It all looks surprisingly good on me. But then, I make everything work.
“You did good,” I say, leaning into him.
“Ididask Angelo for some help. He’s always well put together.”
“Hm,” I say. “I don’t know if I like the idea of Angelo prowling through our bedroom and looking through our closets. He had a thing for Tino; what if he has a thing for you, too? I wouldn’t blame him, especially in that getup.” Luca seems determined to make all my wet dreams come true tonight in leather pants and a black tee that clings as close to his muscles as I like to do.
“Shh,” Luca warns.
We’re in the back seat of the car and Angelo is up front, driving. But there’s a privacy screen and everything; that got installed in this car pretty soon after we got married, and I always wonder whether it was Luca or someone else who decided it was necessary.
“He won’t hear us,” I scoff.
“Why is everyone so anti-Angelo these days?” Luca mutters. “First Frank, then you—”
“I’m just jelly. I don’t want him putting his hands on my man. Except to save his life, I mean. I’ll accept that.”
Luca snorts. “Angelo has no interest in me as a man. Only as his Boss. I can assure you of that. AndI’monly interested in one man. That beautiful, crazy kid with a death wish whom I met all those years ago.” He kisses me again, and my body lights up for him. I’m still horny from his abandoned blow job, and the guy knows it.
Outside, the lights of New York City wash by. God, I love this town. As much as I love Luca, even. And tonight I’m discovering new depths to my feelings for him. He took me to a hot new restaurant—notItalian, praise Mary and all the saints. No; he picked Ethiopian, and we shared bowls of goat meat, lentils, potatoes, sweeping them up in injera bread. It was fucking delicious, andnotjust because it wasn’t pasta or seasoned with basil.
“What’s Frank’s problem with Angelo?” I ask, after our epic kiss has come to a close. Traffic is slow tonight and we’re only crawling between signal lights. In any other car, I might be worried, but this one is bullet-proof, armor-plated, and big and bitchy enough to smash through roadblocks if we have to.
Besides which, I have Luciano D’Amato, Boss of the Morelli Family to protect me. Nothing on earth can touch me when Luca’s beside me.
“I think Frank might be, as you so eloquently put it, ‘jelly.’ Not inthatway,” he sighs as I grin. “I think deep down he just…misses me. He feels like we haven’t been hanging out together much lately, and he’s not wrong. Plus he’s been making waves about being Underboss again.”
“He’s not gonna let that go,” I say, idly glancing out the window. “Better pick someone soon to shut him up.”
“I don’t think that would shut him up,” Luca mutters.
The streets are beginning to look familiar to me, even these off-avenue blocks. “Hey.” I sit up and press my nose to the window like a kid. “That’s where Temptation used to be!”
I’ve never seen Luca look so smug. “You remember?”
“OfcourseI remember. It’s where we met.” Temptation has changed its name to Kismet now, and there are a lot more people lining up outside than there ever were back in the day. “I wonder if it’s still as shitty as it was back in the day.”
“It’s changed ownership since then. New decor. Better music.”
“I fuckinghopeso. Or maybe I don’t. If it hadn’t been for that janky old place, I never would’ve met you.” A wave of sentimentality comes over me, and I reach for his hand—and find something missing. “You’re not wearing the Morelli ring,” I say in surprise. Only his wedding band adorns his long, thin finger.
“Not tonight. Tonight I’m not Don Morelli. Tonight, I’m only yours. You can be that baby bird I fell for, and—”
“And you can be the stone-eyed Lucifer I fell head over heels for at first glance.”
This time, I kisshim.
* * *
There’sa line at the club, much longer than it ever used to be, and the clientele is much more upmarket. But of course we don’t have to wait to get in; the bouncer doesn’t even wave us through, just unclips the rope as we approach and gives a respectful nod to Luca. There isn’t even any complaint from the waiting line; they’re busy whispering and wondering who Luca might be, whoImight be. But then one of the front-row line-ups whips out his cellphone and takes a flash photo. Luca stops in the doorway and gives a chin-nod to the bouncer.
The bouncer grabs the guy’s phone, deletes the photo, and hands it back. “Can’t you read?” he shouts, pointing to the sign on the side of the wall:No cameras. No cell phones. No recordings of any kind.
“That only counts inside,” the chastised patron pouts.
“The hell it does,” the bouncer booms. “Any of you losers eventhinkyou’re Instagramming any shit around here, you better get the fuck outta here right now!”
Luca pulls me on with him, into the club. I can feel the music pounding the floor like deep volcanic disturbances. There’s a cloakroom to the left with another huge sign demanding that all cameras, cell phones and other recording equipment be left at the door. “Is that even legal?” I wonder. “Can they make us do that? ’Cause Ineedmy cell.”
