But then I was sent back to my Central Park West prison, and I didn’t even get to spend the night with my husband.
“I had business to attend to,” he told me briefly this morning when I asked. He swung by to pick me up in a town car like it was no big deal we didn’t spend our fuckingwedding nighttogether.
Now here we are, getting on a private jet to fly down to Florida, where we’ll get on a yacht and sail the islands. I’m bouncing in the car seat because I’m finallyfree. One more night in that apartment with no one to talk to except a couple of bored mobsters assigned to watch me, and I’d have pulled my brain out my fucking nose with a spoon, just for something to do.
Luca seems paler than ever as we climb up the stairs to the private jet provided, like the yacht, by Tino Morelli. I pause to wave to Pops and Maggie, to Tino Morelli and Sam Fuscone, to Brother Frank and Sister Celia, who all came to see us off. Luca drags me into the plane by the elbow.
“Whoa,” I complain. “Don’t start slapping me around yet, baby. Wait till we get to the honeymoon suite at least.”
“Sit down and keep quiet,” he hisses at me. Then he leans in close, his lips against my ear, and murmurs, “This plane will have bugs all through it.”
I’m guessing he doesn’t mean the creepy-crawly kind. I sigh and settle into my seat. I guess I can wait to talk in private later. Meanwhile, there’s another issue to address. I’m in Bermudas, Crocs, and a white tee. He’s in another cheap suit. I guess at least he’s not wearing a tie.
“You’re gonna sweat like fuck when we get off in Florida,” I say.
“I have appearances to keep up,” he says stiffly, taking off the jacket and hanging it in the cute little wardrobe at the back of the cabin.
I scoff: “Poly-blend isn’t anappearance, D’Amato.”
“This is Armani,” he says, his eyes as icy as his voice.
“Bullshit,” I cackle. “Whatever that is, it’s not my man Giorgio.”
He doesn’t reply, just settles into one of the large leather seats. He fastens his seatbelt right away, tightening it so hard he’s in danger of cutting off blood supply between his dick and his brain.
I get up and come down the aisle, so I can settle into the seat across from him, and kick back. All things considered, life could be a lot shittier right now than it is. For example, I could be pushing up daisies. Instead, I have a hot new husband, a private jet and then a yacht to look forward to, and a sponge bag squashed full of my favorite candies, thanks to Celia.
The smiling hostess comes down to congratulate us on our marriage and pour us a glass of champagne. “We’ll be taking off in five minutes or so, gentlemen. Just let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”
Luca gives her an impatient nod.
“Thank you,” I say, checking her name tag. “Jessica? Thank you, Jessica. You’re a star.”
“Thankyou, Mr. D’Amato,” she giggles, and leaves us.
I look across at my new husband. “Is she confused, or am I taking your name?”
He gives a sigh like he’s getting a migraine, and closes his eyes, tries to settle back in the seat.
“You want some sparkles?” I ask, lifting up my own glass. “Good vintage, this. I’m impressed. Tino spared no expense for this wedding.”
Still he says nothing. I study him as he feigns sleep, the way his black hair falls forward over his white forehead, the inky black of his lashes, the aquiline run of his nose. My darling devil is still a stunner, despite the terrible suit, and now I have him for the rest of my life, thanks to Don Augustino Morelli, old enemy of my Pops and possible killer of my Mom.
Funny the way things work out, isn’t it?
Luca is clutching so hard at the seat that his knuckles are white and bony. “So,husband,” I say, sipping at my Cristal. “Not a fan of flying?”
His eyes slit open and he gives me a glare, or as much as he can from half-closed eyes. “I’ve never flown before,” he admits at last.
My eyebrows shoot up. “For realsies?”
His face goes dark. “We didn’t all grow up with a rich daddy,” he says.
“Where were your parents?” I ask, letting the dad-jibe go by. I wouldn’t be in this situation atallif it weren’t for my rich daddy. I still can’t make up my mind if that’s a good or bad thing. “At the wedding, I mean. Only Brother Frank was there. Where was the impressive extended family you Italians all seem to have?”
He looks out the window. We’re starting to taxi now, and the seatbelt sign comes on. “Dead,” he says briefly. “All dead. It’s just me and Frank now.”
“Well, shit,” I say. “Now I feel like an asshole.”
