"You better not get soft on me, Conti," she says.
"I don’t do soft," I tell her. "Soft gets you killed."
The suburbs don’t smelllike New York. They smell like cut grass and money pretending to be air. His place rises out of the trees like it owns the street—glass and shadows, the kind of quiet that makes you hear your own pulse.
The gates slide shut behind us. I lean my head back and watch the sky peel itself into late afternoon. "I could get used to this," I say. "No sirens. No neighbors. Feels like the rest of the world fell quiet."
"Temporary illusion," he replies, getting out of the car. "You tired?"
"I need a computer, a gym, and a shower. In that order."
His eyes flick down to the bandage at my side. "No gym."
I roll my eyes. "What are you, my mother?"
"Worse," he says, smiling. "I’m your husband."
For a moment, I’m out of replies. He’s taking far too much joy in reminding me of my little fib. I narrow my eyes. "You know, most men wait at least a month before weaponizing the vows."
He smirks. "I’m efficient."
"Efficient," I echo, dry. "That’s what they call control issues these days?"
"Only when it’s not working."
I huff a laugh, even though it hurts my ribs. "You’re enjoying this."
"Immensely. I’ve never had a wife who argues this much."
"Lucky you. I’ve never had a husband who keeps score."
"Oh, I don’t keep score," he says. "I just like winning."
I glance at him, lips twitching. "You keep telling yourself that,Marito."
He glances sideways, mouth curving slowly. "Careful,Zhena.You’re starting to sound like you like me."
I turn to take in the park-like driveway before he can see the smile I don’t mean to give him. "Don’t get sentimental, Conti."
Inside, it's cooler than sin. He takes me downstairs in this all-polished-concrete-and-steel house. I’m greeted by giant, humming racks, screens bleeding data, and several men at the bottom of the stairs. A warroom under a house. It’s packed: analysts, coders, ghosts with lanyards. Conversations stop just enough to register me.
"Everyone, this is my wife," he says, easy as a knife trick. "Wife, this is everyone."
I shake my head. "You’re enjoying this too much."
"Got to take joy where you can find it." He tilts his head and whispers wickedly, grinning. "Speaking of… how are you on your wifely duties?"
I arch a brow. "I’ll start by not poisoning your coffee."
Soft laughter ripples, and then we’re through a second door into a private office—soundproofed, cold, and beautiful. Two desks face each other across the space like a command bridge. The screens are sleeping for now, waiting to be awakened just like the keyboards.
"All yours," he says.
"And watched," I guess, scanning the corners. There’s a camera somewhere; there always is.
He shrugs, unapologetic. "I like to know who’s in my house. Are you going to tell me who you are, Mrs.Odd Jobs?"
I turn, lean my hip against the desk, and give him my best innocent smile. "Why, I am Mrs. Conti."
