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“Ignore him,” Petra says, standing behind me and wrapping her arms across my chest. “Roman’s worried with you back in play, the arranged marriage train will start chugging along, and he’ll get run over next.”
Roman narrows his eyes at her, only to have Petra imitate him.
Focusing on me again, he asks, “How long will your face take to heal?”
“These types of questions are what lead people to wonder if you’re an alien,” Petra tells him.
“People are different. She got smacked around a lot by the dead fuck. I assume she knows how long this kind of thing takes to go away.”
“You’re not fun,” Petra grumbles.
“Only a moron would expect me to be fun.”
Before Petra can poke at our brother again, I say, “My face should be mostly healed in several weeks. I can convincingly cover it with makeup by next week.”
Roman considers my answer and glances at Maks. “The Del Vecchio family will be in town this weekend. Joey mentioned wanting a blonde wife.”
“No,” Petra says, wrapping me tighter until I’m nearly swallowed up by her affections. “Natasha just got back. Besides, Italians make hairy babies. I don’t want a niece with a mustache.”
“You’re very lively tonight,” Maks mutters to Petra. “Can we locate you a Valium or vodka to fix that problem?”
“You’re blonde,” Roman says, studying Petra now. “And neither of your daughters have mustaches despite their Hungarian father.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Petra scoffs. “I did my time. Now, I’m paroled into a long life of debauchery and zero commitment.”
“You’re not divorced yet.”
“Brandon threw me out for a rancid redhead he met at a strip club,” Petra says and then tells me, “She wasn’t even a dancer. Just a waitress. My breasts are much nicer than hers, too. Yet, I was discarded.”
Leaning closer, Roman taunts, “Yes, you were.”
“I pity the woman sentenced to your bed,” Petra mumbles, releasing me and moving us away from our brothers.
We return to where Jacinda and Hector dance around Laszlo who finds them fascinating. Kneeling, I quiet their goofy ways by giving them their warning words, “crab apple.” They look at each other and then at me before their gazes flash to the strangers around us.
I taught the kids the warning for when their father was getting angry or their grandmother might want to swat them. Every morning, we practiced going from silly to serious. Making it a game helped them embrace the idea.
Once my father finishes his business and the dining room doors open, we’re escorted to our seats at a long table. Hector and Jacinda watch me with bright eyes to see if I’ve noticed how well they’re behaving. I stroke their heads and offer them a big smile.
After dinner is served, I try to settle my edginess. Nearby, Leon says something to Maks in Czech. Hector instantly gasps and tells Jacinda how my brothers are speaking their special words. The room goes silent, and everyone stares at my children. I get nervous as Jacinda and Hector speak to each other in Czech about the gross stuff on their plates.
“You taught them our mother tongue,” Viktor says.
Feeling under pressure, I mumble, “They learn so fast when they’re little.”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll learn Italian quickly, too,” Roman says, winning a smirk from Maks.
My parents reveal nothing on their faces. I do catch them glancing at the children, who now eat around the cooked spinach.
Though I explain to the kids how they’ve eaten spinach many times, the chopped pine nut topping still grosses them out.
“It’s boogers,” Jacinda says, amusing her brother.
Despite their silliness, I can’t shake my dread as I consider Joey Del Vecchio. Would a man like that allow my babies to laugh and play? They’d no doubt be viewed as a burden to him.
Lowering my head at the table, I imagine these wonderful children in danger. Were we better off back with Andrew?
As tears burn my eyes, I try to hide my panic. Jacinda still notices and whispers how I don’t need to eat the boogers. When Hector says he can get a boo-boo pill for me, I promise I’m okay. Though I try to keep my fear low-key, no one is fooled.
