But at one point, Finch got extra-paranoid until I sat him down and pointed out the dangers of regular check-ins.
“Okay,” he’d said at once. “I understand that. But every time you leave this house it’s the last time I might see you.”
It’s rare for men in my business to make it to retirement age. My predecessor did, and then died in a shootout just the same.
“I’m careful,” I promised him, although it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. “I have Angelo, like you have Marco.”
Even the mention of our bodyguards couldn’t comfort him. So he’s still struggling with it, but he’s learning to accept it. And we have our own rituals. Every morning before I leave, he kisses me in the doorway and tells me to be careful, like a blessing. We have dinner together as often as possible, even if I have to go back out again to work afterwards.
And then there’s Date Night, every Friday, when I put business aside for the whole evening and focus on him.
Not that it’s a trial in any way to focus on Finch. He still finds ways to surprise and delight me on a daily basis. Terrible and fearsome things have happened around us and to us, but every morning when I wake with him in my arms, I whisper a prayer of thanks to Mother Mary. And then I wakehimup and start the day off right.
I arrive home now hoping to start the evening off right, too, but Finch isn’t waiting for me in the kitchen like he usually is, with a glass of wine and a tale from his day. I’ve already given the night off to Angelo, who is otherwise with me every time I leave home.
“Baby bird?” I call, and I hear a faint answering response from above.
Ah. The bedroom.
I don’t bother to check my grin as I run upstairs, calling his name. There was a time when I kept my husband at arm’s length, kept him off-balance and on edge. I never want him to doubt my love for him for the rest of this marriage, for the rest of our lives. And so I remind myself, daily, to open up to him. To share myself. To prove to him in every word and action exactly what he means to me.
I burst into our room but pause in the doorway to drink in the sight of him. He’s just come out of the shower and into the bedroom, hair still dripping, towel tied low and loose around his waist. The smile that lights up his face mirrors my own.
“Luca! You’reearly,” he chirps. “I was gonna surprise you—”
“Oh, you still can.” I stride over to pull the towel off and push him onto the bed, face up, where he props himself up on his elbows, eyes gleaming. My husband, the hedonist, the pleasure-seeker, the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life. I push his thighs open and slide between them, down on my knees.
“This feels more likeyougivingmea surpr—ohh.” He flops down again, boneless, as I press my teeth gently into the flesh of his upper thigh. “Ilikesurprises.”
“I likeyou,” I tell him.
I mean it, too.
I don’t like many people. I love my family fiercely and protectively: this husband of mine, my brother and his wife. Ineedseveral other people—Angelo and Marco, my Capos—and then there are people I find useful. Soldiers. Allies. Contacts.
But I don’t genuinelylikemany people. Never have. I’m as in like with Finch as much as I’m in love, and that, for me, is always a wonder.
I push the thoughts aside. Finch’s sweet cock is filling out under my kisses and now is not the time for introspection.
It’s time for pleasure.
* * *
We never do get aroundto going out to dinner like we planned. For normal people it takes three months to get a table at the restaurant we booked tonight, but these days I just drop my name anywhere, anytime, and nothing is too much trouble. A table is available, but not just any table: a great view, set apart from the other diners for privacy, and a dedicated server whose sole purpose is catering to our whims.
It’s not just restaurants. In department stores, in corporate offices, when I get my hair cut, even out on the streets—everyone goes out of their way to please and flatter and defer to the head of the Morelli Family. I’m respected wherever I go…except by my own brother and my Capos.
And in the end, it all seems meaningless. A lot of people died to put me in this position, and I’m not sure how much I enjoy it.
“We need to make some decisions about Connie,” Finch says, after swallowing a huge mouthful of food. We took our time with each other in the early evening, and I coaxed more than one climax out of him before we called the restaurant and asked them to deliver.
They don’t do delivery. But for us, they make exceptions.
We’re eating in my favorite room: the kitchen. Not that Finch or I do much cooking ourselves, but this is where we eat every night. It’s big and roomy, open-plan with hardwood floors and exposed beams and warm lights, and we sit at the old table and chairs in the eating area to have our dinner and catch up on what we did each day. I give Finch a euphemistic, edited version of events, so he’ll have plausible deniability when—not if—the Feds come knocking. The interference of the law in my business is something inevitable, but manageable.
Finch, for his part, still listens at doorways. But I’ve learned enough about him to know it’s pointless trying to get him to stop, and besides, his advice has been invaluable. I call him my informal consigliere, since the official one defected to our enemy’s side.
As for Finch’s days, they seem to be filling up more and more. It makes me happy to see him becoming happy. Maybe he’s not quite there yet, but he’s on his way.
