Sold to Mr. Giordano

Arielle

Antonio and I have been married exactly a month and it’s been filled with awkward short conversations, ignoring, avoiding and arguing. Antonio works as long as he wants sometimes never coming home at the end of the night—I fear he is sleeping around to make up for the lack of sex in our relationship.

I shouldn’t be jealous though, right?

When asking Angelo how much Antonio works, it doesn’t compare to the number I presumed he works. There were a handful of times when I mentioned to Angelo how Antonio was working, and Angelo informed me he wasn’t. So where exactly is my husband going if not at work?

A bar? A strip club? His mistresses apartment?

All the endless possibilities of where the most powerful man in Chicago could go—could do. My mind conjuring up all these scenarios is making me crazy. I know I should be as aloof as he is, but I can’t and I hate how much I’ve grown to want him. I want to have the relationship my parents never had, I always dreamed of a relationship—since dating was prohibited—and dreamed of someone to cuddle with, to kiss, to love. If there was any semblance to that it was my honeymoon and I so desperately cleave to that night. It’s not healthy, but I want a redo. I want sweet Antonio, who took his time loving me, to come back.

For the first time in a long time I wake up next to a warm body. Antonio is shirtless sleeping on his stomach breathing heavily in a deep sleep. He’s facing me and the line creased in his forehead look strained—even in his sleep he isn’t relaxed. My eyes venture over his strong back and my hands itch to touch the smoothness and hard muscle there.

So, I do.

I gently place a fingertip on his back and begin to trail down his spine when in a flash my wrist is grabbed and Antonio’s angry body is above me ready to slit my throat.

“Arielle, Jesus Christ! You can’t do that!” He growls.

“I can’t touch you?” My eyebrows knit together.

“No,” he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I’m not used to sleeping in bed with someone. I nearly forgot you were here.”

It’s understandable, being Capo you have to sleep with one eye open. Not to mention when we have slept together, we kept to own sides and he always woke up before I did.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say softly as I stare up into his eyes. He’s still hovering on top of me, I watch in my peripheral view as my chest rises and my breasts reach up to touch him. Quite frankly having him like this I want to grab his neck and pull him down to kiss me—no, to devour me.

We stare into each other’s eyes for what feels like five minutes, but after about five seconds Antonio tears his gaze away and removes his body from mine. He gets out of bed and grabs his pants resting on the arm of the chair. I can’t help but stare at the way his briefs hug his backside. I won’t lie and say sex was terrible, it might’ve been a little awkward the first time, but I’m still a woman with needs and I admit that I crave the intimate closeness we’ve been lacking for a month.

After that night Antonio asked for sex and I refused, he never asked or pushed again which angered me. I might’ve given in and said yes to his offer—but I surely am not ever going to be the one to ask him first.

Stubborn Italian.

“Are you going to work?” I ask pulling the sheets up against my chest. I knew that through my silk nightgown my nipples would be poking through, but in the moment I’m too dumb to realize I could’ve used it as a seduction technique to my advantage. The cold won and the blanket I wrapped around myself warmed my chest.

Antonio scratches at the back of his neck, “Actually, no.”

“Oh, then where are you going.”

His face turned angry as his zipped his pants up and grabbed one of his many long sleeve button ups. “I’ll be home later,” is all he says before leaving me alone to our penthouse…again.

With a sigh, I start my day by taking a long hot shower. I’m in no mood to go out or do whatever Arabella probably has planned for me. I dress comfortably wearing a t-shirt with an oversized, soft waffle-material cardigan and black leggings. I grab my book from my nightstand, slip in my slippers, and head downstairs where I’m surprised it’s empty. No one is in the living room or kitchen. Usually someone is having breakfast, lunch or watching television.

Oh well, I guess I should take advantage of this new privacy.

I curl myself on the couch and wrap one of the throw blanket around me. I open my book to chapter twelve where I left off and realize only after reading three pages that I haven’t actually been paying attention to the words on the page. I throw my book across the couch and opt for watching a M*A*S*H marathon on television.

By the fifty episode I start to wonder where Carmelo was, as my bodyguard he’s always up my butt. I keep my blanket around me as I head upstairs to see if maybe Carmelo and Arabella overslept.

Carmelo’s room is the first door on the left in the long corridor holding most of the guest rooms including the master bedroom down the hall. I knock on Carmelo’s door first and get no response so I head further down the hall until I reach Arabella’s room—which used to be my old room.

When I reach her door I knock, I realize I hear noises on the other side of the door. A muffled scream causes me to open her door without permission and what I see on the other side makes me wish I had asked for permission. Carmelo is laying on his back naked as Arabella is straddling his hips—naked as well.

“Fuck,” Carmelo grabs Arabella by the waist to stop her when he sees my face.

Arabella turns and gasps grabbing the nearest thing to cover up her sweaty, nude body. “Arielle! Listen, we can explain—”

“There is nothing to explain,” I avert my gaze down and rush out of her room as fast as I could.

I resume my M*A*S*H marathon as if nothing happened and even when Arabella and Carmelo grace my presence with clothes on, I still act as though nothing happened.

“Arielle,” Arabella says sadly as she sits next to me.

“B. J. is my favorite. I think he’s adorable,” I try to avoid the conversation I know she wants to have. “I would marry that man in a heartbeat.”Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

“He’s probably in his seventies by now,” Arabella responds.

I shrug my shoulders. “He’d probably be a better husband than Antonio,” I mumble.

“Can we talk about what you just saw,” her frown deepens. “Please, I don’t want you to be awkward around me and I don’t want Carmelo to get in trouble if you—”

I turn to face her, “If I what? Tell Antonio?”

Carmelo is standing off to the side, like always, leaning against the wall and simply hovering over us but not exactly joining in the conversation. His face is no longer red, like when I caught them in the act, and he seems oddly stoic about this situation especially when Arabella is right—Carmelo could get in trouble if I told Antonio he was busy having sex instead of protecting me. Even worse, my bodyguard sex with his cousin who is spoken for by my brother.

“You’re not going to tell him, right?” I can see in the way she holds herself that she doesn’t want Carmelo to get in trouble. Maybe because she loves him or maybe because she doesn’t want anyone to know and it was a onetime thing. “Carmelo has been working a lot taking care of you and I’ve been worrying about Luca… it was just for pleasure that’s all. We were friends scratching an itch.”

I rub at my forehead trying to get the image of them scratching each other’s itches out of my head. I turn back to B. J. and Hawkeye who are pulling pranks on Winchester. I always wanted a friendship like theirs, but a part of me always wondered if their friendship was mainly due to the circumstances of war.

I sometimes felt like that with Arabella, especially in a moment like this, were we just friends due to the circumstance of the Mafia? I wondered how much we would keep in contact after she moved to New York. I know I seemed to have lost contact with my mother after the wedding. I haven’t spoken to her since and she seems to be ignoring my calls.

“I’m not going to tell Antonio. I don’t want to talk about it and I definitely don’t want to think about it,” I shudder at the mental video I have of her riding Carmelo.

“Let’s go out!” She grabs ahold of my elbow and pulls me up and out of the couch. “Come on, we can really treat ourselves. We can get our hair done, nails done—oh, let’s get a massage too!” 

“I don’t know. I’m not really in the mood,” I let myself fall back onto the couch the second she lets go of me.

“No, no, no sitting here being depressed while watching a show from like the seventies.”

“Come on, just leave me here. I’m not in the mood.” When your depressed it’s hard to find the energy to want to anything aside from laying around and sulking. And right now, that’s all I want to do. I want to escape into the 4-0-7-7 MASH and admire B. J.’s mustache.

Arabella gives up and with a heavy sigh throws her body on the couch and scratches her legs across the cushions. “Fine. That one is my favorite then,” she points to a character on screen.

“Hawkeye,” I smile. “He’s great. Hilarious.”

“So, what do they do?” I know she’s trying to act interested, but still it means a lot considering I love this show and would rather be watching this than having a massage.

“It takes place during the Korean War, they’re all surgeons.”

“All of them?”

“Well, just about all of them. The woman there, she’s a nurse—all the women are nurses. That one there, he’s not a surgeon either,” I point at characters.

Despite it being the afternoon and we woke up not too long ago, Arabella fell asleep on one of my favorite episodes. It the one where the entire unit is passing around pages of a book and the ending is missing so they have to call the author themselves to find out who the murderer was.

I turn around to see Carmelo in his usual spot against the wall, still awake and alert but boorishly watching the T. V. At least neither of them is hounding me to get out or asking me to change the channel. If there’s one thing I miss it’s my ability to do whatever I want—alone. I miss my alone time.

The elevator door dings and I hope it’s Antonio until I see Carmelo rush into action. Carmelo pulls out his pistol, tells me to get down. Arabella wakes up amongst the commotion and I pull her down to the ground with me. I place my hand over her mouth so she doesn’t ask questions. I hear the click of Carmelo’s gun and then the sound of the elevator doors open.

“Down dog,” I hear a deep voice and then a growl coming from Carmelo.

“You should’ve told me you were coming.”

When I peek my head up and over the couch, I see Rocco standing there with a large smile across his face. He spots me and cocks his head to the side. “And what are you doing on the ground?” Arabella pops her head up too. “Oh, I promise I won’t tell my brother.”

“Shut up,” I roll my eyes, “We thought you were an intruder.”

“Sorry to disappoint. I’ve come here to take you ladies out.”

“Where?” Arabella jumps up and claps happily.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I cross my arm stubbornly.

“Anywhere, maybe the club,” Rocco shrugged.

“I have the perfect new dress to wear!” Arabella exclaims. Before I can open my mouth to protest, she asks, “Where have you been, cousin? I haven’t seen your face around here in a month.”

“Have you missed my pretty face, Bella?” Rocco bats his eyelashes. “I’ve been on business. Nothing to worry about,” he takes a seat on the couch and crosses his legs. “Go on get ready, I’ll be here watching,” he smiles, “M*A*S*H. Oh, I like the older ones with Trapper John and Blake.”

I cross my arms and huff. “Well I like the ones with Hunnicutt.”

Rocco rolls his eyes and uses his hand to wave me off toward the stairs. “Go. Go get ready.”

“No,” I stomp my foot in frustration because no one seems to be listening. “I want to stay here. You and Arabella can go party at a club until your heart’s content, but I wish to stay here on my couch and watch my favorite show!”

“Didn’t want to have to do this sweetheart, but you’re coming with us.” Rocco stands abruptly and tosses my body over his shoulder.

I pound on his back with my fists and try to kick him. He laughs at my pathetic attempt. He walks up the stairs despite my violent protest and walks down the hall toward the room I share with Antonio. He throws me on the bed and turns to head to my wardrobe. He opens the closest and examines my clothes.

“Where are your dresses?” He looks at the loose fitting cotton dresses and shakes his head. “Have anything revealing or anything tight?”

“I don’t think my husband would appreciate me dressing like that without him.”

“Well you’re with me and I’ll make sure no one talks or touches you. But we are going to a club that Antonio and I both own and as the owner’s wife you must look your best. You can’t wear a casual dress like these,” he picks up my favorite knee length black dress with tiny white polka dots. He is right, they’re not exactly for a party.

“I have a few cocktail dresses,” I walk into my wardrobe and pull out a light blue dress that is slim fitting.

“Hmm, that’ll do nicely. Go put it on,” Rocco orders and sits with his legs crossed in one of the rooms leather chairs.

I head into the bathroom to change and silently grumble in my mind because the clothes I’m wearing now are comfort—they’re soft, warm and what I want to be wearing until I have to change into pajamas before bed. I strip until I’m in my underwear and bra and step into the dress sliding it up.

I walk out with my hair held up in one hand. “Will you zip this up for me?”

Rocco stands and goes to the back of my dress. I can feel his fingers at the end of my spine and the zipper sliding up and up until…

“I can’t get it.”

“What?” I frown and try to grab and pull at the zipper myself. “That can’t be.”

“Looks like you gained some weight.”

“I did not!” I shout and angrily strip out of the dress. I throw the material at his face and say, “I’m not going!” Right before slamming the bathroom door shut.

What was happening to me? I had always been the same size since freshman year. Sure I have been indulging in snacks a little more than usual but that couldn’t be the reason my dress wasn’t zipping. In my AP psychology class we had learned depression makes you either lose weight or gain it. Maybe this was depression, I mean with all this change in my life and the way my marriage is going, the lack of closeness I feel… it’d make anyone depressed.

“Arielle, come out. Maybe Arabella will have something that fits you,” Rocco said on the other side of the door.

I locked the door and slide down the door sitting on the cold marble floor fighting back tears. “Go away, Rocco! I’m not going, that’s final!”

“Arielle…” he sighs.

“Go. Away!” I scream.

I hear footsteps receding and then the slam of what is most likely the bedroom door. Thank God he left. I can crawl back into my leggings and comfy cardigan and maybe snuggle into bed and read a book until exhaustion finds me.

At least online classes will keep me busy when they start. I only signed up for four classes and they didn’t seem hard at all but at least I could spend my days on the laptop studying and doing assignments. Maybe having that purpose of school will get me out of my depression.