which subjects not to mention around their wives.
I sit at the piano until the notes stop sounding like separate things I have to chase.
When Rosa tells me to rest, I shake my head.
Bianca learned all of this.
So can I.
The invitation to the garden luncheon arrives three weeks later.
My mother says it will be good for me.
I choose a cream dress.
Nothing too bright.
Nothing someone could call cheap or loud.
I check my shoes twice before getting out of the car.
For the first half hour, I think I’m doing well.
I remember names.
I don’t interrupt.
I laugh when the other women laugh, even when I don’t understand what is funny.
Then Bianca’s friend Claudia looks at me over her glass.
“So you’re the real daughter.”
The women beside her go quiet.
“Yes.”
“The one who made Bianca leave.”
“She chose to leave.”
Claudia smiles.
“Of course she did.”
I feel heat move into my face.
“You weren’t there.”
“No. But everyone’s heard about it.”
“Then everyone should find something else to talk about.”
Her eyebrows lift.
One of the women gives a small laugh.
There it is again.
Claudia sets her glass down.
“You can wear her dresses, Mara. That doesn’t make you her.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“Then stop acting as though she owes you an apology for knowing how to behave.”
I want to throw my drink.
I want to leave.
Instead, I hold the glass so tightly my fingers hurt.
“I’m my parents’ daughter.”
“Yes,” she says. “You’ve made that very clear.”
She steps closer.
“Do you know what people actually care about in families like ours? Whether they can take you into a room without worrying about what you’ll do.”
I can’t answer.
She watches me for a moment.
Then her expression changes to something almost pitying.
“You really think they threw Bianca out?”
My stomach tightens.
“What does that mean?”
“She has a house. A beautiful one.”
I stare at her.
“Your mother helped choose everything.”
I put my glass on the nearest table.
Carefully.
Claudia leans closer.
“And your father settled the marriage arrangements this morning.”
“With whom?”
She looks surprised.
Then pleased.
“Alessandro Morello.”
The Don’s chosen heir.
The man everyone expects to run the family next.
Claudia picks up her glass.
“Enjoy being the real daughter.”