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XVI
Isabella
Easter came and went, the families once again coming together to celebrate a death. I oversaw Easter Sunday and spent the day fending off passive aggressive comments about hiring a chef. If I hadn’t, there would’ve been a citywide lockdown due to food poisoning.
Giova
Even the Lombardis were excited over the idea of a baby. It had been a few years since there had been a new arrival to the family, and a new baby was always exciting, even if it would be a Vigliano. Since the night at the club, Giova
My husband doesn’t want me, I almost shouted over a plate of tiramisu. He made me cum so hard I saw stars, then left me wet and wanting–and he hadn’t even gotten hard!
It was only decades of being glared at by my mother for my big mouth that had me staying quiet. That and my pride.
The only person who seemed to enjoy herself was Marzia. She gathered up a basket full of chocolate eggs before going to her room to hide. I found her asleep under her bed hours later, in a candy coma, with a book about dinosaurs splayed open before her. She hadn’t resisted when I carried her to bed but she had conveniently woken up when I had taken a bite of one of her eggs.
The three of us had entered a familiar peace. I had quickly become accustomed to how Giova
I had worked for days on a medium sized canvas, trying out my new oil paints and letting out everything I had felt in the past few weeks. Confused, aroused, miserable and happy and…other emotions I couldn’t name but just the thought of them made my heart clench and cheeks warm.
It ended up being a recreation of one of my dreams, with heavy Princess Tarakanova inspiration. A woman stood on a bed, pressed up against the wall, as the ocean rose from the floor and threatened to drown her. The blue waves had already soaked the pillows and blankets and were inching closer to her feet.
She looked a little like me but when Marzia had asked, I had lied and said it was a random woman.
The issue occurred when I hung the painting up in Giova
“Isabella, what is this?”
Giova
“A painting, Giova
He didn’t entertain my sense of humor.
“This is my house too, isn’t it?” I asked. “Am I not allowed to decorate?”
Giova
“Really? You’re acting like it bothers you.” I was pressing, I knew it, poking the sleeping bear with a stick. But there was something addictive about trying to spot glimpses of humanity in Giova
My husband eyed the artwork. “I suppose the woman is you.”
“No. I never paint myself.”
“And yet you insist that each canvas is the cure to your insanity,” he remarked. “I can almost see it. Your anger, your fear, your delight, all mixed within the paint.”
I pulled my shoulders up as I bristled. “You ca
His blue eyes snapped to me, something gleaming in the sky-colored irises. “The painting is in my domain now, Isabella.” He copied my earlier tone, his mocking too cruel to be fu
“A thank you would’ve sufficed,” I said stiffly.
“I didn’t realize it was a gift. Should I toss it over the balcony?”
The floor was shifting beneath my feet as I tried to find my words. “Do that and I’ll smother you in your sleep.”
“You’re too sweet for such a thing, Isabella.”
“I am not sweet,” I implored. “My sister was the sweet Isabella. I’m the imperfect one.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could eat them back up. I didn’t need to give my enemy, the man I was working to destroy, any ammunition against me. My insecurities were my own; his ever confident and arrogant ass was not welcome to them.
Giova
“Technically, I am the ‘as well’. She’s the first Isabella.” I added, “I’m the second.”
What I didn’t say was I’m the second daughter, the angry daughter, the daughter who could never act passive and beautiful and polite. I always had my heart on my sleeve and my teeth at the ready. Years and years of my parents trying to make me soften like an overripe fruit had left me a stranger in my own skin.
But now…now I am The Daughter. The Saviour. The Lombardi principessa who will have brought down the Vigliano Don.
Not if you let him into your heart, a voice implored in my mind. Not if you let him wriggle his way under your skin.
“Your parents named you after your deceased sister.”
“I just said that.”
Giova
I had the sudden inclination to defend my parents. “Well, who did you name Marzia after? Your mother?”
“No. It is a common Italian girl name...and I liked it.” I wasn’t surprised that Giova
A giggle escaped my lips as I imagined Giova
“It is,” he agreed.
He eyed the painting again. It was difficult to figure out what he thought about it. I was disturbed by how much I cared about his opinion. My art was an expression of myself and my soul. I wasn’t bothered with critics, but I longed to hear what went on in my husband’s mind when he looked at the woman trying to stay afloat. If my mother could hear my thoughts...
“Are you two done arguing?” a small voice asked.
Giova
“We’re not arguing,” I told her.
“Isabella just speaks loudly.”
I shot Giova