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“You care about me?”
“Of course.” I sent her a grin. “You think I go to the museum with just anyone?”
Her lips twitched but she wasn’t ready to start joking yet. Her brows furrowed as her mind moved behind her large eyes and I could almost hear the thoughts that were going on inside her head.
I nudged her with my knee. “I’ve never been a mother before, so I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
“That’s why you let me have the day off. Kids are meant to go to school.”
“I was going to offer ice cream for lunch but apparently I’m talking to the only seven-year-old in the world who would say no.”
Marzia stared at me. She had the ability to be strangely sullen and thoughtful for someone so young. I imagined she got that from Giova
“I’ve never had a mother before,” she finally said. “I don’t know what I’m doing either.”
Out of all the things I thought she would say…I blinked rapidly. “We can figure it out together.”
Marzia nodded in affirmation before looking back up at the dinosaur. A tempestuous mixture of emotions swirled through me as I stared at her. Guilt, affection, responsibility. I had never had to care about anyone other than myself, never had anyone to defend because they couldn’t defend themselves.
“We can go look at the art now,” she said, “if you’d like.”
“I would love that.”
We meandered to the art hall where Marzia patiently listened to me. I told her about the Our Lady of Valvanera, and how the artist’s name had been lost in time, and I spoke at length about Mary Cassatt as we stared up at her paintings, enamoured with the domesticity and complexity of the canvas.
When we reached the Marriage of the Virgin by Jose Sanchez, I stopped to a halt. It wasn’t my favorite oil on canvas but in that moment, looking up at the woman’s face, her eyes casted down to hide the turmoil in her mind, I felt a strange feeling dig itself up from my stomach to my throat.
“She looks sad,” Marzia chirped from beside me. “I like the little angels. They look fu
“They do look a little fu
Marzia wandered off to the next painting, giggling as she spotted more weird looking babies and cherubs. She had called the baby in the Mado I continued to assess the painting when a patron joined me. She wore a black peacoat paired with a blonde wig and sturdy leather boots. Still fabulous–even though she was in hiding. I looked over my shoulder. Daniele stuck close to Marzia, while Gustavo stood by the entrance to the wing, noting everyone who came in or out. When I turned my head back to the painting, I asked, “Are you okay?” “Don’t stress yourself out, Isabella,” Mother said, voice harsh. “Your father and I are fine.” She didn’t mention my brother. I didn’t bring him up. “What have you learnt?” “Thomas Senior is on his deathbed,” I breathed, my lips barely moving. “His son is gu Mother made a noncommittal sound. “Anything else?” “The Ó Fiaichs ca “Has Giova “No, not yet.” We continued to stare up at the painting. A part of me wondered what Maria saw when she looked at Jose Sanchez’s art. Did her chest tighten to the point of pain like mine did? Or did she react to it the same way she did a blank wall? “He has a twin brother.” “Alive or dead?” “I’m not sure.” Mother leaned closer to the painting like she was inspecting it. I caught a glimpse of her face. She looked exhausted, heavy bags beneath her eyes, but her makeup and hair remained perfect. If anyone was going to get a blowout while ru “I’m sorry,” I whispered, “for killing him. I didn’t have a choice.” My parents had made no secret about who their favorite child was but after my sister, Junior had come in close second. He had been the future of the Lombardi mob, the continuation of their bloodline. Now my father had no heir. When the Lombardis took back Manhattan, who would rule after Vitale? You could, a voice whispered in my mind. The Lombardis were struggling with their new don’s legitimacy, a female don might just break them. Maria leaned back, hiding her expression from me. “You did what you had to do. It was better he died at your hand than a Viglianos.” He did die at a Viglianos hand, I almost said but wisely bit my tongue. “Does he trust you now?” “In his own way, yes.” “Isabella!” Marzia called out to be, her voice too loud for the space and making everyone flinch. “Come look at this ugly man!” “That is William Duguid, young lady,” an older woman snapped. Marzia blushed furiously. “And he’s ugly,” I retorted. The woman glanced at me in alarm. “Marzia, I’ll be right there.” When I turned around, my mother was gone. The only sign she had ever been there was the faint cloud of Chanel perfume that hung in the air, but I doubted Gustavo could identify my mother on scent alone. Seeing my mother had reminded me as to why I was here. It wasn’t my goal to befriend Marzia or let Giova I didn’t know what would happen to Marzia. She would be motherless, fatherless. She would be alone. When I reached my stepdaughter, she was giggling hysterically. “Isabella, come look at this man. He looks like you.” I laughed but it fell off awkwardly. I’m going to make her an orphan, my soul whispered. I’m going to destroy her life. “I’m just joking,” she said, misinterpreting my reaction. “You’re much prettier.” “I know. I know.” I forced a smile to my face. My cheeks ached beneath the strain. “How about we go and get some lunch?”