Mafia Puppet

FRANCESCA

I DECIDE TO strike up a conversation with the maid, even though it’s against my better judgment. I’m surprised Antonio even has a maid. When I wander into the kitchen, she’s already busy cooking.

“Hey,” I say, a bit awkwardly. I’m glad I decided to change into leggings and a long-sleeved shirt before coming down. It’s chilly.

I didn’t think Antonio lived with anyone else. I didn’t see any bodyguards in the house yesterday. But I guess I was wrong. He probably gave them the day off.

The maid jumps, startled. Her eyes go wide and she nearly burns herself. It’s as if my talking to her has turned her world upside down.

I rush forward. “Careful.”

She looks around nervously, as if she’s afraid someone might see us. “Um, Madam.”

“Call me Francesca,” I say automatically, then immediately regret it. I’m the Don’s wife. Her calling me by my first name would be disrespectful to the Don, and that’s something he wouldn’t tolerate.

She shakes her head. “I can’t, ma’am. You’re my Mistress.”

I nod, relieved. I don’t want to be a hypocrite and tell her not to do something I just did. “I came to make breakfast for the Don.”

“Oh. I didn’t know if I was supposed to or not, so I already started. I’m sorry.” She’s shaking, clearly scared.

“It’s fine. I’ll just help.” Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything when I take her place and start flipping the bacon. “So, how long have you worked here?” I ask.

I hope to get to know at least one person here. I don’t want to live in boredom forever.

My mother often stayed away from the servants in my house, but that was because my father thought it was unethical to talk to people with such low status in the mob.

“F-for one year,” she stammers as she works on making the eggs.

“Oh.” I’m surprised. I thought she would have been here longer since she works for the Don himself, but I don’t question it further. That would be questioning the Don.

Plus, she’s young and beautiful, probably in her thirties. The reason seems obvious. “Sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

“It’s Mya,” she squeaks out.

The Don walks in then, looking fresh and clean. There are stools behind the gray marble counter.

Apparently, he doesn’t use the dining room because he sits here, fiddling with his phone and looking intimidating in his three-piece suit.

I notice that he often wears black. It must be his color because even at our wedding and thereafter, he was wearing a dark suit.

I can’t deny that it suits him and his dark aura, but black can’t be the only color someone has in their closet.

He barely glances at us. Not wanting to keep him waiting, I gesture for Mya to bring a plate, serving him the food I helped cook. I stand quietly while Mya starts washing the dishes.

I can see her trembling, but that’s not what surprises me. It’s the fact that she keeps covering her neck after he comes in, and she’s, well, blushing.

My eyes snap to the stiff form of my husband.

Even though I’m far from loving him, it still makes my heart clench that he keeps a mistress in the same house as me and doesn’t think I’m worth the trouble of moving her to another house.

It makes me feel humiliated even though I had no expectations. I hate it. Am I being possessive? No, certainly not. This bruises my already dead ego. But I don’t deserve to have an ego, do I?

I’m a woman in the Giordano Family. Women don’t have rights here. However, keeping a mistress in the same house as his wife is an insult to the wife.

That’s not allowed, especially if the mistress is also Italian. Mya looks Italian enough.

I’m not sure how the Don handles it now or whether the rules even matter to him. Men are allowed to keep mistresses and a wife, but they have to keep them separate.

If a man can handle multiple women without a fuss then he’s called ‘manly.’ I don’t think the Don can handle both of his women living in the same house.

It would be a stain on his reputation that he can’t provide a lavish lifestyle for both. It would also alter his image because he’s degrading me publicly.

Losing face is something a mob man can never afford.

“Francesca, there will be a dinner hosted by us at eight for the immediate family members. Mya will help you cook. She has done it before.”

He doesn’t waste his time in goodbyes and just leaves. I’m glad, for one, because I want to have a word with Mya.

I want to know if something is actually going on rather than jumping to unnecessary conclusions. Then, I’ll decide what to do.

Both of us are silent for a couple of moments. She doesn’t speak either. Her eyes refuse to meet mine as if she’s guilty.

“Mya,” I start. I can literally see her stiffen. Her shoulders tense and her scrubbing becomes harder. “Why did you act like that in front of him?”

I don’t understand. She should be used to him by now, shouldn’t she? She spends more time here than I ever do. She even knows more about my husband than I do.

“Um, I-I’m just nervous around him, I guess.” She awkwardly laughs, but I’m no fool. I was raised in a family that constantly lied to me.

I know a liar when I see one. She must have seen the pointed look on my face when she turned around because she starts shaking her head.

“I want to know if you and my husband have something going on.” I get straight to the point. What difference would it make beating around the bush? I would just sound more pathetic.

She looks down. “No, no. Not with him. It was with the younger master. When I first came here, he pursued me and after he was done he, uh, didn’t think I was worthy enough.

“But the Don walked in on us and now I can’t even look at him. It makes me feel—” Her voice trails off.

I feel a pang of guilt for making her share her secrets, but I know that if I didn’t, I’d be up all night wondering.

I’m not thrilled about the idea of sharing my husband. What wife would be? But that’s how things work in the Mafia. At least, in this one. To him, she’s now his brother’s puttana.

“Thanks for opening up, Mya. Do you know how many people are coming for dinner?” I steer the conversation in a different direction. The air between us is getting thick with awkwardness.

She nods, her face a picture of surprise at my gratitude. It’s clear she’s not used to being treated kindly. I know how she feels. It reminds me of my own past, and Arianna’s.

Five years ago, when I was younger, I was told about the alliance with the Don. After that, Father stopped taking his anger out on me and focused it on Mother and Arianna instead.

That didn’t mean I was showered with love, but I was definitely in a better position than they were.

“Between ten and twelve people, Mrs. Giordano, but it might be safer to prepare for fifteen. The other masters sometimes bring guests, and the dining room is small, so the uncles won’t be here.”

I don’t need to ask who the guests are. I get the picture. “Okay. I guess we could start prepping a few hours early.” I hesitate, unsure if I should ask. “And who did you mean by ‘other masters’?”

She looks up in surprise before quickly lowering her gaze again. “The Don’s younger brothers. Master Dante is the second oldest. Master Costanzo is the third, and Master Omero is the youngest.”

“Oh?” It comes out more like a question. I didn’t know we had others living here. I didn’t get a say in who I wanted to live with either. I just have to deal with it, and I will.

Please let them be different from Father.