MOORED TO AN OUTLAW

*CHAPTER THREE: Shut Up, Viola!*

"The purpose of art is to lay bare the questions that have been hidden by the answers."

—James Baldwin

——————————————————The morning after was a beautiful disaster. I dragged myself out of bed, still reeling from the night's escapades—Tiziano's chills, my mother's nagging, and ultimately Zee's confession—and I was greeted by a cacophony of clanging pots and the smothering scent of pancakes and espresso in the kitchen.

I paused at the doorway, freshly showered and dressed in a bright blue top that said "Stop Staring" and skinny jeans, taking a moment to steel myself for what I ran into.

It was a sea of faces—literally a tidal wave of them. All familiar, but some were definitely out of place for a morning gathering like this. Take Zita, for instance. I hadn't expected to find her lounging in our kitchen, which was so grand it made our father's study look like a closet.

Married to one of the family's commissioners—who, by the way, was my father's mistress's cousin—Zita was usually nowhere to be seen in such ordinary settings, especially not with her three kids in tow.

Unless Elio had managed to avoid coming home, which I was betting he had.

Just like every other attempt to dodge family encounters, this one was no different. As soon as I halted, her eyes locked onto mine. The little smile she gave me seemed to say she was all too happy to keep my secret.

Then the following frown told me to heed her warning.

Well, damn her.

Snooping around to discover there was even a secret at all was precisely what I'd meant when I called this family a noxious blend of meddlers, alpha males, sycophants, drama queens, submissive wives, pretenders, idealists, and not a single realist in sight.

"Well, hello, hello," said... oh joy, Nico was here too? Aunt Rosa's only child. He opened the fridge, rubbing his sickly-formed mustache like anyone in this room would ever see it as anything other than the disgusting habit it was. "Look who's finally decided to join the living. The newly wed, how sweet."

"She's not married," Vi retorted, though not lifting her head from the fantasy trilogy she'd been guzzling for three straight days. "Anything can happen."

"Shut up, Viola!" Mother interjected. Vi had certainly poked the sorest spot in our family. That's how we all referred to my relationship with Tiziano—a raw wound just waiting to be touched. Mention it, and you were bound to be electrocuted by my mother's rage.

Can't really blame Mother for that—she wasn't about to risk another failed alliance, not after hers and Father's had collapsed like a house of cards.

She went back to flipping her pancakes, but not before shooting me a glare that could've turned butter to stone—all for Vi's nerve. Good grief!

Mother's hair was pulled back in its usual tight bun—a style as rigid as her demeanor. Ginevra, our father's mistress, was the complete opposite. In all the years I'd seen her, not once had she tamed her hair like that. Thirty years with our father, and she remained unapologetically wild, unlike the subtle, controlled presence of Mother. It made me wonder if Father was ever drawn to Mother's restraint at all or if it was Ginevra's untamed spirit that captivated him. But I quickly pushed aside the absurdity of pondering the sorcery of a household this was.

I finally trudged into the kitchen. Housekeepers bustled around, darting in and out as they arranged an elaborate spread of pastries in the dining hall—just for Father, who never indulged in such common fare. Zita was perched on a high chair, feeding her ten-month-old baby with a patience I envied. The toddler made delighted noises as he tried to grab at the spoon, her little hands flailing around.

The chaos continued with her younger kids darting through the kitchen, their laughter echoing off the walls. They seemed to be in a perpetual state of motion, occasionally spilling something or getting tangled in one another's legs.

Then a thought twisted my gut—I'd be having Tiziano's kids soon. But first, I'd have to get in bed with him. The mere idea made me choke, drawing a few curious glances my way, which I quickly brushed off with a forced cough.

Glancing ahead, I spotted Cosimo, the family's resident jester, slouched in a chair at the far end of the kitchen, nursing yet another hangover. His hair was a mess, and his expression radiated a profound "not a morning person" vibe.

"You look like you got run over by a bus, Cos," I commented, eliciting laughter from half the room and exasperated mutters about his drinking problem from the other half. "How many drinks did you two actually have?"

Nico said nothing, trying to drown his own hangover with the bottle of water in his grip.

"Not enough to make me feel this awful," Cosimo grumbled. "I swear, tequila's out to get me."

I didn't recall tequila being on the menu last night. In fact, I didn't remember ever being given the freedom to choose from any menu that didn't involve clothes, books, or food.

Since every Benedetti seemed to be present here, I asked about Liv and Remo's wife. Aunt Rosa vaguely mentioned that Liv had left early and said nothing more, her attention already shifting to the next person walking through the door.

Remo, always the picture of calm, strolled in already dressed to the nines in a pressed suit. He was always styled in a way that set him apart from our father's typical look. That kind of strict adherence to our father's every move was left to Young Dario—our father's first son with Ginevra.

Remo made a beeline for the kitchen island, casually popping grapes into his mouth, clearly on his way out the door. He never stuck around long. "Got an early meeting," he said, catching another grape with a flick of his wrist. "Not that I'd stay anyway—dodging the chaos is exactly my strong suit."

Glad I wasn't the only one who knew that when more than one Benedetti stayed in one place, an invisible bomb was sure to go off.

Aunt Rosa scoffed. "Maybe that meeting will teach you some manners, Remo. Lord knows you've missed every lesson so far."

Remo turned to her with a smirk. Then he laughed sarcastically. "Permit my absence, Aunt Rosa—some of us are allergic to all that hot air you've been blowing around for years."

Cosimo and Vi laughed, only fanning the flames of Aunt Rosa's anger. She spat,

"Run off. Just like your father—always quick to leave when the women get too real for you."

Remo froze, a 'what did you just say' look plastered on his face. Everyone else stiffened like statues, but not me. At that moment, I knew I'd be the one to catch the pancake slipping off mother's spoon.

Aunt Rosa wasn't the type to let anyone push her around. It's probably why her husband had taken suicide as an escape route, seeing that he couldn't bend her to his will sixteen years ago.

I had a lot of respect for her; after all, she didn't just take on everyone—she even took on my father.

By now, Remo had absorbed enough of her sting. With his lips clamped shut, he turned to the "hungover twins" and said, "Once Allegra's up, have someone drive her home. Nico, that's you."

"Uhm. Yes... sir..."

And just like that, Remo was out the door.

Aunt Rosa's little dig had effectively wrecked the perfect couple's getaway plans? Perfect.

The glare my mother shot her sister made it clear they'd be at each other's throats for the rest of the day for that singular statement. Lucky for me, I had better things to do than stick around for the drama.

Cosimo cast a feeble glare around the room, trying to defuse the tension. "Cinnamons are better than butter, right?"

"What?" I coughed, confused. "That's not even a fair comparison."

"What would you know?" He rolled his eyes and took the plate of breakfast from me. "I didn't even ask for your opinion. Now, beat it."

"f**k off."

"Language!" Mother chimed in from inside the fridge now.

I bit my tongue to keep from swearing again. "Sorry, Mother."

Vi, still huddled on her barstool, finally slammed the book shut with a frustrated huff. "I can't freaking concentrate with all you people around."

Aunt Rosa shook her head as she observed my sister. "Better off that way. That book's going to give you impossible expectations about men." A wry smile appeared on her lips, and her eyes rolled as she set down her empty plate. "Don't let those heroes go to your head."

Vi barely looked up. "You mean, no one wants to ride in on a white horse and rescue me from this chaotic breakfast?"

I chuckled as I grabbed another plate and started piling on scrambled eggs and toast for Nico. He hated pancakes. "Just don't let your fantasies interfere with your reality, Vi. That's a hard lesson I learned last night."

"What's that about last night?" My mother's eyes darted to me at once.

"Uhm... nothing, Mama," I said quickly. "Just a little too much excitement."

To shield me from my mother's probing gaze, heavy footsteps announced Father's arrival. Instantly, his presence turned the room cold. The remaining laughter and chatter evaporated as if a switch had been flipped. He surveyed the room with a piercing, calculating look before leaning over the island.

Then, his phone rang, and he was out the door once more. A wave of relief swept through us as everyone hurried to finish their meals, eager to avoid another encounter with his intimidating presence.

Vi finally finished eating as she asked, "So, what's the plan for today? And who's driving me to book club? Cosimo looks like he'll be out of commission."

"I'll drive you," Nico offered, though the enthusiasm was clearly lacking. How could it be otherwise? Driving around spoiled princesses was a job for chauffeurs, not brothers and cousins—unless, of course, you were talking about the Benedetti household.

"You're my ride, not Vi's!" I groaned. "Unless you're planning to drop me off first before heading to her place. I'm not going to be late again today."

That was the crux of our perfect, princess-like lives. We weren't allowed to drive ourselves. Thankfully, as Cosimo's favorite sibling, he'd bent a few rules for me since I turned eighteen. He'd taught me to drive, but volunteering to drive myself now was out of the question. Not only would it get me a sharp retort from my mother, but Cosimo would be sobered up by her slap faster than he could say "hangover."

"Does Nico look like he's up for your sarcastic existence?" The fool eyed me jokingly. "You're going to be late if you don't hurry up, kids. And don't look at me—I'm not going anywhere today but back to bed."

Nico slanted his eyes at me. "Actually, it's the Sessie-Amalia drama I'm avoiding."

"I wasn't even going to ask ride from you, you imbecile." I rolled my eyes at Cosimo, hoping to avoid Nico's allegation.

Vi rose then, probably frustrated with Cosimo's existence. "Have a lovely day... Aunt Rosa, Mother, Zee." She stuffed her novel into her tote and slung it over her shoulder. "Call me, Sessie, once you're done with class." After planting a quick kiss on my cheeks, she dashed off with Nico.

"And who's taking you?" Mother asked, brushing a crumb from my lips.

"One of the men. I'm sure if she asks nicely, they'll linger until evening and bring her back," Cosimo sneeringly said as he got up. "After all, she's Sessie."

Mother gave me a look that mixed relief with amusement. "Be careful, honey. Don't lose your ring."

And as for that ring—I'd be hiding it in my bag as soon as I was out of sight. But I offered a dutiful smile. "Sure, Mother."

Clearing her throat, Zita picked up her baby and started tidying up the mess. Her gaze was a reminder of our one-sided agreement. "Looking forward to seeing your commitment and you at the Matrimonial Retreat."

Well, I could certainly wait. What was exciting about joining a bunch of idealistic women to discuss marriage, its lofty expectations, and inevitable drawbacks?

Before I could slip out through the second door, Father stormed back through the first, his eyes landing on Zita with a chilling intensity. "Elio's been shot," he announced, devoid of any emotion or connection—just stark, cold facts.

Zita and I let out simultaneous screams, amplifying the gasps that rippled through the room from mother and Cosimo.

Father's gaze flickered in my direction, one of the rare moments he actually looked at me. He snapped his fingers and barked, "Weren't you supposed to be going somewhere?"

I nodded hesitantly.

"Then why are you still dangling around?"

Yeah, I was an object; I dangled.

I found my feet in an instant, pushing the door open and fleeing, eager to find something—anything—that wasn't tied to the Benedetti name. How was I supposed to cope with this? Zita's husband had been shot, and yet I was treated as if it were none of my business, as if I wouldn't be expected to mourn if he didn't pull through.

Frankly, it had always been clear: our only jobs were to cook, nod, and stay silent.

This family wasn't merely sitting on a time bomb; it was the explosive device itself.