Oh, how wrong she was. I was his property. I was his and only his. It wasn’t about his permission, though, but the fact that I cared so much about what he felt and thought. I knew his authoritarian behavior was as much a result of his upbringing as the appearances he had to keep up throughout his entire life. It had nothing to do with wanting to make me his property.
I went outside and searched the entire estate, but Massimo was nowhere to be found. His Ferrari was still parked in the same place we had left it. Through an open window in one of the buildings I heard a conversation in English. I recognized my brother’s voice and went that way.
“Good evening,” I said to the receptionist. “I’m looking for my fiancé. A tall, handsome Italian.”
The girl smiled and glanced at her monitor.
“Apartment eleven, third floor,” she said, pointing me to the stairs.
I reached the right door and knocked, and my brother opened it a while later, sporting a wily grin.
“Hey, sis, what are you doing here? Petey’s bored with the dancing already?” he asked sardonically.
I ignored him and entered the apartment, crossing a short corridor to the living room. There was Massimo, sitting on a leather sofa, turning a credit card in his fingers.
“Having fun, baby girl?” he asked, leaning over the coffee table.
There was a little pile of white powder in the middle of the glass counter, and Massimo was arranging it into short lines. I froze, staring at the scene, when my brother appeared, holding a bottle of Chivas in his hand.
“I like your man,” he said, nudging me on the arm and sitting next to Massimo. “Knows how to party.” Don Massimo put a finger to one of his nostrils, bent over the table, and snorted one of the lines of coke.
“Can we talk, Massimo?” I asked.
“If you want to ask me whether you can join us, the answer is no.”
My brother burst out in laughter.
“My sister and cocaine? That would have been a deadly combination.”
I had never tried any drugs. Not by choice, but rather out of fear. I knew what they did to people and how unpredictable they made them. The view of those two doing lines brought back the worst memories and a feeling of fear that I never wanted to experience again.
“Kuba, would you leave us for a while?” I asked.
Seeing my expression, he got to his feet and put on his jacket.
“I was about to leave anyway. That blonde at table three has the hots for me.”
Before he left, he called out to Massimo, “I’ll be back.”
I stood and watched the Man in Black snort another line, washing it down with a sip of the amber liquor. I walked over.
“Is that how you’re planning to spend the evening?” I asked, reclining in an armchair.
“Your brother is a great guy,” he replied, ignoring the question. “Very smart. Knows his way around finance. I could use a creative accountant in the family.”
The thought of Kuba joining the Mafia made me feel nauseous.
“What are you babbling about, Massimo? He’ll never join the mob.”
The Man in Black barked out a laugh and took another sip.
“That’s not your decision to make. If he’d wanted, I could make him a very rich and very happy man.”
My brother’s main flaw, besides his love of women, was his love of money.
“Will I ever be able to have a say in anything? Will you ever take my opinion into consideration before making a decision? Because if not, I don’t want that life!” I yelled, jumping to my feet. “I have enough of that! Of not having any influence over what’s happening. Of not being able to decide about my own life!”
Fuming, I left the room, slamming the door behind me. I took the stairs down and sat in a gazebo in the garden.
“Fuck this,” I hissed to myself.
“Trouble in paradise?” Piotr asked, sitting next to me with a bottle of wine. “Has your friend gotten under your skin?” He took a swig straight from the bottle.
I stared at him for a second and was just about to get up when I decided I didn’t really want to run from him. I reached out, took the wine from him, and poured a generous portion down my throat.
“Chill out, Laura! You don’t want to get wasted this early.”
“I don’t know what I want anymore. And seeing you here… Why did you come?”
“I knew you’d be here. How long has it been? Six years?”
“Eight.”
“You haven’t called me or responded to my emails. You never pick up your phone. You didn’t even allow me to explain. Or apologize.”
I turned, facing him, angry again, and snatched the bottle from his hand.
“What’s there to explain? You tried to kill yourself in front of me!”
He dropped his head.
“Yeah. I was an idiot. But then I went to therapy and I’ve been clean ever since. I tried getting my life together, but after a while I realized you were the only woman I wanted to be with. So I stopped myself. I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I wanted you to be alone, and maybe…”
I raised a hand to shut him up.
“Piotr, you’re the past. The city is my future. I’m living a different life now and I don’t want you in it.”
He leaned back, flopping over the backrest.
“I know, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s really nice to see you. You’re even more beautiful now.”
We sat there, talking about everything that had happened during all those years, about my life in Warsaw and his dance studio. One bottle of wine, then another, and a third.
CHAPTER 18
I was woken up by sunlight shining over my face and a grotesquely strong headache.
“Oh, God,” I moaned, crawling out of bed. I took a look around and realized I wasn’t in my parents’ house. I walked across the apartment and found myself in the living room, suddenly remembering the events of last night. Massimo leaning over the white powder and talking to Piotr, and… nothing after that. I grabbed my phone and dialed Massimo. He didn’t pick up. At least he’s consistent, I thought, though deep down I really didn’t want to talk to him hungover.
I went to the bathroom and took a long shower before walking to the window. There was a black SUV parked downstairs, and Paolo was standing next to it smoking a cigarette. I glanced at the spot where the Ferrari had been parked last night—it was gone. I put on some clothes and went down.
“Where is don Massimo?” I asked Paolo.
He didn’t reply, only gestured to the back seat of the car. I stepped in, and he closed the door. We drove to my parents’ house, stopping at the gate leading up to the driveway. Paolo got out and opened the door for me.
“I’ll wait here,” he said, getting back in.
With my shoes in my hand, I crossed the driveway and rang the doorbell. My mother opened the door.
“Nothing like a French leave,” she said with a grimace. “Come. Breakfast is ready.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I replied, walking to my room to change.
As I sat at the table, Mom passed me a plate with eggs and bacon.
“Bon appétit.”
The smell of food made me retch. I sprinted to the bathroom and threw up.