Don’t Call Me Your Donna Anymore

Lorenzo's phone glowed on the long dining table, the screen pulsing like a slow heartbeat against the dark walnut. He never bothered to hide it. Not even here, in the house his marriage to my family had bought him, beneath the roof his standing in the Vitale Family rested upon. The arrogance of it sat in my throat like a stone.

Did he truly believe me that simple? A Romano daughter, raised at the knees of men who could smell a lie before it left a mouth.

From the bathroom came the steady rush of water, the sound carrying through the still rooms, off the cold marble of the hall. I drew a breath, set both hands beneath the heavy curve of my belly, and rose from the chair with the slow, deliberate effort the child demanded of me now. I crossed to the table. Hoping, foolishly, for something quick and clean, I tried the obvious keys first. The date we were bound before the elders. His birthday. Mine. Each one rejected me in turn, a small door closing in my face.

My fingers were not steady when I keyed in the date printed on Adriana Bruno's forged ultrasound. The proof of a bloodline heir that was never his to claim.

It opened.

I bit down hard on the inside of my lip and let a thin, cold sound leave me, something that was almost a laugh and was not one at all. The messaging vault unfolded under my thumb. And there she was, exactly where I knew she would be. Her photograph beside his. Their images paired like a matched set, the way a man pairs a ring to a hand he intends to keep.

He had written, If love lasts forever. She had answered, Does it matter if we're together every day?

I went into the thread and the filth poured out of it. Darling, I miss you. Baby, when will I see you again. Two years of it, layered like silt at the bottom of a river. I would not let it take me under. I pressed my will down over my heart like a flat stone over a flame and started the screen recording, watching every honeyed word scroll past while the device drank it in for me.

Then his ordering history. I opened it and felt the floor of my stomach drop away. Prenatal supplements. Creams and skin treatments. Cosmetics, the small luxuries a man buys a woman he is tending. All of it sent to one address, again and again, out in the discreet streets of Maplewood, the quiet district where men of the life hide their kept women and their dirtier arrangements. Every parcel delivered to her hands. Not one to mine.

With one palm resting on the restless press of my baby's heel against me, I worked the other across the screen, capturing each frame. I sent the recordings and the images to myself, then went back through with patient care and erased every trace I had left behind, smoothing the surface of the water until it lay still again. When it was clean, when nothing showed, I returned the phone to the exact angle I had found it, the same blink, the same arrogance, undisturbed.

I made my slow way back to the bedroom and lowered myself down onto my side. The weight of his betrayal settled over me like cold water rising. My heart felt as though something had been torn clean through it, and I could not stop the shivering that came up from somewhere far beneath the cold weight of that betrayal. Seven years bound to him, an alliance sworn in blood between his line and mine, and I had been made into a cruel joke whispered in back rooms I would never be invited to.

The water stopped. When Lorenzo came out, a towel low at his hips and steam still clinging to his shoulders, his phone rang. Through the narrow gap where the bedroom door stood open, I watched his face. I watched it soften the way a face only softens for one name. He glanced once toward the bed, toward me, then stepped out onto the balcony and drew the glass door shut behind him with the silent care of a man who has learned to be quiet.

I could not let it lie. I forced myself up again, the child shifting and heavy, and stood close to the door where I could see him through the dark glass. The words did not reach me, but his expression did. Tender. A small smile at the corner of his mouth. Then, at something she said, the smile faltered and a faint discomfort crossed him. He wiped one palm down his thigh, then the other, brushing at something only he could see. But it passed. Of course it passed. Whatever she pressed him for, he yielded to it, the smile returning, soft and weak and damning.

The chill in my chest went down to the bone. Slowly I turned and dragged myself back to the bed, and it felt as though all the air had been pulled out of the room and carried off with it. Even breathing was a labor.

A few minutes later I heard the glass slide open, heard him cross the carpet on careful, tiptoeing feet, a made man stepping soft as a thief in his own house. He lay down behind me. One of his hands came to rest on the swell of my belly, where his child turned in the dark. The other moved to my brow, gentle, brushing the hair back from my forehead with a tenderness that no longer cost him anything because it had never once been mine. I did not move. I did not blink. Beneath his palm I drew my own hand slow and flat across the fabric over my belly, smoothing it once, the way a woman soothes the thing she is carrying.

It was not tenderness. It was the moment I sealed what came next.