He’s pissing me off now. “I keeptellingyou, I’m working. So I’m sorry if I can’t play house with you, baby bird, but it really shouldn’t come as a surprise.”
He gives a furious chuckle. “Oh, believe me, you’ve lost any capacity you had to surprise me.”
I bite my tongue. I’m not going to get into an argument with him. “I’m here, aren’t I?” I say mildly. “Can I do anything?”
“Sure. Set the fucking table, if you can figure out the silverware.”
I grab out a handful of cutlery from the drawer and throw it on the small kitchen table, but then I catch myself. I’m not going to give into this petty bullshit. So I do what he says and set the table, just the way my Nonna taught me when I was a kid.
“Why don’t you pick a wine, too?” he asks over his shoulder, nodding at the cellar door. When we moved in, Tino had set us up with the beginning of what Finch called avery passable wine collection.
“Look, I know what you’re trying to do,” I begin.
“Just get the wine,” he says. “Hurry up. Pasta’s just about done.”
I have no idea what to pick from the scores of bottles in the small cellar, except that it should probably be a red. Red wine with red sauce…right? Now I’m even questioning that. I grab the first red wine I see and by the time I come back up, Finch has served dinner. He pulls off the apron and throws it on the counter before sitting down at the table.
“Whyareyou naked?” I ask, sliding into my own seat.
“Because it’s the only way I can keep your attention. Here, pass it over.” I hand him the bottle and he opens it expertly, then pours a splash of wine into my glass. “Taste.”
This is beginning to get very irritating. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Open your mouth, take a sip.”
Perhaps he’s become bored. He’s bored, and he’s trying to provoke an argument just for something to do. I drink the mouthful, shrug, and put my glass out for more. “Tastes like wine to me,” I say, when it becomes obvious he’s waiting for something. “Can we get on with this?”
If possible, Finch’s face gets even stonier. “Sure. I don’t want to keep you from your oh-so-importantbusiness.”
I sit back with a sigh. “What do you want from me, Finch? I have to make sure we’re safe. That’s what I’m doing.”
He stabs his fork into the pasta. “Eat,” he mutters.
For an Irish kid, his pasta puttanesca is actually pretty good, but he just grunts when I tell him that. The table is covering his nudity but it’s hard not to stare at his pretty pink nipples.
Maybe he’s right, even if I hate to admit it. Idopay more attention to him when he’s naked. I try to focus on the food, but the heavy atmosphere gets to me in the end. “If you don’t want me in your bed, you only have to say so.”
His head whips up and he points his noodle-laden fork at me. “That right there. That’s the fucking problem. It’s notmybed. It’sourbed. Why have you been such an epic douchebag since we moved in here? And don’t feed me any more bullshit, I can’t take it,” he spits, as I start to speak. “Just tell me what the hell your problem is.”
Frank was right. I had no idea what marriage was going to be like. I consider lying, but why should I? If Finch wants to know, I’ll tell him. “Alright. You make me stupid. Being around you, I can’t concentrate on anything.”
He stares. “Welcome to the honeymoon phase of a marriage, you moron. It’ssupposedto be that way.”
I don’t bring up the fact that we’ve hardly had a traditional courtship so far. Instead, I put aside my emotions and lay it out plain. “If my mind is on you, it’s not on business. If my mind’s not on business, something will get by me. If something gets by me, you’re dead.” I eat a few more mouthfuls while I let that reality settle in Finch’s brain.
He stares at his food for a while before he resumes eating, and finally I seem to have said something right, because he begins to thaw. “I went to a brunch with the Wives the other day,” he says at last, conversationally, like we’re any normal married couple catching up about what we’ve been doing.
“It’s nice that you’re making friends in the Family,” I say politely.
“Shut up and listen,” he replies, and I’m so taken aback that I actually do.
Chapter Thirty-One
FINCH
After I’ve spilled everything I learned from one little brunch with the Wives, I sit back and finish my glass of wine. I’d never tell Luca this, but the Zinfandel he picked from the cellar is actually a pretty good match for the food. I’m sure it was entirely accidental, though.
Luca is thinking. At first he was amused, even dismissive, but by the end of my story he was listening carefully, eyelids flickering like he was making computations behind his eyes.
