Not long after, Zio Como approached the table and the moment I saw him coming to speak to me, I sat up eagerly. But when I opened my mouth to speak, I was rudely shut down with a hard look that warned me to stay silent.

My uncle spoke then, but the words were not for me. He looked to my husband and said, “I know what you must think of us. I, myself, am shocked by what has occurred here today. This is not the girl I raised. I can’t apologize enough to you and your family. I was not a part of this treachery and it pains me to say…” he looked at me then with heavy disappointment, “I don’t know this girl.”

And that was it. That was the moment my heart broke in two.

My ears rang and I struggled to breathe through the hurt.

When he went on to say, “She belongs to you now. Do what you must. I have washed my hands of her. She’s dead to me,” those broken pieces of my heart crumbled to dust.

My heartbeat slowed. Every shallow breath burned my lungs and when Zio Como walked away without even looking at me, my throat clogged with unshed tears. Seconds passed and my vision blurred. Not wanting Ettore to witness my tears, I turned my back to him as the first of them fell.

I don’t know how he knew, but from the corner of my eye, I saw something white appear. Between his fingers dangled a white linen napkin. Grateful but mortified, I took it and discreetly dabbed at my eyes.

By this point, the pressure in the hall grew until I thought my head would explode from it. The men on his side of the room were watching the men on my side with an eagle’s eye, waiting for one of them to merely look at someone the wrong way. A brawl was imminent and just when one of the Scala men rose from his table with a deadly look on his face, his fists balled, Ettore stood.

He held out his hand to me and, after the night I’d had, it would seem I was mentally beaten into submission, because I took it without prompting. He pulled me up and then, together, we were walking over to the empty space that was the dancefloor. My stomach dipped as he pulled me towards him, placed a stiff hand at my waist and began to sway us from side-to-side.

It took a moment for the music to catch up, but when the beginnings of Frank Sinatra’s The best is yet to come started to play, I could have died.

This was a sick joke, right? Who approved this song?

Both in bloodstained dress clothes, we slow danced while everyone watched us in dubious silence.