Angelo

I can't stop staring at the clock.


Rosalia left at seven with Guiseppe Graziano for a dinner and theater date that I anticipate will have her back by midnight. I made it clear to both him and security that I expect her home no later than that—and since then, I've been on edge, restless, unable to concentrate on anything I've tried to occupy myself with. Not sifting through files, not reading a book, not even attempting to watch a movie; my mind keeps returning to the image of Guiseppe Graziano holding Rosalia's hand or touching her thigh in the theater box seat next to his.

Waiting for her to return feels like pure agony, especially thinking about her time spent with anyone else. I know I could end this misery so easily if I just compromised the principles I've held onto until now.

For two weeks, I've set up initial dates with each of the young men who came to dinner, and for two weeks, Rosalia has dutifully spent an evening with each one. I can sense she's despised every moment of it, and I struggle to suppress my growing jealousy and anger at the thought of anyone else touching her. The fact that she also detests these evenings should provide some comfort, but it only makes everything feel worse—that both of us are suffering through this ordeal.


She's kept her promise. She hasn't brought up the topic of a marriage between us again, and after each date, she's reported back to me with her feelings about it.

Including this one, when she finds me in the living room with an old movie droning in the background and a fire lit despite the summer warmth, a tumbler of whiskey in my hand instead of my usual wine. She sits down on the sofa an arm's length away from me, her silky black dress cascading around her slender calves. It takes everything in me to keep my eyes off of her legs, or the small diamond cutouts at her waist, filled in with netting that lets the glimpses of skin show through.


'Either of the Graziano brothers is a possibility," she tells me with a shrug. This is her second date with a Graziano brother—the first I arranged a private dinner for the two of them, which was even worse than tonight, with both of them under the same roof with me. I hated seeing her dress up for them, hated the way seeing her in the black silk dress that she chose for the theater made me feel, hated the idea that his hand might touch her thigh through the silk and not mine. I told myself that it was my penance for wanting her at all, that if I'd just managed to keep control of my desires, I wouldn't feel like this.

It's not a very comforting thought.

'Do you like either of them?" I lean back in my chair, and Rosalia gives me a look that suggests I should know better.

'No," she says flatly. 'And I don't like Carlos either, or Marco. I don't like any of them. But either of the Graziano brothers are probably the least awful."

'Is there anyone you absolutely don't want?" I force myself to ask the question as flatly as possible, like a questionnaire, like this means nothing to me other than ensuring her future. Like the idea of any of them with her doesn't make me burn with the desire to strangle whoever touches her.

'Gio and Marco." Rosalia swallows hard. 'Marco is too—he comes on too strong. I think he'd get bored of me quickly and find someone else on the side. And Gio is crude. I don't like his sense of humor." She bites her lip. 'Although I guess none of that really matters. It's not like they're going to want to be friends with me. Or like this marriage is anything but a business arrangement, really."

There's a hint of defeat in her voice that cuts me deeply. 'I'm sorry, Rosalia," I tell her gently. 'I know you want the kind of marriage that you know your parents had. But it's not something I can facilitate in the time Rizzo has given us. And if he insists on Andre—"

'I know." She sucks the corner of her lower lip into her mouth, nodding as she looks down at her hands. 'It will be worse. Trust me, I know."

As the days pass, with every date, I see Rosalia get quieter and quieter. Meals are more silent, and she spends more and more time in her room. I can see that it's all upsetting her, that this process is breaking her spirit bit by bit, but I don't know what else to do. Rizzo's deadline is growing closer, and she has to make a choice.

I end up telling her that she'll attend a charity dinner with me at the Chicago natural history museum, and she can choose which of the three remaining candidates will be her date. 'The other two will be there, naturally, so you can speak to and dance with any of them. You'll need to make a choice after this," I warn her. 'So think about it."

'Guiseppe." She answers quickly, quickly enough for me to feel a stab of almost painful jealousy. 'He's been the least—pushy. I think he might not be the worst of them."

It's not exactly a glowing recommendation. And when Rosalia comes downstairs to meet me so we can go to the gala, I find myself wanting desperately for her to be on my arm instead.

She chose a deep purple gown for the gala, strapless with a reinforced v-shaped neckline filled in with some sort of illusory fabric. It's split up one side to her thigh, and I see she's wearing amethyst earrings, glittering in the light beneath her upswept dark hair. She looks beautiful, more beautiful than anyone I've ever seen, and as I escort her to the car, all of my thoughts about Guiseppe Graziano are unkind.

It's a good choice,I remind myself. If she chooses Guiseppe, she will have picked a family with enough sway to not be overwhelmed by the sudden leap in status, but not so well-respected that they'll resent being absorbed into the Santoro family. Not only that, but since Guiseppe has a brother, the Graziano family will continue on as well. If I'd been forced to choose for her, it's the choice I would have made, and I wonder if she's thought of any of this. If any of it has been what made her lean more towards choosing him.

I try to let her be, once we're there. I have people I need to talk to, and I want to give her some time with Guiseppe without taking up her focus. She's kept her promise, but not bringing up the topic of marriage with me doesn't mean that she hasn't thought about it. We're too close to Rizzo's deadline—I can't distract her.

But god, it's difficult. I can see during dinner that Rosalia doesn't have any real affection for Guiseppe. He's attentive towards her, clearly eager for her attention in return. I'd almost be able to admire the way he focuses so entirely on her if I didn't want to drag him outside and punch him in the jaw for it. It's going to be him, I think as I sit there, working my way through a salad course that I barely taste and watching the two of them. In a few weeks, he'll be her fiancé. Then, her husband. And you'll go back to New York and a parade of women you don't remember while he teaches her all the things you wish you could.

I never knew jealousy could have such a bitter taste, but I'm learning it now.

I can see that Matteo and Carlos are jockeying for her attention, too, as the gala goes on and the dancing starts. It would almost be amusing to watch Guiseppe and Matteo compete for Rosalia's attention, the two brothers working against each other, if it weren't for the fact that as the evening goes on, it's harder and harder to ignore the fact that I want to be the one swaying across the dance floor with her in my arms.

You could have had that. And you chose differently.

I do end up on the dance floor, with a pretty blonde in a long red dress who doesn't look much older than Rosalia—probably a younger daughter of one of the families who hasn't been married yet. I catch Rosalia's glance just once—see the heat of jealousy in her eyes, too—before she's swept off in one direction by Guiseppe and me in another. I lose track of her for a moment. When the song ends and I look for her, she's nowhere to be seen.

I grit my teeth, hoping Guiseppe hasn't slipped her off to a corner somewhere in hopes of getting his hand up her skirt. I break away from the dance floor, scouting the outer hallways of the room before heading up the stairs. I hear her voice, low and soft, just before I come around the corner, and I stop dead when I see his fingers on her chin, gently tipping her lips up to his so that he can kiss her.

My vision swims red for a moment. In one hot, angry second, I vividly remember the feeling of Rosalia's mouth on mine in the pool, that moment when I felt her against me. It was a clumsy, inexpert kiss, but it had been searing against my lips all the same, because it washer. And now Guiseppe is feeling those same lips against his, pressing Rosalia up against the wall, and it's all I can do not to go and drag him off of her.

Instead, I clear my throat, and he jumps back guiltily, his face flushing red.A boy, not a man.

'I'm sorry, Don Bianchi, I—"

'Never mind that. Both of you, back downstairs." I motion to the stairs for them to go first, and I don't miss the mutinous look in Rosalia's eyes as she obeys, following Guiseppe down.

She doesn't speak to me again until we're back in the car on the way home. 'I've made my decision," she says from where she's sitting across from me, her hands folded on the dark purple skirt of her dress. 'I'm going to choose Guiseppe."

I wish she'd waited to tell me. The jealousy is still too close to the surface, and I grit my teeth against the first thing that comes to mind. It slips out anyway.

'So the kiss made up your mind, then?"

Rosalia gives me a piercing look that tells me that she sees right through this. 'No," she says coolly. 'The fact that he seems amenable enough to my going to college, doesn't expect me to have a child within the first year that we're married, and hasn't tried to do more than kiss me makes me think he's the right choice. He does seem to like me, too," she admits. 'So maybe it won't be all bad."

'He would have tried to do more than kiss you tonight."

'Maybe." She shrugs. 'But he hasn't so far. And he will be in a few weeks anyway, right?"

There's no heat, no desire in the way she says it, but it stokes the fuel of my jealousy anyway, thinking of him in bed with her. The car falls silent for several long minutes, and I look pensively out of the window, trying to turn my mind to other things instead. The conversation I'll have with Rizzo, for instance, letting him know that Rosalia has made her choice and that plans can be put in motion for a wedding. The conversation I'll have with Luciano, telling him I'm coming back to New York and what place there still might be for me there, in the Falcone mafia.

Or you could take a fucking break,I think wryly, watching the lights of the city dim as we drive away from it and back to the mansion.You could go on vacation. Put an ocean between you and all of this.

'You know, it's not fair for you to be jealous of me now." Rosalia's voice drifts towards me, quiet and so sad that the retort I nearly make dies on my tongue as I hear her. 'You could have had me. I know all the reasons you gave. But at the end of the day, if you don't like the idea of Guiseppe and I together, you only have yourself to blame."

I want to be angry with her. I want to tell her to watch her mouth, that she'll earn another punishment, that she's breaking her promise. But she isn't, not really. She isn't asking me to change my mind. She isn't trying to convince me of anything. And as much as I don't want to hear what she's saying, it's the truth.

Whatever I'm feeling, it's because of the decisions I've made. But I still think that decision was the right one.

'I'll tell Rizzo in the morning that you've made your choice," I tell her evenly. 'I expect things will probably move fairly quickly after that."

Rosalia says nothing. She doesn't need to, not really. I know what she's thinking—that this is the choice that will make her the least miserable, but it won't make her happy. None of this will make her happy.

But I don't believe that I could, either. And in the end, that makes the difference.