Don’t Call Me Your Donna Anymore

I smiled and shook my head, and a strange, glacial calm settled over me, the kind of stillness that comes only after a decision has already been made in the dark. For a long moment I did not blink. My hand drifted to the swell beneath my coat and smoothed the wet fabric slow and flat, the way a woman might soothe the child inside her, though it was not tenderness that moved my palm. It was the sound of a verdict.

"It's all right, Francesca," I whispered to myself, and the name on my own lips steadied me more than any prayer.

Then, quieter still, the words meant for no one but the rain: "He's just a man. Nothing more."

The black sedan that carried him slid around the corner of the wet street, its taillights smearing red across the puddles, and I lifted my hand the way a wife waves a husband off to honest work. "Lorenzo," I said softly, "I don't want you anymore. You belong to her now."

I stood beneath the awning of the Family's physician's quiet building, where the men of the life were stitched and stilled away from the eyes of the Feds, and I felt nothing reckless. In that decisive moment I drew out my phone with steady fingers, and one by one I sent every piece of leverage I had gathered into the hands of the Consigliere, the old man who had counseled my bloodline since before I could walk, whose voice carried weight at any sit-down in the territory. The recordings. The dates. The skimmed tribute funneled to a kept woman in the discreet district where dishonor was hidden. The articles of dissolution would follow, sworn before the elders, and the marital territory would answer for what he had taken. I was going to secure the best future for my child, no matter the cost, no matter whose blood paid for it.

By the time the last of it had gone, the rain had soaked the hem of my dress dark to the knee, and the cold of it had crept up into my legs. Strangely, I barely felt it. The world had narrowed to the heat of the screen and the slow flat motion of my own hand over my belly. Just as I slid the phone away into my coat, it rang.

It was Mamma.

"Francesca, I made the soup, the one you love, and I carried it to the house myself. Where are you and Lorenzo? Why is the house dark?" Vittoria Romano's voice came warm down the line, warm the way only she could be warm, the matriarch of the old bloodline whom even made men still addressed with their eyes lowered. "Oh, that Lorenzo. You are this far along, carrying the bambina, and still he drags you out into the streets at night? You must be careful now, tesoro. You must."

The sound of her closed a hand around my throat. Hearing my mother's voice was a blow I had not braced for, a key turning in a floodgate I had spent the whole night holding shut with both hands. All the pain I had pressed down into the dark of my chest swelled at once and rose, an unbearable weight pushing up beneath my ribs. I bit down hard on the inside of my lip until I tasted copper, fighting the sob climbing my throat, and the effort of swallowing it sent a shiver the length of my whole body. Around me the doors of the building hushed open and shut, men coming and going with their collars up, none of them looking at the pregnant woman crying under the awning, because in this life you learn early to see nothing. Omertà. Silence wrapped the street like a fist.

"Mamma, don't worry," I said, and I forced a smile she could not see, forced it into my voice so it would not crack. "We're only out to supper, the two of us." I swallowed, and the taste of blood was still there. "Yes. We're being careful. Lorenzo is right here with me. He's right beside me."

I had to hold the line. I would not let her hear me break. Not her. Not the woman who had survived her own war, who had buried a husband of the life and walked out of it with her spine straight. She would set down whatever she was holding the instant she knew, set it down with that soft and final click, and go terribly still, and then nothing in the territory would be safe from her. Not yet. Not tonight. I would carry this myself a little longer.

"It's raining hard, Mamma. Drive home safe, do you hear me? Text me the moment you're through the door."

I ended the call fast, before my voice could betray the lie inside it. The screen went black in my palm and the silence rushed back in. I dragged in a breath and tried again to hold everything where I had buried it, but there is a limit to what a body can press down, and mine had reached it. The tears came at last, spilling hot over a cold face, and I wept without sound, my shoulders trembling, my hand pressed flat to the child who knew nothing of any of it yet.

And there I stood, a woman nine months heavy, the ache low and deep in my belly, surrounded by the cold and incurious traffic of strangers who would never speak a word of what they saw. In that indifferent world, beneath an awning, in the rain, I cried until there was nothing left in me to cry with.