Frank found a new apartment for me and Finch, like I asked him to before the wedding. It’s nothing fancy, but itiseasy to defend and has minimal entries and exits to the building. Best of all, Fuscone doesn’t know where it is, and by the time he does, I’ll have my defenses in place. Finch’s face when we walk in—up seven flights of stairs, since the elevator’s broken—is somewhere between stunned and mutinous.
“Jesus wept! I’m not livinghere,” he says, dumping his suitcases in the doorway. We came straight from the airport, and he’s still grumpy because I wouldn’t let him drink more than one bottle of Cristal on the plane. “What thefuck?” Finch asks, turning to me.
It’s a railroad apartment, which is how I wanted it. Fewer places to hide, and we can hole up in the bathroom if we have to and defend our position. But it’s old and it’s dirty; the furniture is from the seventies and the kitchen is hazardous.
“Now you’re starting to understand the real situation you’re in,” I say to Finch casually. I wander through the place, schooling my face. “It’s not all yachts and champagne, angel.”
Mother Mary, this place is bad.
I mean, it’s what I wanted, but Frank doesn’t exactly have a woman’s touch when it comes to picking a home. I almost regret not telling him to take Celia with him when he went hunting for it, but then I remind myself: it doesn’t matter what it looks like, it only matters if it’s useful.
“Yeah, I’ma go back to that Central Park West place,” Finch snorts, and picks up his bag.
“Frank, get out.”
Frank touches a finger to his forehead in farewell, and makes a face at me that Finch doesn’t see. I lock the door behind my brother, and turn back to my still-pissed-off husband.
“You try to keep me here and I’ll just fucking jump off the roof one night when you’re sleeping,” Finch snorts.
I walk right up to him, crowding him against the door Frank just walked out of, and put a hand around the back of his neck, stroking my thumb along his hairline. “Youstilldon’t get it, baby bird? You’re a prisoner in this marriage, and this is your cage. But I’ll be in it with you. Perhaps you can take some cold comfort from that.”
He pulls away from me, but I put my arm up against the door so he can’t wriggle past. The problem with Finch is, I believe hewouldthrow himself off the building just to spite me.
“Where doyoupropose we live?” I ask him.
He quits squirming at that. “Well, shit, that Central Park West place was okay,” he says. “Or NoHo is cool.”
“The Central Park West place is Tino Morelli’s property,” I tell him. “And I can’t afford NoHo. Not yet, anyway.” One day.
“Sure, butIcan afford it,” he says belligerently.
I chuckle at that, but it’s out of pity. He really doesn’t get it yet. “No, angel, you can’t. Not anymore. Anything your daddy used to give you will go straight to Fuscone now, and it’s that cash that’s keeping you alive and Fuscone off our backs. For now. Not forever, but for now. So no more fancy living, angel. I’ll have to move up in the world first.”
“I won’t fucking live here,” he says darkly. “I’dratherdie. Shit, Luca. I gave up the drugs, my friends, my whole fucking life, and now I have to live in a rat-infested shithole as well? Nuh-uh.”
Here’s the thing.
Tino offered to arrange a townhouse by the Park for the two of us as a wedding gift, but there’s no way in hell I’m living in a place financed by him. I respect my Boss, but I don’t trust him fully. Maybe the yacht was clear, but there’d be wires and cameras all over the townhouse. I gave Tino my thanks and I kissed his hand when he made the offer, that morning we left for the honeymoon, but I told him I’d have to think about it.
Besides, if I give in to Finch now, he’ll know he can wind me round his little finger whenever he wants.
“You can put up some chintz curtains,” I tell him, standing aside to wave down the hallway. “Make it homey.”
I realize I’ve gone too far when his gold-green eyes fill with tears. I figure at first it’s a tantrum: the rich bitch wants his own way, and he’ll cry and scream till he gets it. But Finch just grabs his suitcase and mutters, “Whatever,” before stalking down to the bedroom.
I hesitate, wondering how to handle this situation, and that’s not like me, not like the old Luca D’Amato. Usually I know my own mind. But this is tricky. I ponder another moment or two, and then I follow him.
The bedroom door is closed, and when I open it, Finch is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, his suitcase unopened on the floor next to him.
“Angel, I tried to tell you,” I sigh. “This marriage is notsupposedto be fun. It’s supposed to be a punishment.”
He doesn’t look up; he just slumps over onto the bed—which Frank, I presume, has made up with sheets—and closes his eyes. It’s not late, but it’s not early, either, so I leave him there and hope he’ll get some sleep.
I don’t dare touch him, try to comfort him. It’ll only cloud my mind.
I set myself up in the living room on the couch with no springs in it, and I’m drowsing in front of late-night TV when I’m woken by something.
It’s a metal rattling getting louder and louder, and now free-wheeling curse words carry through the apartment. My husband has a mouth on him. I go through to the bedroom to see what the commotion is.
