Livia
As the Irish spill into the conference room—an ordinary room which probably hosted a children’s birthday party not too long ago—I search the crowd for Aedan. I stand in a blue-black, dark, serious dress, the sort of dress which declares to the world that I am hard, I am a Russo, I am untouchable. But I can’t stop my eyes from flitting from red-headed Irishman to red-headed Irishman. Soon, all of the men are in, and there’s no Aedan in sight. The Italians at my side bristle. Tony mutters: “A room full of Peter-fucking-Pans.” I spin on him, snap, Shh, and he nods briskly. Dad, leaning against the wall in the corner, nods with pride.
Through the middle of the Irishmen, Mona walks. She’s a hard-faced, scared-looking woman, the sort of woman who has been beaten her entire life. I can see the Italian in her nose, the Greek in her cheeks, and the Irish in her sturdy build. Though she’s pregnant, she walks upright and shows no sign of weakness. I find myself immediately drawn to her, but even so I can’t help but wishing Aedan would reveal himself. Mona is dressed in a simple black dress of mourning, with no jewelry or adornment of any kind.
We meet in the center of the room, like two emissaries in the middle of a battlefield, and sit on the only chairs in the room around the only table in the room.
“Miss Russo,” Mona says, looking me in the eye. There is no rage there, no resentment; perhaps it’s because of her Italian blood. Or maybe she knows about me and Aedan. Maybe she doesn’t hate Aedan. Maybe she likes him. Or is that just wishful thinking? Oh, you’ve got Aedan on yours thoughts today, haven’t you?
I incline my head. “Mrs. Cooley.”
She lays her hand on her belly. “Did you know, my baby is going to be a girl,” she says.
“Uh... congratulations.” I didn’t expect her to speak in such a friendly way, as though we’re just gal pals going out for drinks, shooting the shit. I’m all too aware of the room filled with equal parts slicked-back-hair killers and ginger-hair killers.
Now, she inclines her head. “There are an awful lot of people in this room, aren’t there?” she says, glancing around with a rodent’s eyes. She was wife to Patty for over a decade. Think of all the horrors she’s had to put up with.
“There are,” I say, keeping my voice as professional as I can. “Shall we get down to business?”
“Business,” Mona mutters, furrowing her eyebrows. She leans in confidentially. “You know, Patty never shared with me a single fact about the business, Miss Russo.” She smiles, as though this is amusing, as though killers are not scattered all around us.
“Well...we are here to talk about a truce, Mrs. Cooley.”
“A truce sounds nice,” she says, nodding. “Very nice indeed.”
“We would have to discuss specifics,” I say, thinking about the binder of facts and figures which Michael holds behind me. “Corners, storefronts, shipping...”
“I can’t decide on what to name my daughter,” Mona says, cutting through my words despite her soft voice.
Is she mad? I think. And then: Of course she’s mad, if only a little mad. Who wouldn’t be mad after years married to Patty? Put somebody in a hyena’s cage for a decade and see if they come out sane and well-adjusted.
“I am sure whatever name you pick will be beautiful,” I say, the words sounding awkward on my ears. The situation is absurd. I see how embarrassed the Irish look, some of them shifting from foot to foot like they want to get out of here as quickly as possible. One man—I vaguely recognize him from the bar—even gives me a look which says, I know, I know, but don’t blame her, she’s just a scared woman.
Suddenly, Mona snaps her gaze to me and her lips spread into a smile. When she smiles, she looks like a different woman, naughty and playful instead of just beaten. She raises her voice: “You all know I have no interest in leading. I agreed to this meeting because I have Italian blood in me and because I detest violence, I have always detested violence, and I wanted to bring the two families together. But I have no interest in leading it!”
I turn in my chair as I hear the Italians begin to shift. “Quiet,” I mutter, and at once a silence falls over the room. Whether that’s because Dad stands in the corner or because I really am the leader now, I can’t afford to think about.
“What do you mean?” I ask, turning back to Mona.
“I have another leader,” she says, and now her eyes are twinkling like two little stars.
“Who?” My voice is faint, my heart pounding, my palms sweaty; my body knows, even if I don’t. Or my body hopes even if I dare not to.
“You all know my son-in-law!” Mona cries, waving her hand at the door.
I look over her shoulder, through the crowd of Irishman who part to either side of the room, and then I see him.
His beard is grown out, bushy and wild almost down to his chest, and his hair is messy. He wears a tight-fitting tuxedo, outlining every single one of his muscles, muscles which immediately send my thoughts into overdrive, even now, even here. I rise to my feet as he swaggers across the room, that old playful smile on his lips. The room is full of people, but he only has eyes for me. His gaze never leaves my face.
Finally, we’re standing opposite each other, so close I could reach out and touch him. Then he reaches out and touches me, takes my hand, leans down, and lays a kiss on my skin. “Miss Russo,” he says. He shifts in the suit, as though trapped in fabric he would never normally wear, and then gives me a sideways glance. “I hear we have some business to discuss. How about over dinner?”
“I...”
Dad leaps from the shadows. “Ladies and gents,” he says, staring down the room, “Aedan and my daughter are now going to retire to dinner. I assure you, before the night is through, there will be a truce between our people. No more killing, no more contested territory. For the time being...” He claps his hands together. At once, waiters holding trays of champagne, beer, and whisky fill the room, marching in like a procession of soldiers. “Let’s get to know each other a little better, yes? And maybe make some friendships which are stronger than bloodshed!”
Mona retreats, giving me another sly smile, and Aedan takes my hand and pulls me to a quiet corner of the room.
I squeeze his hand tightly, as though afraid he might drift into smoke at any moment.
It’s him, I think. It’s really him.
“Livia—”
I slap him across the face, once, twice, three times, until his cheeks are red. I punch him in the chest. And I slap him across the face again. He takes these strikes without flinching, and then cocks his cheeky grin at me. “Is that all?”
“I had to punish you,” I say, breathing heavily. “If I’m going to forgive you, I had to punish you.”
He shrugs, that easy-going expression on his face even now despite everything. “Fair enough, princess.”
I grab him by the suit jacket, pull myself close to him, and look up into his eyes. “We’re going to an Italian restaurant this time, Irish dog.”