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SIXTEEN

Madi

I ’ve been ignoring Adrian.

It’s for the best. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I pretend to be asleep during his morning routine. Over our first week of marriage, I learned he’s an early riser. 6:00 a.m. every day, the alarm rings, and he rolls from the bed and puts on his workout clothes. He spends sixty minutes downstairs, doing jumping jacks and squats and God knows what else before he comes back up with sweat dripping from his body. He takes a shower, puts on a fresh suit, and he’s out the door by 7:30. And every morning, I’m amazed by the structure of his routine.

I’m still faking sleep when I sense him move to my side of the bed. I can feel his energy as he hovers over me, and I wonder if he’s going to kiss me, do something sweet before he leaves — isn’t that what normal couples do? He lingers for a long moment before he finally pulls back, and I hear his shoes tap against the hardwoods as he leaves.

Once the door shuts, I open my eyes, sucking in a long breath. I’m not afraid of my new husband; I just don’t want to talk to him. Talking to Adrian always ends up with his body too close to mine, his scent invading my senses, his touch bringing goosebumps to my skin.

It’s confusing. Annoying. Frustrating .

The more space there is between us, the easier it is for me to keep my thoughts straight.

I hate him. Something I know with every fiber of my being. But when he’s near me…I’m left in a whirlwind of confusion. He’s an asshole, that much is obvious. But ever since he made me come and spanked me with the newspaper, something has shifted. Something I don’t want to think about.

Once he’s gone, I pull myself from the oversized bed and trudge downstairs for coffee. I can’t deny how nice Adrian’s home is. While I know there’s no way he decorated it himself, it still seems to have a touch of masculinity that matches his energy, paired with the traditional style that goes with the French architecture.

“Good morning, Mrs. Russo.”

“Please stop calling me that,” I tell Bea, Adrian’s housekeeper.

Bea blushes. “I’m sorry, Mrs.- I mean Madi.”

I try to give her my warmest, pre-coffee smile. “It’s fine, Bea.”

She nods and scurries away like I might bite or yell at her. On day one, I pledged not to get to know anyone who works for my husband, to detach myself from his life as much as possible. But something about Bea makes me want to wrap her in a blanket and tell her everything’s going to be okay.

Bea’s not the only one of my husband’s employees who invade this space during the day. There’s Ms. Sinclair, then a personal chef who comes every Monday and prepares meals for the week, something I’m thankful for since I have no desire to cook for Adrian. There’re a few others, his personal assistant, a snippy redhead who’s been here a few times, but only when Adrian is also here. A tech guy I’ve seen working on his computer and installing new cameras around the outside of the house. And security. That one’s not unusual to me, given my family’s line of work, but still, I find it unnerving every time I see a man in a black suit at the entrance. Even worse, when they follow me silently to my studio. Adrian wouldn’t even humor the conversation when I brought up not needing them.

I pull a small travel mug from the cabinet and fill it with coffee before slipping on my shoes and heading for the door. I like to go to my studio before the caffeine kicks in, embrace the morning in my pajamas while I sip coffee and throw some clay on my wheel.

Unfortunately, it means walking down two blocks in my sweatpants with my face unwashed and my hair in a messy bun. My mother would faint if she saw me. Her need to keep up appearances was worth far more than her desire to be comfortable.

I like to let my creativity flow before I do anything else in the morning. There’s something cathartic about it, and when my fingers finally mold around a slab of clay, the silky-smooth texture coating my hands and running over my palms, I feel at home.

All the emotions building up inside of me seep out through my hands. As I shape the piece, they slip from my fingertips and drop away with the mud. And when my foot lifts from the peddle and my hands have finished the piece, I’ve turned my pain into something tangible.

My family would laugh if I told them how art really made me feel. The only way they knew to release emotions was through more pain — emotional, physical, whatever got the job done.

Marcus would hit, kick, punch. Exerting himself in any way possible to make it known that he was in charge. My mother propped herself up on the heels of her sharp words. She had a way of slicing you open with perfect grammar and eloquent prose. Even worse, when she’d say nothing at all, throwing you into the pits of freezing cold isolation.

But my father? His specialty had a bit more… bang. He was known around New Orleans as Crazy Al . Crazy because it didn’t take much to send him off the rails. The edges of his personality were so thin, one moment he’d be sweet as punch, and the next you were the punching bag. Literally.

More than physical violence, he loved a good bomb. Something la famiglia became known for during his peak. The first time I read about the stories, he was already dead, had been for five years. The search results told me he had placed dozens of car bombs in the city, using it as an effective way to kill off anyone who spoke against him.

There wasn’t enough information to tell me if my nonno was okay with all the deaths he caused. But the fact that all the bombs stopped after my father was gone told me they died with him. Google told me my father was killed while placing one of his bombs. The news speculated it went off accidentally, which matched the story I heard from my mother.

But I knew the truth. My grandfather and uncle had him killed.

I wasn’t sad, though.

In some ways, I was relieved. Being around him brought up walls in my heart. Shame hung heavy around me. I felt like I was walking on eggshells, trying to be the perfect version of myself, anything he needed to prevent the screaming.

When the anger took hold of him, his fists came out in droves. But if I could just keep it at bay, create the perfect environment so he wouldn’t be mad, everything would be okay.

But when he was gone? The bars retracted and the clouds of shame drifted away. I could breathe in that freedom, pause long enough to suck in air and let it loose. It was more comfortable to be in my home when my father was gone. And the idea of being in that comfort indefinitely? That seemed nice.

I didn’t cry for my father, not even when we pushed his glossy black coffin into his tomb in Lafayette Cemetery. I was relieved.

You can’t see all that through the dried and painted clay I sell to the local shops. But underneath the glazed exterior are ridges and lines, formed by my hands as I healed from the memories. There was something soothing about that.

After I make the new pieces, I set them on the rack to dry before locking up the studio and heading back to Adrian’s house to shower, my shadow in tow. I spend my afternoon dropping off finished pieces to clients. Working in batches has created a comfortable routine for me that’s consistent yet not the same every day. I alternate between spending the morning throwing pottery on the wheel or painting the pieces that have already dried. And in the afternoons, I deliver the finished pieces or film content for my social media.

My sales don’t really matter; I don’t need the money. Everything I have is bought and paid for by my family, and probably now Adrian.

I just wanted to prove I could do something. That people would buy my art, that it wasn’t meaningless. Even if I was the only one who cared.

“Ah, Miss Madi,” my favorite client greets me as I push through her door, holding a box of new pieces. “My favorite local artist.” She grins as she holds out her arms for me.

“Hold on,” I laugh, setting the box on her counter and walking into her embrace.

Jada’s shop has a good vibe and the woman herself might be the sweetest I know. She’s always welcoming me into her arms and looking at me like she can see through the walls I’ve built to protect myself.

She pulls back from the hug, and I slip away before she has a chance to give me the motherly once-over. “What’s different?” Jada asks, her hands pressing onto her hips as she purses her lips, her signature pose telling me she knows something’s up.

Might as well say it. “I got married.” I shrug.

“Mmhmm, I was wondering if you were going to tell me.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I had to read about in the paper as if you don’t come into this store every week. I thought we were friends, Madi?” Her eyebrows lift, and while I know she’s just giving me a hard time for withholding the information, I can’t help but feel a bit of guilt coiling in my stomach.

Jada’s been better to me than most. She’s carried my pottery in her store for a year now, and in that time, she’s become a good friend. The type of friend who should have gotten an invite to my wedding. Even if I thought my mother would have invited her, though, I wouldn’t want to put Jada or anyone in a room with my family.

Making connections with the Costellos doesn’t work out for everyone, and if they know you have something to offer, they’ll milk you dry. It’s better that she stays far away from them.

Pulling open the box, I remove the first piece, slowly unwinding it from the brown paper it’s packed in. “It wasn’t a big deal,” I tell her, avoiding eye contact. Jada’s much more in tune with my feelings than anyone else. With my family, you’d think I’m a locked box, but to Jada, I’m an open book. I know if she gets a chance to really look at me, she’ll see all the thoughts spiraling through my mind.

“Not a big deal?” she scoffs. “You got married. That’s a pretty big deal.” Flipping her braids over her shoulder, she rounds the counter, meeting me on the other side to help unpack.

“It’s not…” I don’t even know what to tell her. It’s not real? I have a feeling Adrian would be pissed if he found me telling the city that my marriage to him was nothing but a hoax. A fraudulent agreement to get him into my family.

“What is it?” Jada’s voice softens, and her green eyes assess me.

“It’s just a thing.” I try to shrug my shoulders, act nonchalantly, as if this is a common occurrence.

“I’m going to need you to use more words here, Madi. What do you mean, it’s just a thing? ” Jada sets down the piece of pottery she was unwrapping, instead pressing her palms onto the countertop and focusing her full attention on me.

“It’s fake,” I finally tell her. My hands fling up and back down dramatically.

“You’re not married?”

“No, I’m married.”

“That doesn’t sound very fake, then.” Jada purses her lips.

"I don’t love him.” It feels like a dam of water breaks as the words leave my lips. I didn’t realize how much pain I was holding in by not admitting the truth.

“Ahh,” Jada coos, her eyes softening as she extends her hands over the counter, gesturing for me to put my palms in hers. “Your family, I assume?”

“Yeah.” I let her squeeze my hands and the simple gesture has tears brimming in my eyes. It’s not as if I’ve been starved of physical touch, but something about the gentle motion lets the floodgates loose. I feel seen for the first time in weeks. Months, maybe.

Before Lily died, Lana had been my go-to person. But after her sister committed suicide, it was too hard for her to get out of bed, let alone listen to my problems. And then she was gone, out of her arranged marriage and in New York with Naz.

And I was alone.

The tears fall, streaming down my cheeks one by one.

“Let it go,” Jada tells me. “I can’t tell you it’s going to be okay, or even encourage you to go against your family’s wishes, because we both know they own this city. But you’re strong, Madi. I’ve known that since the minute I met you. I don’t know this Russo guy, but I know you. You’ll get through this.”

“How?” I mutter.

“With your strength,” Jada states, as if it was never even a question. “You have it inside you, even if you don’t feel it right now. I promise you, it’s there. And it will guide you through this.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You can,” she reassures me. “Everything is temporary, Madi. The good, the beautiful. And most of all, the bad. Painful things always come to an end, and this will too.”