He nods. “I know you will. And I’ll protect you.”
I hide my smile at that, and then remind myself: there was a time, long ago, when hedidprotect me.
Finch stands and begins to gather the plates.
“That really was a good sauce,” I say awkwardly, following him back into the kitchen. “You gonna make that tomorrow night for—” I break off. Stupid.
“You can say his name,” he tells me as he begins stacking the plates in the dishwasher. “Make it for Tino? No, baby. I will not be forcing my attempts at a classic Italian pasta sauce on the Godfather himself.”
“I didn’t know you could cook.” I want to change the subject. He seems okay now, but who knows what the fallout of that phone call with his father will be? I just pray he doesn’t have a secret drug stash in the house.
“Puttanesca’s the only thing I can make. Mom taught me when I was a kid. It was her favorite.”
Great. In my attempts to avoid mentioning Tino, I’ve managed to bring up the dead mother. I clear my throat. “Can I help with the dishes?”
“I don’t think your Italian machismo will allow you to,” he says seriously, then smiles. “Sure. Hand me that dish over there.”
When we’re done stacking the dishwasher, we face each other over the kitchen island. It’s a comfortable feeling, despite what’s gone down tonight. I can’t take my eyes off him.
“Are you gonna kill me in my sleep?” I ask lightly. “Because if not, I was thinking, maybe I won’t go back out tonight. Maybe we should just have an early night.”
“Heavens.” He puts a hand to his heart. “You mean make love to me, your husband, inourbedroom, inourbed?”
I smirk. “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”
“Sure. Since we’re married and all, I guess it’s allowed. But first, I have a surprise for you. Don’t frown, baby, you’ll like it.” He comes around the island and holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he pulls me out of the kitchen towards the stairs.
“Pro tip,” I tell him as he leads me up to our bedroom. “Never tell a Family man you have a surprise waiting for him.”
Finch grins over his shoulder at me. “Even if that surprise is sexy?”
Eyes on his ass, I say, “Hm. Maybe then it’s okay.” But when we make it to the bedroom, Finch doesn’t head straight for the bed. Instead, he goes over to the closet and takes out a long black garment bag. He hooks the hanger on the door, unzips it, and pulls the insides out, as careful as I picture those ancient Roman auguries disemboweled their animal sacrifices.
He glances back to me and gestures me over. “Feel this.”
I take the material between my fingers. It’s soft. Classy. Expensive. Everything I’m not, but Finch is. “Nice,” I say. “You get this on your shopping spree with Celia?”
“It’s for you,” he says patiently. “This one, and four more. I took your measurements from the wedding tux. Hope you haven’t gained too much weight since the wedding, gotcomfynow that you’re a married man.”
I don’t know what to say. I check the label, wondering, hoping.
Finch chuckles. “You take his name in vain so often, I figured you should finally own some Armani suits. Now you can quit damaging his reputation with those clown clothes you insist on wearing.”
I glare at him then. “Those suits are fine for day-to—”
“No, they’re not, and I fucking threw them out. Trash collection came this morning, so they’re long gone. Say hello to your new life. I got you shirts, socks and underwear, too.”
“Where did you get themoney?” I snap, frustrated.
“Well, darling husband, there’s this trick the ultra-rich like to use, called living on credit. I charged it all to my Pops’ store account. Ididplan to tell him tonight, but he went all nuclear on me. So fuck him. He can have a surprise, too.”
I always thought Howard Fincher Donovan the Third was the apple of his daddy’s eye. How wrong I was. Still... “He kept you hidden. After your mother, I mean. Got you out of Boston and into New York.”
Finch picks up my thought process. “I keptmyselfhidden.I’mthe one who stayed off social media.I’mthe one who knew when I had to get out of town. He pushed me out to New York so he never had to see me. No. I owe him nothing—didn’t even inherit the Donovan family baby blues. So now do you understand? I’ve broken ties with him, with all of them. I’m not Howard Fincher Donovan the Third anymore. I’m Finch D’Amato from now on.”
He presses up against me and I drop the Armani suit-sleeve, clutching at his body out of instinct alone. “I’myours,” he says, his voice low with desire. “Until death.”
I kiss him for that, take his mouth and ravage it like I’m planning to do with his body once I get him in the bed. I pull at his clothes, get him naked as fast as I can. There’s something about him that makes me crazy, makes me rage inside where normally I’m like ice.
