Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller
Chapter 32
I meetmy sisters and Lorenzo, their bodyguard, for brunch at an upscale harbor diner the next day, and for a while, it almost feels like old times.
They sit across the table from me, Ariana’s hair twisted into a bun and the sleeves of her light blue blouse buttoned at her elbows. Stella, meanwhile, tucks her hair into the collar of her button-down, leaning over her plate as Ari details some Hollywood scandal overshadowing news of my “big return.”
“...and I’m just saying, men like that who champion women’s rights so vocally are always the first to be accused of sexual harassment. They’re too good to be true.”
Stella scoffs, bits of egg flying from her mouth. “You don’t believe that girl’s story, do you? They met one night in New York City, and he just had to have her? She’s a little nobody from Maine, and he’s a rock god; why would he pick her?”
Ari tosses a bagel chip at her. “I’m choosing to believe the victim, asshole.”
“In America, it’s innocent until proven guilty,” Stella says, shaking her head. “And don’t act like you weren’t singing the latest Aiden James single just last week. I can hear you in the shower, you know.”
We make it through eggs Benedict, copious amounts of turkey bacon, and endless flutes of sparkling cider before anyone brings Mamá up.
It’s me. I bring her up.
“You guys said she was despondent,” I accuse, pointing at Ariana with my fork. “That she wanted me home.”
Ari shrugs, taking a bite of a cheese Danish. “She was, I swear it. There were days that she wouldn’t even leave her room. I don’t know why she acted so gross last night.”
“Maybe she’s jealous,” Stella offers, shrugging her bony shoulders.
It’s the second time someone has suggested as much in the last twenty-four hours, and I don’t like that everyone seems to be catching onto something completely invisible to me. “Of what?”
“I don’t know.” Stella squints at me through her glasses, pursing her lips. “Take your pick, I guess? You know how Mamá is; now imagine getting stuck in a life because of who your family is, and never getting out of it. Once you’re stuck, you’re stuck.”
“We’re all stuck in this life,” I say.
“Are we?” Stella takes her glasses, pushing them up into her hairline. “Or have you spent the last few months being wined and dined by your incredibly dangerous, disturbingly handsome husband, on an island completely removed from any and all famiglia drama?”
I poke at the remainder of my eggs, scowling. “It wasn’t like I took a vacation. I was...”
Trailing off, I realize my sisters don’t technically know the full details of the reasoning behind my marriage to Kal. And I’m not exactly sure what our parents told them, so I decide to clear the air once and for all, hoping it’ll eliminate the massive weight bearing down on my chest.
“Someone recorded Kal and me the first time we slept together.”
Ari snickers. “First implies there was a second, and third, and—”
Stella wraps her arm around Ari’s neck, clamping her hand over her mouth. “We already know that. Papá wasted no time in telling everyone how Kal seduced you. Not that you needed sympathy in the public’s eye, being kidnapped and all.”
Annoyance flickers in my gut, but I ignore it, setting my fork down. “Okay, well. The people who recorded us were blackmailing Papá and Kal, and they wanted me to marry Kal... I guess.”
Blinking, I glance down at the gold tablecloth covering the table, realizing my own details on the optics are blurry.
Shaking off the eerie feeling, I continue. “Whatever, I don’t know the exact details, but the point is, someone forced both of us into the marriage. Maybe Kal didn’t approach everything in the best way, but we’re both victims.”
“Are you?” Ari asks, shoving Stella’s hand away. “I mean, that’s why you got married, but... what’s making you stay married?” She reaches for a strawberry off her plate, plopping it in her mouth. “You certainly don’t look like a victim.”
My mouth parts immediately, a reflexive response poised on the tip of my tongue before her words fully process. Snapping my lips shut, I sit back in my seat, my stomach dropping to my knees.
Stella quickly changes the subject, moving on before I’ve answered Ariana to talk about the physics course she’s taking at Harvard over the summer, her fifteen-year-old brain apparently growing bored of the marriage talk. But Ariana watches me throughout the rest of brunch, silent and steady, and I wonder if she sees what I’m trying so desperately to hide.
The truth.
* * *
Supperwith my family is a big deal.
I’m not sure if it’s the Italian heritage, or the fact that it was the only meal Papá could ever manage to make it to, but Mamá would always break out the good dishes after spending the day using paper plates, and she’d make a spread fit for an army.
The next time we go to my parents’ house, the night of Ariana’s recital, supper seems more like an intimate affair than the massive feast it once was.
Kal and I walk to the courtyard through the kitchen, noting the twinkling lights strung up, dwarfed in comparison to the city skyline just beyond. The table is set with Mamá’s wedding china, as if her company bears great importance, and there are only enough table settings for the seven of us.
I can’t remember a single time in family history where we ate with less than eight people. If not a group of girls from school—whose parents hadn’t yet realized whose house they were going to—then any number of the other family members. On occasion, we’d even host certain diplomats, each Ricci daughter putting on her best dress and fakest smile so Papá could pretend everything was fine where business was concerned.
The lack of abundance here makes me uneasy, and I pause just inside the threshold, unsure if I want to continue, or if we should just pack up and head home. Keep living in our little bubble.
Since my realization on the jet, my feelings for Kal have shifted to the forefront of my thoughts, blotting out everything else until I’m living and breathing and bleeding for this man.
I’m not even sure if it makes sense, so I keep the sentiment to myself, afraid that this secretly broken being before me doesn’t really want this marriage to go on.
Afraid of what it means if he does.
Kal pauses just ahead of me, seeming to sense that I’m no longer at his side. He turns, furrowing his brows, and moves to stand in front of me.
“Elena?”
Shaking my head, I try to dispel the sudden fog blanketing my brain, like vaporized anxiety finding a home in my body. “I… I don’t feel very well.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just blinks down at me, until my unease is due in part to his study. Finally, he smooths a hand down the front of his black tailored suit, glancing over his shoulder at where my sisters lean into each other, whispering conspiratorially.
“Do you want to leave?”
Chewing on the corner of my lip, I consider it, guilt slamming down on my shoulders. How is it possible that a place, people I once longed for, now feels like the singular bane of my existence?
“Say the word, little one, and I’ll have you back in Aplana before you can take your next breath.” He inches forward, a husky look falling over his handsome face. “Imagine all the fun we could be having.”
I almost fold. It’d be so easy to feign illness and let Kal take me back to where the rest of the world ceases to exist.
To fall into each other and pretend like none of this is doomed.
Too easy, though. After the way she acted when I left the first time, there’s no way Mamá would let me leave quietly. She’d probably burn Boston to the ground, just to keep me under her wing, a nice little doll she can dress up and manipulate forever.
So instead of accepting Kal’s offer, I shake my head again, straightening my spine until it cracks.
“I made you come here. It’s only fair I see it through, right?”
His mouth curves down, the muscle below his eye pulsing. “You didn’t make me do anything. I did it because I—”
“Supper is served!”
One of my parents’ private chefs pushes a cart through the French doors, wheeling a covered baking dish over to the table. Nonna and Papá file in after, Papá taking his usual spot at the head of the table. Normally, Mamá would sit at the opposite end, and everyone else would find a seat between, but Kal walks over to the table and plops down in Mamá’s chair.
Stella and Ariana freeze, lifting their heads as he sits. I feel the heat of their gazes on me, but I can’t tear mine from my husband, stomach tightening until it’s forcing bile up, burning the expanse of my chest with the onslaught.
God, this is going to be a long night.
Quietly, Nonna sits on the other side of Stella, patting her elbow and saying the bucatini all’Amatriciana smells amazing. Papá and Kal are locked in a staring contest, although it’s beginning to feel like something more.
Something they aren’t telling me.
Normally, we wait to eat until all the guests are seated at the table, and since Mamá hasn’t yet arrived, the Riccis all sit back in their seats, sipping drinks or buttering rolls.
Kal, though, reaches to the center of the table, removes the cloche from the pasta dish, and makes himself a plate.
Taking the seat to Kal’s left, I unfold my napkin and settle it over my lap. My voice is hushed when I speak, barely audible, but Kal leans in and listens as he shoves a forkful of bucatini into his mouth. “Why are you locked in some sort of dick measuring contest with Papá right now?”
“Mine’s bigger. Contest over.” He tucks his napkin into the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat without dropping my father’s stare.
I make a face. “Ew. What’s going on with you two? Aren’t you worried about how this might look to the Elders?”
“How what might look?”
I shrug, moving my hands in a circular gesture. “This. You, undermining his contract with Bollente Media, marrying the daughter he promised to them, and now the obvious power struggle?”
“There’s no power struggle to be had here, little one. Your father has none.” Finally, Kal looks over at me, his eyes smoldering, causing heat to pool between my thighs. “The only one here with any sort of power, especially over you, is me. Your husband.”
His words make my throat constrict, even though they sound vaguely threatening in nature; his tone, though, oozes sex, and even though my brain is struggling to keep up with every single emotion rolling around in my body, it’s that one it latches onto.
Like a familiar friend, arousal shows up and overpowers everything else, making me forget what I was even just complaining about.
Clenching my thighs together, I shift in my seat, reaching for the glass of water in front of me. I take a sip, keeping my eyes locked with Kal, until Papá clears his throat, drawing my attention.
“Bambina,” Papá says around his scotch. “How’s school?”
My hand freezes in midair and I choke up, almost dropping my glass. I take another sip, buying a few seconds while I scrape together an answer. “I... dropped out.”
Okay, not a good save, but whatever.
His eyes widen, and he sets his tumbler back on the table. “Perché?”
I can feel Kal watching me, but I look right at Papá. “I didn’t want to do it anymore. Teaching literature doesn’t interest me.”
“I see.” Papá’s nostrils flare, and he taps his thumb ring against his glass. “I suppose you didn’t think to inform the person on the hook for your student loans that he’d be having to pay for them sooner than he thought?”
Shame scores my face, fiery as it lashes against my skin. Ariana and Stella glare down at the table, while Nonna downs the rest of her wine.
“Never mind the fact that I said from the beginning that school wasn’t your destiny. But you didn’t want to believe me. Had to learn the hard way, and screw me over in the process.”
Kal stiffens beside me, fingers tightening around his fork until his knuckles bloom white. My foot kicks out, pressing against his in a silent plea not to send the utensil through my father’s throat.
“I’m sorry, Papá,” I say softly, the anger in his gaze revitalizing the nausea from before; it blows up, like a vapor expanding to fill the shape of its container, and I grip the edge of the table, trying to stave off the vomit rising in my esophagus. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”
“Of course, you didn’t, because you’re still an immature, selfish little girl.”
Mamá’s voice interrupts the quiet din of the patio atmosphere, and for once, I hear the malice threaded in her words. It’s not disguised at all in her tone, and when she rounds the table in a floor-length, bright red evening gown, I see it written on her face.
The woman who helped me get ready for my wedding and the woman standing here now are not the same person.
Not even a little bit.
Kal shoves back from the table, making the dishes clatter with the force. Murder rims his dark eyes, setting them aflame. “Carmen.”
She grins, lifting a brow, bringing her wineglass to her lips. “Oh, come on, Kal. I know my daughter. She’s quite the chip off the old block, wouldn’t you say?”
Sighing, Papá rubs his temple. “Carmen, what are you doing?”
Sitting in the chair at his side, her grin grows, stretching so wide across her face that it looks painful. She swirls the wine in her glass, gesturing toward my sisters. “Girls, why don’t you take Nonna to her room for a nap? We don’t want her falling asleep at the recital.”
Ariana snorts. “I don’t want to miss whatever this is.”
But Stella elbows her, yanking her up from the table; they flank Nonna on both sides, catching her when she droops forward in her drunken stupor.
“I was going to tell you,” I say, putting my water down. “It just kind of slipped my mind with everything else.”
“Yes,” Mamá says, leaning back in her chair, “hard to remember important things like who your family really is, when you’re too busy spreading your legs for the first man to ever pretend he cared about you.”
My face heats up, bile scratching and clawing at the base of my throat, dragging irritation up along with it. “What’s wrong with that? He’s my husband, after all.”
“Because your father wanted him away from me.”
