Livia
On my way to Mom and Dad’s house to have lunch with Mom and her posh, Italian friends, I know that Aedan should be the last thing on my mind. After that beautiful day, I knew I had to distance myself from him. The sex was incredible, beyond incredible. The sex told me things about myself I never knew existed. The sex transformed me. But only a naïve person would think a transformation could last forever. After all, whatever I become, I’ll always be a Russo. But that doesn’t mean it’s been easy.
I duck out of the office every time I hear Aedan approaching. Or, if I don’t hear him or get word of him, I make an excuse and leave when he appears. Sometimes, I’m cold, and in these moments I hate myself for it. On the brief occasions where we make eye contact, shivers run all over my skin. I want him to grab me, throw me over the desk, and fuck me from behind; I want to feel his teeth on his skin; I want to feel his lips on my nipples. I want to feel the immense pleasure of that day all over again. And yet I know that Mom and the ghost of Luca will not allow it.
But...
That’s always there, the but. But Aedan is so sexy, so hot, so rugged. But the sex was better than anything I’ve ever felt. But just lying there with him afterward was also incredible. But listening to his heartbeat whilst he slept was oddly peaceful. But, but, but, over and over until I feel like my mind is full of warring people, all screaming for attention, each at the other’s throat, Luca and Mom and Aedan and in between them all, me, crouched low, wanting everyone to be quiet just for a little while.
“Ah!”
I walk up the long, paved driveway to my childhood home, a five-bedroom mansion set within a private gate and fenced, with a pool and a huge garden. As I walk, I wave at the gardener. I walk up the stairs and knock the golden-eagle pommel. The butler answers, a stern-faced, pristine man, and leads me through the hallway and into the living room. He doesn’t need to lead me, though. Even someone who’s never set foot in this house would know to follow the cackling of Mom and her friends, high-pitched, high-class tittering.
I let him sweep me up, I think, because these days I’m always thinking about Aedan even when I’m not with him. There was an animal attraction and I let it take hold of me. I was powerless. Or, maybe, I wanted to be powerless. Maybe I wanted to feel like there was nothing I could do. Maybe it excited me. Maybe I only told myself I was powerless to resist.
Mom jumps to her feet, dressed in an elegant house dress which hugs her body. She’s almost fifty now, but through a combination of makeup, dieting, exercise, and plastic surgery she looks like a woman in her mid-thirties. She has the same luscious black hair as me, though hers is dyed. All around her, eight women sit, all Italian, all of them appearing to me like clones of Mom with only subtle differences: a gold watch instead of silver, hoop earrings instead of pearl, a fashionable woman’s suit set instead of a dress. But, essentially, Mom’s Hummingbirds are little copies of her.
And just like hummingbirds, they flutter and flap and clap and teem with pent-up energy.
“Livia!” Mom cries, clapping her hands together so that her dress flows water-like around her. She’s so elegant, I think. Always so elegant, like a woman in a movie.
“Mom,” I say. I nod to her friends, muttering their names automatically: “Bianca, Dina, Cassandra, Caterina, Cristina, Renata, Tatiana, Zaira.” Each of them gives me a dainty wave in response.
“You see how polite she is?” Mom says, leading me by the shoulders to a plush cream armchair with gold fringing. She pushes me gently into it and then resumes her seat. All of the women turn to me. I feel self-conscious sitting here, as though I’m under a spotlight—or like I’m on a medical examiner’s table. They pick me apart with their eyes.
“So polite, Claudio, you must be so proud.”
Mom says something rapidly in Italian and half the ladies laugh, only half of them speaking Italian fluently.
“Oh, and such a good girl,” Mom goes on, but she looks at me with her lips peeled back over her teeth. I shift uncomfortably. There’s something in her eyes, some glinting resentment or anger I don’t understand at all. “Such a loyal girl, aren’t you, Livia?” Mom giggles and the ladies titter with her, all of them now—no Italian required.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, my face already starting to burn. She knows, I think, and when I look at her, I know it’s true. Maybe not the full extent of it, but she knows enough. She’s angry. I shouldn’t have come here.
“So, Livia,” Mom says, with that same wolfish hunger in her eyes. I know Mom well enough to understand that all the trappings of her life, the jewels and the dresses and the servants, haven’t robbed her of her acidic streak, of her fire. I know that, sometimes, she can be a real bitch. I sense one of her bitchy moments coming on now. “What have you been up to lately?”
“Just working,” I say.
“Pardon?” Mom almost shouts. “Speak up, dear. Why would you whisper? Do you have something to be ashamed of?”
“I didn’t whisper.”
But Mom’s no longer listening. She rolls her eyes at her Hummingbirds and collectively they titter. One of them flutters her silver-ringed fingers together, making tiny clapping noises.
“‘Just working.’ Does she really expect me to believe that, ladies? Does she really think I’m so naïve?”
Eight pampered women cry:
“No!”
“Oh, absolutely not!”
“You? Naïve? Never!”
Mom brings her hand to her chest, playing the Outraged Princess. I squint at her. When Mom gets in these moods, these bitchy, malicious moods, it’s almost impossible to bring her out of them. She relishes them, wallows in them. Sometimes, I think these moods are all she lives for. She loves to be outraged.
“You see,” she says, shaking her head at me, as though I’m the one who called her naïve. “So, don’t try and fool me, sweet daughter of mine. What do you think I am, some closeted, hidden-away woman? Do you think I don’t have access to the grapevine, Livia? No, listen to me, I do have access to it, and I’ve learnt a great deal. Namely, that you and that Irish feccia have become very close.”
The Hummingbirds gasp as one, outraged at such a flagrant and dishonorable action. I sit up straighter in the chair, wondering at the feeling which now spikes through me, making my heart beat into a drum. Then I realize what it is: rage. Pure and simple. Rage that Mom has presumed, my entire life, to tell me what to do. And not just what to do. But how and when to do it. If Mom had her way, I’d be nothing more than a puppet, strings attached to the end of her beringed fingers, dancing to any tune she wanted me to.
“So what?” I say, though it’s more like I hear myself say it. The words are low, challenging, and in a tone of voice I have never once used with Mom. “So what?” I snap.
Mom leans back in her chair as though struck. “So what?” she repeats. She jumps to her feet and stands over me. The Hummingbirds watch with rapt eyes, completely absorbed in the scene, none of them offering to give us some privacy. “So what?” she hisses, spit spraying between plump, Botoxed lips. “Let me tell you so what, young lady. Your brother—your twin, your sweet, smart, handsome twin—was gunned down in the street by an Irishman. A dirty, beastly Irishman. And now you’re going to open your legs and give him your cunt and ask me so what?” She roars the last words, leaning down, spit flying into my face.
“Mom,” I say, voice hard. “Don’t talk about Aedan like that.”
Why am I defending him? I’ve done everything in my power to cut off all contact with him. Why would I defend him now? But I know the reason. It’s the same reason Aedan has been with me these past couple of weeks every time I close my eyes. It’s the same reason that I’ve dreamt of him almost every night, of his naked body, of his massive cock, imagining his muscles strained and pulsing as he thrusts into me, remembering the feel of his teeth on my neck, remembering the explosive passion which gripped us that beautiful day. It’s because I want him, still want him, want him despite myself.
Mom grinds her teeth, staring at me with eyes full of disbelief, eyes which look like two red marbles of hate. “Livia,” she says, voice trembling as she struggles to contain her rage. “Have you forgotten about your brother? Is that possible? Have you completely forgotten about sweet Luca? Have you forgotten your own blood?”
“Get out of my face, Mom!” I cry, jumping to my feet. I pace to the other end of the room, standing near the window, and look out on the garden. “I like Aedan, okay? Do you understand? I like him. He didn’t kill Luca. He didn’t ruin our family. Do you really think Dad would take him into the fold if there was even a one-percent chance that Aedan had anything to do with Luca’s death?”
“I didn’t raise a slut,” Mom says, striding to the window, bearing down on me. I feel tears well in my eyes when she looks at me like that, disappointment and rage and genuine revulsion. “I didn’t raise a slut to give herself to Irishmen, Livia. I was under the impression I raised a nice Italian girl.”
“Maybe,” I say, facing her as bravely as I can, “I don’t want to just be a nice Italian girl. Maybe I want to follow my—”
“Don’t say ‘heart.’” Mom scoffs. “The only thing you’re following is that little slit between your legs.”
This is too much for even the Hummingbirds. Several of them rise to their feet and make to leave.
“Sit down!” Mom roars, wheeling on them.
“Mom,” I whisper, a single tear sliding down my cheek. “Mom, just stop this. I’m not a slut because I like Aedan. That doesn’t make me a slut. Just listen to yourself. It’s me. It’s Livia.”
This almost gets through to her. I see it, a chink opening in her armor, but then her eyes glaze over and her face hardens. “This Aedan, is he Italian?”
“You know he’s not—”
“Then you will not see him again!” she hisses.
“You can’t tell me that,” I say, wiping my face. “You can’t tell me who I can and cannot see.”
Perhaps these words would’ve been spoken sooner in any other household, but here, in the Russo household, with Mom, they’re ground-breaking. I have never said anything even approaching this before. I have always been—or pretended to be—the obedient daughter. But what happens when that clashes with what I want? What happens when I want something Mom doesn’t want for me? In a way, Mom has done me a favor. Before she went on this tirade, I didn’t know just how much I wanted to see Aedan again. But now I do. A lot. A hell of a lot. So much that I’m willing to fight with Mom about it, which is almost unheard of throughout our entire lives.
“I am your mother,” she says. “Of course I can tell you. I can tell you anything I want.”
“Listen,” I say, forcing the tears to stay deep down inside of me where they belong. Crying will only make it seem like I’m getting weaker, when in truth my resolve has never been stronger. I’ll give Aedan a shot, I think. I’ll give him a shot and there’s nothing she can do about it. “I want to see Aedan again. I’m going to see Aedan again—”
“Then get out!” Mom screeches, waving her arms madly. “Get out of my house!”
“Mom...”
“No,” Mom says, growling from deep in her throat. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Get out, Livia.”
I look to the Hummingbirds, but all of them stare at the ground, or at their hands, or at the wall—anywhere but at us. Sighing, I turn away and leave the house.
When I’m at the door, I hear Mom, voice pitched loud enough for me to hear: “I didn’t raise her like this. I don’t know where she gets it from.”
I throw the door open and march down the driveway, wishing I could turn back the clock two weeks, wishing I was once again in Aedan’s arms. That beautiful moment where I placed my head on his chest and closed my eyes, the moment which seemed to last forever, listening to his breathing, not worrying, just being... that’s what I want.
Aedan, I think, I’m sorry.