“Fucka me,” I breathed out. The monstrous size of the pantry always shocked me. It was bigger than the apartment I’d rented from Merv the dead perv (Kee’s new nickname for him). And rat free.
While rummaging around looking for things, a popping sound rang out from kitchen, and at first, I thought someone was shooting at me. I clutched the sugar to my chest, wondering what was going on. Then the smell of smoke assaulted my nose and a loud alarm rang out. “Shit! The pasta!”
Still holding the bag of sugar to my chest, I ran so fast that when I entered the kitchen, I slid on the shiny, sleek hardwood floor. Capo had beaten me to it, though, taking the pan off the stove and running it under cold water. The pan sizzled and popped, truly pissed off, and more smoke thickened the air.
He nodded toward the stove. “Turn the fan on.”
I set the sugar down on the counter and did what he said. It took a few minutes, but the air started to clear, only swirls of white highlighted by the sun lingering. And the smell. It was a mixture between burning plastic and something I didn’t even have a name for, except forgross.
After he set the ruined pan in the sink, he turned to face me. “Maybe I should have kept this place as is. A fire house.”
I couldn’t answer. He was shirtless, only a towel wrapped around his slim waist. His skin was smooth and tight, slick from a hot shower. His hair was combed back—true black when it was wet—and droplets ran down his shoulders and chest.
His eyes were even more electric. They were such a stunning blue, I wondered if the color was stolen from a hidden ocean. Even though the rancid smell still lingered, the shower had made his scent stronger. It was like he had just walked off a beach, but ten times better.
This was the first time I’d seen him like this, with hardly anything on. His shoulders were broad. His muscular chest and stomach seemed carved out of stone. He probably had seven packs instead of six. The towel rode low, showing two deep indentions on either side of his hips, making a V. A thick patch of black hair peeked out. His arms looked like they belonged in one of those fitness magazines. His legs were long and lean. They seemed strong, but not too bulky.
The thing about my husband—something I’d learned during our short time together—was, even when a situation became awkward, he didn’t care. He seemed to eat it up. My eyes were glued to him, no shame, and his were glued to me. He wouldn’t try to distract me or pretend like he didn’t know what had come over me. He wouldn’t wave the ruined pan and saydinner, remember? He’d say,you’re not wearing red, and you’re not in my bed, so I know what that means. You’re not ready to fuck me yet.
Then we’d either explore each other some more, or we’d do something else. We’d watch movies or listen to music or talk about places we could travel or things we could do to the house later. He wanted me to add my own touch to it once I figured out what I wanted. Thing was, it was perfect as is. Even the clothes, shoes, and jewelry he had chosen for me in the closet. It was all such a dream come true.
Maybe he was, too—on the surface. He hadn’t pulled me into the deep end yet.
Finally, I made sense of the words dying to shoot out of my mouth. “When did you get home?”
“About the time you were reading the recipe forlasagne al fornoto—” he looked at the plant on the counter and then at me again “—Vera II. She’s not much of a talker.”
“No,” I said, leaning against the counter. My eyes kept flickering to his towel every other second. He wasn’t hard, but there was a gigantic bulge. I couldn’t pretend that I wasn’t curious to know what it looked like. Whathelooked like. Naked. I took a breath in and released it slowly. “She’s a good listener, but not much of a gossiper.”
“Got something to get off your chest?”
“Why? Are you gonna listen?”
“Isn’t that what husbands do?”
A huge bubble of laughter exploded from my mouth. “I might not know anything about being domesticated, but I know,know, that men are not good listeners. Selective hearing.”
“Selective hearing,” he repeated, a suspicious tone to his voice. “Where’d you hear that?”
I smiled. “Girl’s night.”
Rocco’s wife, Rosaria, had invited me to join her and the women of the Faustifamigliafor their girls’ nights. Some were just friends, but they were all mostly related by marriage. Rocco had three brothers. Brando, Dario, and Romeo. Brando was the oldest and the most intense. He barely nodded when I’d asked him if he liked the framed jersey his wife, Scarlett, had given him.
I had invited Keely to come with me one night, but she’d seemed jealous of how well Scarlett and I had gotten along. After that, I didn’t invite Keely again because I didn’t want things to get awkward.
When Scarlett first saw me, she said, “Told you I’d see you again!”And then she wrapped me in her petite arms and hugged me. She was a famous ballerina, and compared to her husband, so tiny. I couldn’t say what it was about her, but she made me feel lighter. She made me feel like I belonged with them. She and the other wives made me feel like family.
Girl’s night was always held at one of their houses (next weekend at ours, in the building next to the fire station), and that made Capo cool with it. After our wedding at City Hall, he had upped our security. I had three new Giovannis, which made four, and Capo seemed…a little on edge when we were out in public.
The nights out were fun for me, though. We talked about books we read, some of the girls crocheted or knitted, and at some point, we’d always end up talking about our men.
Our men.
My man.
Capo was mine.
The truth of those words stole my breath.
