going home

FRANCESCA

~“Silvio, how much longer?” I ask, feeling uncomfortable with the man sitting next to me.~

~Apparently, some water spilled in his car, which led to my bodyguard sitting beside me. They think it’s for my protection. Maybe it is.~

~But I’m uncomfortable, especially being this close to a man. It feels suffocating, like I’m doing something wrong. That’s what I’ve been taught. Stay away from men.~

~Silvio tries to hide his groan with a quiet sigh, but I catch it. I don’t say anything. Silvio knows I’m uncomfortable.~

~My discomfort is written all over my face and I don’t even try to hide it. I feel bad for Rocky, the man sitting next to me. He’s facing the consequences of my rejection.~

~But it’s not my fault. Every Mafia wife feels uncomfortable around other men. Mrs. Giordano, obviously, doesn’t trust poor Rocky.~

~“Soon, ma’am,” Silvio responds. His voice is small but it echoes in the quiet car. No one dares to make a sound, and apart from the noise of the cars outside, it’s silent.~

~Until it’s not.~

~The car stops at a red light and I’m about to close my eyes and rest when Rocky pulls me down harshly, falling over me.~

~There’s a bang, and a splash of crimson liquid hits my forehead as my head bangs against the front seat. But the blood isn’t mine.~

~“Fuck! Donna! Rocky!” I hear Silvio’s voice faintly before I slip into a deep coma as gunfire rings around us.~

***

My husband, of course, wouldn’t let any other man touch me, but Antonio isn’t about to ruin his image in front of his men by helping me.

Or so I think.

My expression must be funny, if not for the serious people surrounding me. My husband opens the door for me and before I can get out, he carries me inside bridal-style.

For a moment, everything feels normal. I feel like a regular housewife with a mild headache, and my newlywed husband is taking me to our room to care for me.

Then, reality crashes down. Mya gasps in surprise before following us as Antonio walks inside and up the stairs, still carrying me.

My hands wrap around his neck and from his shoulder, I see Mya running with her short legs to catch up. The sight would make me chuckle if not for the pounding ache in my head.

“I have some business to attend,” Antonio says, surprising me. I give him a small smile, which he completely ignores before walking out, leaving an awkward Mya standing by the door.

Mya isn’t old, but she’s not young either. She looks to be in her mid-thirties and is pretty. I watch as she walks toward me, hesitantly.

“Are you okay? What happened?” She looks at me as if I’m about to explode. I want to roll my eyes, but I’m not that dramatic.

I don’t answer her questions, knowing that I can’t tell her. “Get my nightdress.”

I’m in a cranky mood for some reason. It might be the drugs they used to sedate me. I’m really tired and just want to sleep.

She does as I ask—well, order. I’m not ashamed that she sees the skimpy clothing. She’s probably used to it and I’m too tired to care, but I see a blush on her cheeks.

She’s overreacting. I just can’t bring myself to trust her.

“Help me change.”

We left in a hurry once the doctor finished checking me. Apparently, they didn’t want to take any risks, so no one bothered to get me another pair of clothes.

I wore the bloody dress out of the hospital. I’m lucky that I’m not bleeding. The blood is from my bodyguards.

Mya quickly walks toward me and helps me get into the bathroom. My legs feel wobbly as I lean on Mya for support. She’s a good woman, but I don’t like her.

But that doesn’t mean I need to be mean. It’s my problem that I don’t like her, not hers. “I’m feeling a bit drowsy, thank you for asking.”

Her eyes widen as if she hadn’t expected me to say anything, and she looks at me in a way I’m familiar with. The pitying look.

“Of course, that happens after a hard hit on the head. You’ll feel that for a couple of days.” She suddenly seems much more comfortable around me, and I’m glad for some reason.

Even though I don’t like her, I’m glad that she can trust me. She helps me strip off my dress and put on more comfortable clothing.

I’m not going to meet anyone right now anyway, and I don’t mind Antonio seeing me like this. He’s already seen it all so it doesn’t make a difference.

In the mirror, I catch Mya staring at the dress I had on with furrowed brows before looking at me. I know what her question is.

“It’s not mine. The blood I mean.”

She nods, even more tense. Her body becomes rigid as she realizes that it could be the blood of my bodyguards or the opposing killers. “I hope the men are okay then,” she mumbles, looking very disoriented.

“A few died,” I tell her as I put my hair in a loose braid. I don’t like sleeping with my hair out, and keeping my hair in a bun won’t help my head.

Her eyes widen, and I know she has many questions, but it’s not her place to ask.

“Throw this away.” I point at the dress. “I’m not going to wear it again.”

Murder and its reminders have always been a thorn in my side. This is the first time I’ve been on the receiving end of an attack, and I’m grateful I was unconscious for most of it. It’s not a shock, though.

I’ve witnessed my father orchestrating murders, even carrying them out himself. It’s the first gruesome reality every Mafia child is exposed to and forced to accept. I’m no different.

Mya gives a respectful nod before she picks up the blood-stained clothes, careful not to touch the crimson spots. I lean on her for support as we make our way to the large bed.

Every movement sends a throbbing pain through my head. It feels like an invisible force is squeezing it, and my body aches as if I’ve been crushed under a massive weight.

Mya assists me onto the bed as if I’m a fragile porcelain doll.

“Mrs. Giordano…” She hesitates. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do to help?”

I shake my head. “I just need to sleep. Could you get me some painkillers?”

She nods. “I’ll arrange for your prescriptions and meals.”

I’m not entirely sure how things operate here. I’ve never had a maid before. My father made my mother do everything—literally everything. I expected the same here.

“Okay.” I give her a silent cue to leave, and she picks up on it, quickly exiting the room.

It feels strange that a woman at least a decade older than me is intimidated by me, but I understand that it all comes down to status. I just happen to be incredibly fortunate.

I quickly drift off to sleep, the warm blanket enveloping my entire body, including my head. I’m careful not to rest on my forehead, knowing it’ll be swollen by morning.

Exhaustion takes over, and I don’t bother waiting for my husband. I surrender to sleep, hoping I won’t regret it. But one question lingers in my mind: How did Mya know about my injury?

***

A kiss on my neck rouses me from sleep. I force my eyes open and find Antonio, my beloved husband, but something feels off.

He’s gentle, not his usual rough self. Initially, I think he wants to sleep with me—not that I’ve ever been able to refuse him—but he pulls away as soon as he realizes I’m awake.

He’s dressed in a suit, indicating he’s already prepared for the day. I feel like a failure, a terrible wife.

My mother always woke up before my father, and she advised me to always be on my husband’s good side, to always cater to his preferences.

“I’m sorry.” I cover my mouth with my hand before attempting to rise. Or at least, I try to. My head spins and I let out a groan.

He supports the back of my head as I’m about to collapse back onto the bed. “Be careful,” he says. “I need you at breakfast. Get ready.”

Once I’m settled, he stands up. On impulse, I grab his wrist. My eyes widen at my own action as he looks down at me, his eyes narrowed. I quickly let go.

“S-sorry,” I stutter. “I wanted to ask you something.”

I think he’s going to leave, but he simply walks over to the dresser. We have a walk-in closet, but he usually lays out his clothes for the next day on the dresser in our room.

I watch as he picks up his signature silver watch and blazer.

I know he’s listening. “How long have you known Mya?”