The Italian

“We were never like that, Soph, and you know that,” I remind her softly.

“What will she be to you?”

“I am only taking her.”

She frowns, confused. I have never been loyal to only one woman before.

“She will—”

“Yes,” I cut her off. “I am only having her. I don’t want anybody else.”

“Where is she from? Milan?”

I roll my eyes, wishing I was anywhere but here. I have to get through this conversation. Sophia is good at her job and I need her. We need to be amicable. “She’s from Australia.”

Her face falls. “Australia. She’s Australian?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God, Enrico,” she whispers, full of horror. “A man with your bloodline cannot date a common criminal from Australia.”

I sip my scotch as my anger begins to grow deep in my stomach.

“You know that, don’t you?” she continues. “Australia’s colony started from the English sending their convicts there.”

“Criminals for stealing food for their children,” I sneer. “Not quite the crime we Italians are accustomed to, now, is it?” I raise my glass to her sarcastically.

“And you think you want this woman?”

“I know I do.”

She sits back in disgust. “You can’t marry her.”

“I’ll do whatever I fucking like.”

“A Ferrara cannot marry a foreigner.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “You will have to take her as your comare.”

A comare means a mistress in Italian. “No, when I marry, I’m only having my wife, just like my father did.”

She throws her head back in disgust. “Oh, please, your father had a goomah for thirty years. Don’t pretend you don’t know her,” she scoffs.

“He did not.”

“He did, Enrico. I know her very well.”

“You lie. My father adored my mother.”

“And he loved his comare I went to the funeral she held for him. It was beautiful.”

“What?”

Her face falls. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

I stare at her as I begin to hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I thought you knew—everyone knew. Even your mother.”

I sip my scotch with a shaky hand.