Death Do Us Part

V. Giada

Gia

I woke up this morning hours before my flight, already packed and ready to go to the airport, bedroom cleaned for when I return in two months. I'm eager to get back to my life in LA, to a sense of normalcy. Mostly I'm just itching to get away from the East coast where my fiancé and controlling family live.
I don't understand the game Domenico is playing, but I came downstairs to site that knocked the breath from my lungs; floral arraignments, hundreds of them. There were so many, the house staff didn't have surfaces to put all of them on, so they littered the floors and foyer, lining each hallway of the house. He even got an oversized bouquet of yellow and pink roses for my mom, evidently starting the ass kissing early.
Not that he'd even have to kiss her ass to get on her good side. She likes him already, that much is evident to anyone with eyes. I'd feel betrayed, but I sort of expected this from her. Having me close to home is her dream scenario, so any way to accomplish that is a good way in her mind.
     Even if she didn't like him, she wouldn't make it outwardly known out of respect. It's very important to everyone that this engagement and wedding  go over seamlessly, so her way of helping her husband accomplish that is by pushing me into Domenico's arms... not that I haven't landed myself there more than few times now.
"You should be happy to have a fiancé who thinks about you like that," she tells me as we walk to the car, Enzo and Luca carrying bags behind us. "He must have guessed you loved flowers because you took him to your Nonna's garden the other day."
"Or you tipped him off," I accuse, which I wouldn't put past her. The second phase of her dream scenario involves me warming up to Domenico, we fall for each other, and maker her ten grand babies she can spoil and obsess over until her final days.
"Or he's just romantic," she counters. "You could do a lot worse than a man who turns the inside of your house into a garden."
     "You're giving him too much credit," I roll my eyes. "You act like he hand picked and arranged those flowers. He probably didn't even place the order himself. There's nothing romantic about such a dramatic display of wealth, and don't even get me started on how wasteful it is. Not to mention that it's supposed to be for me, but I'm not even going to be here to enjoy it. I might have received the gesture a bit better had come days ago."
     "Are you taking notes Luca? Don't buy flowers for women," Enzo chides, heaving my heavy suitcase into the open trunk of the black Cadillac. "Perishable forms of affection aren't welcome. Just hand them cash instead." My mother swats at his chest, not impressed by his joke.
     "You do sound a little ungrateful Gigi," Luca adds. "I've never heard a girl complain about getting flowers, and you just got enough to supply your whole wedding. I wouldn't bitch if someone did that for me." My lowered glare flickers to him in annoyance, hardly believing he's team Domenico when he lay right next to me on the balcony the other night, watching as that monster of a man almost killed someone in our driveway.
     "Then all of you can have them if you're so impressed. Take them for all I care. Lord knows there's enough for enough for everyone."
     "I've never gotten flowers before," Luca shrugs. "I might take you up on that. Enzo, do you want some flowers?"
     "I'll pass," he rejects lethargically. "They probably wouldn't do well on the plane." Luca shrugs and the two of them head back inside to get out of the sun while we wait for my dad to finish his call.
     When we are alone, my mother turns to me and fixes me with a look that tells me a talk is coming on, and I don't know if it will be a pep talk or a lecture. She likes to mix the two to keep things somewhat positive.
     "A change is on the horizon my dear, and I know you're terrified of it. I was too at your age." My eyelids droop, my frown signifying I don't believe that for a second. I can't imagine a time when she was scared to be with my dad, when she didn't have stars in her eyes every time she looks at him.
     "I'm serious. I was the exact same age you are now, and I was scared shitless." I choke on a gasp, but it turns into laughter that she returns with a smirk on her graceful lips. I can count on one hand the times I've heard my mother cuss. She usually reserves such unsavory words only for when she's truly livid.
     "I didn't know him well, so all I had to go on was your Nonno's promise that he was a good man and he would treat me well. I fell for your father so quickly," she smiles. "It was an adjustment of course. There were so many aspects of my life with him that I had to get used to, but I learned to love him for all of the things he is."
     My mother and I have different opinions of my father . In her eyes he's a protector, a provider, and family man. I love him of course, but I have a hard time linking my view of him with that of a doting dad who'd do anything for the ones he loves. If that was the case, he wouldn't be forcing me down the aisle to make his job easier.
     There was a time when I was his shadow, but I was young then. I didn't yet know the man he really was. I was carefully and intentionally shielded from it all; the drugs, the guns, the death, the carnage. And what father wouldn't protect his kids from the truth were it so dark and violent?
     Somewhere between eleven and fourteen, I stopped being his little princess. I became a headache to him, my questions too prying for his liking, and my preteen attitude an annoyance where he already had too many. He became more closed off from me, more of a mystery, so I did the same.
     Memories of him taking me to Nonna's garden when I was upset, or teaching me and my brother to swim in our pool seem so distant now. He hardly seems like the same man. Now that all of his kids are older, he's less sentimental and emotional, almost never giving us a glimpse of his soft side.
     I suppose the experience might be a bit different for my mother, being his wife, but from what I've seen, she gets the same cold and indifferent treatment. He's only in a good mood when things go his way, and only nice when it benefits him. Otherwise he's grumpy, always barking orders and nitpicking at everything.
     "I don't like this man mama. I couldn't ever grow to love him the way you love papa. He's... evil," I settle on a single word that accurately describes all of Domenico's sinister qualities.
     "He's not evil," she giggles. "You've hardly spent any time with him." Heat rises to my cheeks. While it's true that I haven't had time to get to know him, the time I have spent with him has been infuriating and confusing. The truth would upset her, so I keep it to myself.
     "I talked to him a bit yesterday at Easter, and he's lovely."
     "Lovely mother, really?" I narrow my eyes at her silly assessment. "Have you not seen the Glock he keeps tucked under his suit? Lovely isn't the word I'd use for him."
     "You've seen the men in your own family," she shrugs, brushing a fallen leaf from the trees above from the top of my head. "You know what they are like, never unarmed or unguarded. The big scary persona is all for the public, for their enemies. You have nothing to fear my dear."
I can understand why one would want to appear violent and heartless when they've got an endless line of people who want to kill them and take what's theirs, but a common theme I've seen in Made Men and their soldiers, is that they don't know how to turn that persona off when they get home. Some never do, floating through life with anger simmering in their veins, and their hands itching to draw their weapon and end a life.
"You don't know him much better than I do, so how do you know it's just a persona and not who he really is?"
"Just a feeling I get." She smiles, like not a thing in the world is wrong. "Everyone has different sides to them hun. Don't fault him for his bad ones before you've given him a chance to show you the good."
I've seen enough alarming things in Domenico in the short time I've known him, that it's hard to believe any good lurks beneath his hardened exterior. He's a demon in a handsome man suit, and I'll be damned if I let the sharp lines of his jaw pull the veil over my eyes and make me compliant.
My blood runs cold, my skin erupting in unpleasant goosebumps as I consider the very morbid possibility that I could end up like my mothers poor friend Charlotte, killed by the barrel of her own husbands gun when in a drug induced haze, he mistook her for an intruder. I wonder if Domenico partakes in any illegal substances. Maybe that explains the crazed look in his eye.
I don't know what the Zanotti family policy is on drug use, but for my fathers men, it's not just frowned upon, it's forbidden. He wants his soldiers sharp and acting on their own will, not doing half ass jobs to supply their benders. It's perfectly fine to contribute to the epidemic by selling directly to addicts, but he wouldn't dream of allowing junkies in his own ranks.
"Do you always have to be so quick to play devils advocate mama?" I duck into the back seat.
"Oh my dear, how you've always managed to embody ten times more drama that you inherited from me would be impressive if it wasn't so detrimental to your own happiness."
I don't dignify her comment with a response, because it's a purely ridiculous insinuation that I'm choosing to be unhappy. I've never been able to roll with the punches the way she seems to be accustomed to, and I'm sure in her mind it is just as simple as making the best of every situation, and ignoring the bad in favor of the good. It's how she stays so calm and carefree.
"You get your need for constant control from your Nonna. Control what you can, and accept what you can't. You'll never have peace if you don't. My advice would be to scatter whatever you're feeling to the wind, free yourself of it, and see where things land. You might be pleased with the outcome."
I can feel the positive intention behind her words, but the advice might be better placed on a new job opportunity or a potential move. It doesn't sound like a solid plan in regards to setting myself up for married life.
I've grown tired of being ignored and gaslit though, so I don't bother thinking up a response stronger than "I'll get right on that." Adjusting my glasses over my eyes, I climb into the back seat of the car, popping AirPods in, in the hopes she will leave me alone the rest of the car ride.
I'm trying my best not to be annoyed with her, but her chipper, hopeful attitude has further soured my mood. I'm not expecting her to free me from the shackles of this engagement. She couldn't, but I'm beginning to think that she wouldn't even if she could, and that cuts deep.
Elegantly, as she does everything, my mother slides into the back seat next to me in the second row. A podcast holds my attention but I can feel her craning her neck across the small aisle between our seats to see what I'm doing.
"What song are you listening to?"
"I'm not listening to music. I'm listening to a podcast for class," I half lie. It's not an education podcast, but merely the musings of my favorite fashion blogger who I listen to every morning while I have breakfast. I'm leaning on the fact that my mom might be less inclined to disturb me if she thinks I'm doing schoolwork.
"You have homework during Easter break? What's the point of a break if they are going to assign you more work while you're away?" She frowns.
"It's a really tough class mama. I'm just getting ahead." My index finger presses into the volume button until it reaches it max.
"Oh, okay." She accepts this answer, readjusting her purse on her lap. When she begins rummaging through it, I inhale slowly through my nose, wishing I hadn't packed by noise canceling headphones into a suitcase that's now buried under other bags in the trunk.
"Would you like some gum?" She offers me the wrapped foil, popping a piece into her own mouth.
"No I'm fine, thank you."
"You should get something to eat at one of the airport restaurants before your flight. You hardly touched your breakfast."
"I will."
"Sometimes I feel like booking a trip out of the airport just so I can have the grilled chicken panini from that cafe by the west terminal. Do you remember what that place is called?"
"Nope."
"Drink plenty of water and moisturize during the flight too. Plane cabins can make your skin so dreadfully dry."
"I know," I prop a hand under my chest, laying my elbow on the armrest.
To my right, my brother and cousin come into view outside of my window, Enzo chasing Luca around the hood of the car. He catches him by the collar, my brother laughing so hard he's red in the face. Barring an arm under Luca's chin, Enzo locks him into a chokehold.
"Hey hey, knock it off," my mother cracks her door open to reprimand them. "Get in the car and simmer down." Enzo plucks his phone from Luca's hand, pushing him away with a vengeful glint in his hazel eyes.
My papa makes us wait another ten minutes before he's finished with his call, even though he was the one grumbling all morning about us keeping to a tight schedule. We still have plenty of time, as in true dad fashion, he is having us leave a great deal earlier than we really need to. What is it with fathers and getting to the airport drastically early. Just one of the many interesting quirks they all seem share.
It's rare to see my dad behind the wheel of a car. He's much more comfortable being driven around, and I guess I can't fault him for taking the chore off of himself.
Pascal, my fathers full time chauffeur climbs into the drivers seat, my dad in the passenger, and Luca and Enzo clamber their tall selves into the very back row. The SUV begins to slowly roll through the security gates, and relief washes over me as I inch closer to where I belong.
It's not enough relief to quell the anxiety and agitation that's stuck with me all week, but maybe I'll feel better at takeoff, when I'm no longer touching New Jersey ground. I watch the familiar trees of my childhood home pass by outside of my window, knowing with a sinking feeling that I will be back here in two months time to prepare for a wedding I couldn't be paid all the money in the world to want.
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