My mother’s eyes flash with rage. I’m playing with fire here, but I’m too angry to care about the consequences.
“I’m not going to stay here and listen to you throw insults my way. If you want to stay with your worthless cousin, be my guest.”
When she walks to the door, I let out a sigh of relief. Too soon though. I should have known she wouldn’t just leave without delivering a killing blow. She looks over her shoulder with hate pouring out of her eyes.
“Paola told me all about your affair with that married teacher. I was right all along. All you wanted was to sleep around. You’re a filthy whore and a disgrace to our family.”
The insult shouldn’t hurt as much, coming from her. It’s nothing new. But it does. It feels like I’ve been sucker punched in the gut.
I wince, unable to hide my reaction from my mother. The worst part is to see her take pleasure from my pain.
She walks out without saying another word.
She doesn’t need to. She won this round.
The next day, Max receives a call from our uncle, Paola’s father. He paid for Dad’s bail, and he’s going to be released in the next couple of hours. A wave of relief washes over me, followed by dread. I have to be at the penthouse when Dad arrives, which means I have to deal with my mother.
I never told Max the details of her visit yesterday, but he knew it was bad by the look on my face. I’m still reeling from it, and I almost start to believe that maybe I am a filthy whore.
I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to speak with Alistair after her visit. I settled with sending him a text message explaining why I had to leave and that I would call him today. I’m a mess, and he’ll be able to tell right away if he hears my voice. He’s already dealing with so many problems; I don’t want to add to the tally.
I get dressed and wear the best outfit I brought with me, a dark gray pantsuit that I bought in case I needed to look professional. It’s overkill—Dad has never cared about what I wear—but I don’t want to give my mother any more reason to throw insults my way.
Who are you kidding, Chiara? She doesn’t need a reason.
By the time Max and I arrive at my parents’ luxurious apartment, the entire family is already there. Fuck, it’s the middle of the week. Don’t they have jobs? At least Pietro didn’t come with his wife. Paola is sitting next to my mother on the couch, and staring at them side by side, they look more like a mother and daughter duo than Mom and me. A sliver of jealousy spears through my heart, even though by now, I shouldn’t feel anything at all.
Will I ever stop wanting that odious woman to love me?
Max leaves me alone for a second to speak with his mother. She used to be one of the most beautiful women in Italy, but years of abuse under the hands of Max’s dad took their toll on her. She’s overweight and looks ten years older than she really is. Plus, she’s now a drunk. As a matter of fact, she’s hovering near the dry bar in the living room with a glass of whiskey in her hand.
Poor Max. He doesn’t deserve this.
“Is Dad already home?” I ask no one in particular.
“He’s in his office with your uncle and the lawyer,” Paola’s mother answers. “What a scandal. What a blemish to the Moretti name.”
And so it starts. I don’t have the stomach to hear dear Auntie’s lamentations, so I head to the dining room table where food has been served.
I’m busy spreading foie gras on a piece of toast when Paola stops next to me.
“Like father like daughter, I guess.”
“Don’t start, Paola. I’m not in the mood for your petty games.”
Ignoring my comment, she continues. “I’m surprised your boyfriend didn’t tag along. Did he get tired of you already?”
“That’s none of your business. I’m surprised your husband isn’t here. Did he get tired of you already?
“Pietro is on a very important business trip. He would be here if he could.”
Her defensive tone tells me things aren’t as rosy as she wants me to believe. I can’t help but push the dagger deeper.
“Right, but not because of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you how Pietro confessed moments before your wedding that he was in love with me and that you were his second choice.”
“You lie!”
I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I told him I would never have him, so you don’t have to worry about me stealing your perfect husband away.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she grits out. “Isn’t your boyfriend married?”
I pop a grape in my mouth. “Not for much longer. And let me tell you, stealing Alistair away from his conniving wife was so much fun.”
If I’m going to be labeled a home-wrecker, I might as well have fun with it.
I turn on my heels, putting extra sass in my steps.
Was it mean to tell Paola about Pietro? Absolutely, but I can’t find an ounce of regret in me. She more than deserves the pain.
45
Chiara
