“When I return, I want to see you with your hand under the water,” I warn.
“Yes, yes.” She waves me away with a satisfied smile.
Even when I’m fully dressed in my customary grey wool suit and silk tie, all Italian made, of course, I can still feel the imprint of Ruby’s hands on my chest. A tingling, sweet brand.
I hurry back to the kitchen, and find her serving a full English breakfast onto big white plates.
“Anything you don’t like, or are allergic to?” she asks casually.
“I’ll eat whatever you give me, wife,” I say, and I fear it’s true.
“Good.” She turns her sunny smile to me. “Sit down then! Coffee’s ready. Milk? Sugar?”
“Just milk.” I am broken as I sit at the table and am faced with my adorable, well-meaning wife, a mountain of food, and coffee less Italian than pizza from a truck stop.
I eat it all. Ruby glows with pride.
And I thank her, because the only thing that would sit heavier in my stomach than this breakfast is disappointing my wife.
13
RUBY
I think that went okay? Dante cleared his plate, and touched my cheek as he said thank you before he left for work. My skin is still tingling.
As instructed, I’ve not gone to the salon, and there haven’t been any messages from my boss, so I guess Dante has spoken to her. I feel a bit bad for leaving them in the lurch, but equally, I have something important to do—inform myself about my husband’s mafia, so I can be a good wife to him. Supportive.
Especially since I’m not sure how long the annulment will take. I might not have long. So instead of looking into getting an annulment, I set about searching out information on the area of London, and its mafia.
There’s frustratingly little. Dante is clearly supremely wealthy, and is on several lists of London’s billionaires. But Clerkenwell isn’t even like Angel, or Blackfen, where the leaders are a black hole of rumour and misinformation. The Angelini family keeps things to themselves, and Clerkenwell cares for its own. There are references to Dante and Lucia’s parents and grandparents, and photos of a huge funeral, years ago now.
I read that the Angelini family are fourth-generation immigrants from Italy. I guess that accounts for their Britishrather than Italian accents. This area of London is known as Little Italy because of the large Italian population, and although there are more up-and-coming city types living here, the core of the area remains the Italian Roman Catholic churches, authentic restaurants, and café culture of Italian coffee shops and wine bars.
I’m a bit stunned still that I’ve accidentally ended up as part of this mafia family. Married to the Don, no less.
Various staff come by during the day, offering me drinks and snacks. They seem almost happy to have someone to fuss over.
I explore the house during breaks from my research to try to understand Dante better, and get my fix of him, since his absence is a physical ache in my chest. It’s the very definition of plain. The walls are all painted in that very pale-yellow. There’s no artwork. No family photos. The furniture is all premium quality, but in neutral colours and bland designs.
In the basement is a gym with massive racks of weights and well-used sturdy benches. It’s all a bit intimidating. A treadmill faces the wall, and has a worn belt as though it’s used a lot. There isn’t even a television.
I imagine Dante exercising here, sweating with nothing but the blank walls and his own thoughts, and it breaks me a bit.
Since Dante said I should, I spend a bit of time working on a fan art piece of a dragon, and sketching out something new with a couple. And if the male character is tall and has green eyes and tattoos? Well. I can’t help that my husband is inspiring.
It’s a bit 1950s, but I get ready for Dante arriving home, putting on a cute dress and posing myself on the sofa. I draw, but I can’t really focus on it. I make myself all anxious about whether I’m pretty enough to be married to Dante. The answer is obviously no.
But when he walks in, I’m there to look up with a bright smile. “How was your day? Would you like a cup of tea?”
Dante regards me as though he’s surprised I’m here, which, fair. Yesterday he was a bachelor. But I’m going to be such good company for him, he won’t know how he managed without me.
“It was fine. Thank you.”
I’ve been planning this conversation all afternoon, and in the moment I dither about which opener to use—“Would you tell me about what you’ve been doing today?” or “I’d be interested to hear about how things are going at work, if you’d be comfortable telling me?”—he comes over and lowers his big frame onto the sofa beside me, and my mouth goes dry. He’s so big. And the tattoos that swirl over his neck, broken by his stubble, make me want to touch him.
“This is for you.” He pulls out a matte black credit card from his pocket, and holds it out for me.
Warily, I take it. On one side is the name of a bank I don’t recognise in fancy gold lettering. But when I flip it, I gasp.
