Crime and Cashmere

Flowers are supposed to be light. They are supposed to be beautiful, aromatic, and bright. I am holding lilies and lavender, flowers so large they trump my body and cascade down onto the floor, and I am standing there with my father thinking not on the man at the end of the aisle waiting for me- but how heavy these flowers are in my arms. These flowers remind me of the shackles that have been placed on me by two families I never considered my own. I was a lone person, fighting in my own ocean to stay afloat, and these people, they were all just characters in a play I never wished to be cast in. They were just two families begging to put an end to a violent feud that I was never even part of. I would be in prison for the rest of my life for crimes I never even committed, and I had to skip down the aisle happily, smile plastered on my face, flowers in my arms, and dress fabric draped at my waist. Flowers are supposed to be light. I am supposed to be light. I am s

Home is an apartment on Park Avenue. The walls are white with gilded golden lights fixed to them. The curtains are a sky blue and they are blowing inward with a night breeze. I am in love. The furniture is large and tufted, and they screamed of class and comfort. I stifle a delighted giggle. It was not horribly large, but it was cozy. The kitchen was cramped with the stove taking up most of the space, and a small table was tucked away in the corner of the room. Given the business that was required of the two of us, I doubted much use would come to it. Their nights would be filled with business meetings or parties. A luxury not afforded to me until recently. I had no head for the business. My father’s business would go to my husband now. As would his fathers. One day my husband would be the most powerful man in New York and I would be the girl who turned a blind eye to his affairs and raised children he did not care about. He wore his own shackles in this, but his were crested

There is a thousand crystals on the chandelier that hovers above the ballroom floor of the Governor’s house. The light is reflected everywhere and I take a moment to drink it all in. Everywhere is illuminated and so very beautiful. The women stand around laughing and drinking, blatantly ignoring the prohibition regulations. There are no laws for the ones who create them. There is only laws for those who cannot afford the price to be above them. The men stand away, their Cuban cigars lit and sending spirals of smoke into the air. The jazz plays on behind everyone but nobody is dancing. Everything is beautiful because it is art. It is a painting. There is no movement, but there is colors and fabrics, and feeling. It invokes something within me. Makes me feel. I do not know what the emotion is, maybe envy that they all have a role in this meusuem quality production. Or maybe it is anxiousness because I have a role as well- the collector. Domenico squeezes my hand lig

“I am telling you what she said.” “And I am telling you that it is not good enough.” The yells wake me from my sleep and I sit up, alarm pulsating through me. I swing my legs out from under the blanket and make my way to the living room, intent on yelling at the pair of men, whoever they may be. When I reach the threshold my bravado drops and I stare at Domenico and his father, each staring at the other with anger curled into their body language. “What is going on?” I ask and Domenico runs his hand through his hair. “The whole neighborhood can hear you two yelling.” Maritzio smoked a cigar and stares at me as though I am nothing more than a speck of dust on a mantlepiece. “Go back to bed.” He tells me before he turns his attention back to his son. Domenico looks at me with sympathetic eyes and for a moment I think about doing it. But, there is something in Domenico’s

Glass is everywhere when I open my eyes and Domenico is staring at me, blood pouring from cuts on his forehead. He is searching my eyes for something, I realize and I try to pull myself from the mental fog I am trapped in. My ears ring and my body hurts. When I raise my hand to my face it comes back covered in blood. I am hurt, I realize. I try to gather myself enough to panic, but when I look into the face of my husband I calm. He is motioning for me to breathe, over and over his hands rise and drop and I try and make my lungs follow the pattern until they no longer sting when I take in air. I travel the length of his body and I am relieved when I see no visible gunshot wounds. We are not shot. When I rise up my hands hurt so badly I allow my body to return to its position on the floor and when I look I see glass protruding from my palms. My hearing slowly begins to come back and I hear the cries of someone in pain. It takes me a moment to realize it is sounds I am making.