I've become the perfect mafia princess.
This morning, I wake up early and make fresh coffee, humming softly as I move around the kitchen. When Marco emerges from the couch where he's been sleeping—shirtless as usual, the bastard—I greet him with a bright smile.
"Good morning! I was thinking we could go plant shopping today. I saw this adorable succulent arrangement online that would look perfect by the living room window."
He stops mid-stretch, eyeing me suspiciously. "Plant shopping."
"Mhmm." I pour him coffee, black the way he likes it, and slide the mug across the counter. "Unless you have work stuff? I know how important your... business... is."
I let my voice trail off innocently, like I'm just a sweet girl who doesn't quite understand what her big, strong protector does for a living.
Marco takes the coffee but doesn't drink it, still watching me with those sharp green eyes. "Since when do you ask permission to go shopping?"
"I'm not asking permission," I say, adding just enough steel to my voice to make it believable. "I'm being considerate. There's a difference."
I turn back to the stove where I'm making scrambled eggs, letting my hair fall over my shoulder in what I hope looks like casual dismissal. In my peripheral vision, I see Marco's jaw tick.
Good. Let him be confused.
The plant shopping trip goes exactly as planned. I spend two hours selecting the most innocuous plants imaginable—a few peace lilies, some pothos, a small jade plant. I ask Marco's opinion on everything, touching his arm when I get excited about a particularly pretty succulent, generally acting like a woman who has nothing more pressing on her mind than home decoration.
"This one or this one?" I ask, holding up two nearly identical ferns.
Marco looks like he wants to strangle both the plants and me. "They're the same."
"No, they're not! This one has more delicate fronds, see? And the color is slightly different." I lean closer to him, pointing out the microscopic differences while my breast brushes against his arm. "What do you think?"
His nostrils flare slightly, and I hide my smile. Poor Marco. I'm being the perfect combination of innocent and subtly seductive, giving him just enough to keep him off-balance.
We return to the apartment laden with plants and new pots. I spend the afternoon repotting and arranging them while Marco works on his laptop at the kitchen island. Every so often, I ask him innocent questions about soil drainage or lighting, playing the role of devoted plant mom to perfection.
That evening, I cook dinner—nothing fancy, just pasta with marinara sauce and a side salad. But I set the table with actual placemats and the good glasses, light a candle, make it feel domestic and normal.
"This is nice," Marco says, though he sounds suspicious of the very concept of 'nice.'
"I enjoy cooking for people I care about," I reply, letting my fingers brush his as I hand him his fork.
His hand freezes for just a moment before he pulls away. "Since when?"
"Since always. I just haven't had anyone to cook for in a while." I take a bite of pasta and make a small sound of satisfaction. "I think I nailed the seasoning tonight."
We eat in relative quiet, and I can practically feel Marco's mind working, trying to figure out my angle. The funny thing is, part of me isn't acting at all. It has been nice, these past few days of domestic normalcy. Cooking together, watching moviescurled up on opposite ends of the couch, talking about our childhoods in carefully edited stories.
Last night, we played Scrabble and I learned that Marco is viciously competitive and has an unexpectedly dirty vocabulary. When he played 'quiver' for a triple word score, the way he looked at me while placing the tiles made heat pool low in my belly.
"Your move," he'd said, his voice slightly rougher than usual.
I'd played 'throb' off his 'r' and watched his pupils dilate.
The memory makes me shift in my seat now, and Marco's gaze immediately sharpens on me.
"Everything okay?"
"Perfect," I say, offering him my most serene smile.
After dinner, I suggest we watch a movie. I pick something romantic and predictable, then curl up on the couch with a throw blanket, patting the cushion beside me.
"There's plenty of room."
