Don’t Call Me Your Donna Anymore

Lorenzo did not come back to the territory that night. He sent word the way men in the life send word when they want it on record that they were thinking of you, which is to say the words were a kind of alibi.

Francesca, I'm tied up at the social club, settling business that can't wait. Going to bed down here. The weather's turned cold and the rain's coming in off the water, so close the shutters before you sleep. Yours always, your husband.

I read it the way a person reads a notice tacked to a door. There was a time the message would have moved something in me. I would have worried for him out there in the wet dark, would have answered quickly so he knew I'd seen it, would have sat by the window listening for the low growl of the car coming up the drive. That woman was a stranger to me now. I did not so much as touch the keys to reply. I had believed, for years, that I was the most fortunate woman the bloodlines had ever bound to a man. I had thought I'd been given the best of them. Then the truth came in like cold air under a door, and I understood what I had actually been handed. The whole of it had been a performance staged for one audience. A man keeps his heart locked behind his ribs the way the Family keeps its true accounts behind a false set, and the lies, those he is always willing to put in writing.

A few days passed in that quiet, ticking way that days pass in a house where a decision has already been made but not yet spoken. Then the articles came, drawn up clean and exact by the Consigliere I had trusted with everything. I printed the pages myself, in the study, with the grandfather clock keeping its slow patient count behind me, and I signed my name in the place where a woman signs when she is finished asking permission of anyone. Then I began to fold my things into cases. I was going home to the Romano house, to my mother's table, to the protection of my own blood. I had nearly finished when the phone rang. The number meant nothing to me.

It was Adriana.

She named a back-room café three streets down from the building, the kind of place where men talk low over espresso and no one looks too long at anyone, and I agreed to it because there was nothing left in me that feared what she had to say. She arrived wearing her confidence like borrowed jewelry, too bright for the setting. She crossed the floor on a pair of thin, treacherous heels and lowered herself into the chair across from me as if she were taking a throne. Three months gone, by her own telling, and a supermarket shopping bag set down beside her like a peasant's idea of a dowry. She looked at me, and in her eyes I was already beaten. In her eyes the war was over and the spoils were being counted.

"I didn't think you'd come," she said. There was a little music of triumph in it, a girl who has never once had to fight for anything pleasant. "You never answered a single one of my messages."

I smiled. It was an easy thing to do, because my heart had gone perfectly still inside me, level as water in a sealed glass, not one tremor disturbing its surface. The room around us hummed with its low men's talk, cups touching saucers, a chair scraping somewhere behind me, and through all of it I felt nothing but that flat clean calm. "Why wouldn't I come?" I said. "I've done nothing shameful that I'd need to hide from. I keep my back to no door." I leaned into the chair, unhurried, letting the smile sit. "Lorenzo and I are bound before the elders, sworn blood to blood. I have nothing in this world to conceal. Not like some women, who can claw and scheme and forge whatever they like, and will still never be anything but the thing kept in the dark. The dishonor a man hides, never the wife he stands beside."

"You—" Her voice cracked up out of her, sharp, and her hand went to the side of her belly in that soft practiced way, fingers spread tender over the curve of it. But I saw what her other hand did. I saw it drop below the table's edge and close into a fist she meant for no one to see, and I knew it for the only honest thing she had brought into that room with her.

I did not let her finish.

"Oh," I said, and my voice did not rise, did not shake, stayed as steady as a hand that has stopped trembling for good. "There's something I owe you, while we're here. My thanks. For sending me every last piece of it. Every message, every photograph, every dirty thread of what you and Lorenzo have been doing behind the Family's back." I let the words settle the way coins settle in a man's palm when he's counting them slow on purpose. "Gathering all of that on my own would have cost me a great deal of trouble. You did the work for me and never asked a price."

I smiled again, and this time there was nothing warm left in it at all, only the dismissal one gives a thing already accounted for. "So the coffee," I said. "The coffee is mine to pay."

I slid the bills beneath the rim of my cup, the paper whispering against porcelain, and I rose from the chair slowly, the way a woman carries herself when she is heavy with child and unhurried by anyone's impatience. My hand came to rest on the swell of my belly. My palm pressed flat and slow over the fabric, smoothing it down once, a single unbroken stroke that any stranger would have read as a mother's tenderness toward the life inside her. It was not tenderness. It was the seal pressed into wax. It was the moment a sentence is signed, the breath when a decision stops being a thought and becomes a fact in the world. And I had stopped blinking. I looked at her without one flutter of my lashes, the room gone quiet and close around the two of us, and I felt the thing settle in me with the soft final weight of a door swinging shut.

"What's that supposed to mean?" The words came out from between her teeth, low and ground down, and her hand shot across the small table and closed hard around my arm.