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I’ve never hidden my bruises, and I refuse to lie on someone else's behalf. It’s landed me in trouble on many occasions.
The time Santo beat me for daring to swim on a hot day flashes through my mind. His friends came over and saw me in a bathing suit.
My brother dislocated my jaw that day, and when our priest visited during a house call, I didn’t stay hidden as instructed.
Not that the priest did anything when he saw my bruised face. My little act of rebellion cost me two broken ribs and three days locked in my room without food.
Even though my smart mouth will probably earn me a beating, I can’t keep the words from spilling over my lips. “I tripped and accidentally touched Mr. Falco’s gun. He grabbed my neck and slammed me against the floor.”
Mrs. Falco gasps, her face growing horribly pale. She makes a similar strangled sound as I did when her son almost choked the hell out of me.
Damiano shoots to his feet, and grabbing hold of his mother’s shoulders, he crouches beside her chair.
His tone is surprisingly gentle as he says, “Breathe, Mamma.”
Her breaths speed up, and it’s clear she’s having a panic attack.
Shit.
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling awful for not keeping my mouth shut. I didn’t mean for Mrs. Falco to have a panic attack.
“Get out!” Damiano shouts. “Everyone!”
I’m up and out of the chair in a split second. When I rush into the hallway, I hear Damiano lovingly murmur, “It’s okay, Mamma. I’m here. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
Mrs. Accardi places her hand on my arm, giving me a worried look. “Are you okay?”
“Not now, Ma,” Carlo mutters. “Gabriella, you should go to your room.”
Nodding, I hurry away as the realization that I caused Damiano’s mother to have a panic attack sinks like a rock to the pit of my stomach.
He’s going to kill me.
When I shut my bedroom door behind me, I wrap my arms around my middle and shake my head.
Dio. What have I done?
Feeling like a caged animal that’s about to be slaughtered, I start to pace up and down my room.
I shouldn’t have said anything.
With every passing minute, it feels like the walls are closing in on me.
The growing tension becomes too much, and one after the other, the traumatic memories creep out of the shadows.
All the times my mother hit me.
The countless days I was locked in my room.
The endless hunger.
The day my father threw me over the balcony. He only tried to kill me that one time because, soon after, he brought Stefano home and announced our engagement.
My arms fall to my sides, and I stare at nothing as one memory after the other plays out in my mind.
By the time my bedroom door slams open, my breaths are rushing over my lips, and my body’s a trembling mess.
What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.
