Tentative Engagements

Chapter 5: “Dinner guest.”

Abby

I feel like Alice in Wonderland right now. I’ve been in this very room before, but I feel dislocated when I take a seat in the dining room chair that resembles a throne. As the firsts go, this is the first official time I find myself sitting as a guest in a formal dining room. As a maid, I’m usually the one who serves the people sitting at the dining room table.

The Russos have an exquisite antique formal dining room. I polished the walnut furniture last night. The center point of the room is not the ornate chandelier but the impressively tall eight-foot windows that showcases Mrs. Russo's spectacular flower garden. Windows that I could not clean entirely because of their height and my injury. An injury that I had been irritating for the past two nights.

I have always been a quick healer, but a bullet wound is something else. That bullet went through my right shoulder and nicked my lung. Dr. Durell would not be pleased if he saw the condition of my wound today. This morning I could not lift my arm to slip on my T-shirt. I had no other choice but to wear a button-up white oxford blouse. Looking at everyone around me, I feel as if I were wearing a dirty dishrag. It happens to be the fanciest article of clothing I own.

Sitting on one end of the table is the formidable Mr. Russo, with his wife sitting to his right. The retired caporegime, Mr. Russo, is an older version of his sons. His salt and pepper hair doesn’t take away any of his vitality. His wife, Mrs. Russo, on the other hand, resembles the actress Emily Watson. Her warm chocolate auburn hair is pulled up in a tendril twist bun. Her astute light blue eyes break her warm and gentle persona.

If I found the older Mr. Russo imposing, his eldest son, Gabriel, is downright intimidating. As the new caporegime, the role requires a ruthless and formidable individual, and Gabriel Russo suits his role perfectly. He sits at the other end of the table opposite his father. His younger brother, Christian, sits to his right.

“Abrianna, how are you feeling?” Mrs. Russo asks me.

“I’m feeling a bit ok. Please call me Abby.”

“Of course, Abrianna is feeling ok. She has been cleaning this house the past two days behind our backs.” Gabriel’s offended tone shocks me. What did I do wrong? At Mr. Marino’s home, I was not to be seen. I completed my work while the household slept. I guess the rules are different here. I need to know them, and I need to know why I was invited to eat with them. Why was I given to them?

“Oh, please don’t remind me. Abby, how are your wounds doing?” My wounds have been throbbing and burning. The pain is escalating by the minute. Should I say something?

“She probably opened her stitches. Baby girl, even infected with sepsis, won’t save you from the upcoming wedding.” Christian, the younger brother, teases me, but it also sounds like a threat. Oh no, I need to make sure that I am healthy enough to help out during the wedding.

“I’m sure I will be healed in no time. When is this wedding happening?” I ask while accepting a steaming plate of carbonara. No prayer was said before the family began eating, much like the Mariano’s home.

I tilt my head slightly and close my eyes. I mentally recite a silent prayer of thanks for the food I am about to receive. When I’m done, I reach for my fork and spoon and begin to twirl the pasta. It smells so delicious that my mouth begins to salivate. It is pure heaven. I need to get the recipe from their cook to add it to my journal.

The silence in the room prompts me to look up from my dish and look for the cause for the silence. “I never would have pegged Maximiliano as a religious man. Tell me, Abby, does Maximiliano make everyone say a prayer before every meal?” Mrs. Russo asks me. It turns out I was the cause for the abrupt silence. I take my time swallowing my food. I am not comfortable disclosing Mr. Mariano’s personal life.

“No, he isn’t. He also never imposed his beliefs or lack of belief on anyone.” That should be enough. I didn’t disclose any critical information.

“So he was just cool with you praying and s**t?” Christian rudely asks me.

“I was seldom around Mr.Marino. I never shared a meal where he could have noticed me praying. I was raised in a Catholic orphanage, and I kept my faith when I started working for Mr. Marino. My faith is mine alone. If it offends you, I will be more careful next time. I’m sorry I’m presumptuous. I mean, if I ever get invited back to dine with your family.” I answered Christian’s question, but it was meant for everyone.

I rub my upper arm, not because it’s cold, but because of the burning sensation coming from the entry wound on my right pectoral muscle. The exit wound on my back feels wet. I move my hair back to cover it just in case it’s bleeding. I have a feeling that I indeed reopened my wound.

“Why do you always refer to your cousin as Mr. Mariano?” Mr. Russo's direct question unsettles me. How do they know that Max is my cousin? I am so foolish, of course, they know. They all know that I am the daughter of a traitor—the despised cousin of their underboss, Maximiliano Marino.

“Yes.” I replied quickly.

“Why and what orphanage are you talking about?” The bold Christian asks.

“Is your arm hurting you?” Now that question from Gabriel shocks me. I remove my hand from my right arm immediately.

“Mr. Mariano didn’t allow me to call him anything but that. I grew up in an orphanage until the age of 12. That’s when Mr. Mariano came to get me. We might be cousins, but only from a genetic standpoint. We are not close.” He is my only family member, and he hates me. My father cost him his mother.

“I find it interesting that it was exactly six years ago when Maximiliano’s father passed away. I wonder if he picked you up after or before his old man died.” Mr. Russo, the clever fox, quizzes me.

“You knew your uncle? Did he visit you at the orphanage?” I don’t want to answer him. I turn my face to hide my watery eyes. Unfortunately, I end up looking straight at Gabriel. A slight frown emerges from his face. My breathing picks up as my mind recollects those awful memories.

“Answer him, Abby.” Gabriel's soft tone almost breaks me. I need to get control of myself. I straighten my back and press as hard and subtle as I can against the carved wooden back of my chair. My pain is redirected to my injury. Gabriel’s frown deepens at my actions.

“My uncle would visit me once a month, at the orphanage. He never missed his visits with me. The one time he did, he had passed away. After a few days from my uncle’s missed visitation, Maximiliano Mariano came. I was nervous that he was there to take his father’s place, but thankfully he wasn’t. He took me away from the orphanage and allowed me to stay at his house.” With a shaky hand, I take hold of my wine glass. I take a large gulp. I go to take another one, but Gabriel stops me. He slides a glass of water closer to me.

“You can’t drink alcohol with your medication.” I nod in agreement and switch drinks.

“Did he make you call him Mr. Mariano too, as his son does?” Christian questions are annoying me. I press against the chair again to center myself.

“He demanded to be called, My Dearest Uncle. No matter what, I was to call him, My Dearest Uncle.” The spoonful of pasta is rotting in the pit of my stomach. I want to vomit. I have answered their questions no matter how intrusive they were. I wonder if they will answer some for me.

“May I ask a question?” I ask Gabriel. He nods his head.

“Why was I sent here? Was I swapped for another maid? And finally, why am I getting treated differently from the other help? Unless you treat all your employees like this, it doesn’t make sense.”

“I was on my way to retrieve you from Maximiliano’s home. Thankfully, I arrived just in time to save your life. As I’m sure you are well aware, Noelle was supposed to be my wife. Maximiliano ran off with my bride, so I demanded a substitute return. You, Abrianna. You are not here for help. You are here as my fiancée.”

Without thinking, I pushed the chair I was sitting on away from the table. I stood up and backed away from them. I looked at each of them. All of their eyes narrowed at me in unison. I spoke loud and clear with all of the conviction I had in my bones, “Absolutely and indisputably no. I will never be your wife. I will be your office maid, your cook, even your w***e, but the one thing I will never be is your wife.”