I open my eyes, not sure what he expects me to say. “Yes. Sore, but I’m listening to your advice and taking a long hot bath.”
He hovers over me with his hands in his pockets. “That’s good. Take some painkillers and eat something. I need to go and take care of some business.”
I sit in the tub and lean against the edge of it. “Shouldn’t we be on our honeymoon?” We don’t have a real honeymoon booked; we agreed on that for the sake of the current situation. It's just the time when we should get to know each other and spend time together, even from the comfort of our penthouse.
He narrows his eyes. “I thought we agreed to stay in New York. You know as well as I do we’re at war. Things may look calm now, but that means nothing.” His voice lowers, steady and controlled, almost detached. “Nico is cleaning his house, and ours is nearly done. Exterminating the rats took time and effort,and it’ll take even longer to restore things to the way they should be.”
“But we literally just got married, and we should use this time to get to know each other.”
“Yes, we will, but there is an issue I need to take care of. You, of all people, should understand that.”
I exhale. He has a point. Still, there is something in his expression. He doesn’t look like the man who fucked me all night long. Demanding, dominating, and out of control. No, this man wears his control like armor, a calm surface that hides the danger simmering underneath. “I know, but I don’t have to be happy with it.”
“Use this time to settle in. Feel free to do whatever you want around the house. Buy a new couch, pillows, I don’t know. Also, there’s a ladies’ brunch every Monday, where the wives gather and chat or whatever. You’re invited.”
He turns and leaves. I sink back into the water and take a deep breath before I dive completely under. I open my eyes and scream under the water.
My head’s a hurricane, thoughts tearing through like knives I can’t control. So, now I’m a ‘real’ mob wife, supposed to sit pretty and nice at home. I gave up my place at my brother’s side for this? For this marriage? I’ll be damned if I turn into one ofthosewives, with a fat bank account to splurge on whatever catches my eye. One who spends her days gossiping and learning new things about her husband, not that I need to. I already know most of it. The only thing I don’t know? His goddamn feelings. And instead of digging into that, I’m supposed to prance around, trash-talking with the rest of the mob wives like some socialite automaton. Screw that.
This marriage is going to give me a headache.
In the week that followed, I ordered new furniture and rearranged my closet, keeping myself busy so I’d forget the longwindows taunting me. I also got my bike delivered from Chicago and tried and failed to make something edible that ended up in the garbage. Grace was helpful in cleaning up the mess after me the next day; my embarrassment disappeared when I saw a hidden smile on her face. She then gave me the phone number of a restaurant I could order food from.
If Gabriel showed up, it was always in the early morning, a fleeting presence that would disappear before I opened my eyes, avoiding me like I had the plague.
I even went to the brunch, where I looked out of place between all the Stepford mafia-looking wives. The women were nice, but I didn’t feel a connection with anyone. Well, there was this girl, Clara. I think she was the only one close to my age. Clara was always on the move, making sure everyone had what they wanted, even if she didn’t work there. She made sure I was comfortable, and that I had everything I needed. She also gave me her phone number in case I needed anything and said I can contact her anytime.
I need a hobby since I talked myself out of stalking my husband. After I figured out the passcode of his phone, I installed an app while he was sleeping to track his movements.
I learned he isn't on the move that much; he spends most of his time at the Lotus Hotel. Sometimes, he’s at the club, but not long enough for me to be suspicious.
I need a ride. I change into something more comfortable before I head to the underground garage and get on my bike.
I don’t know where my destination is, but I surrender to the wind and the road. I let the adrenaline spike in my blood and my thoughts run a thousand miles, skipping from one to another.
I end up in Central Park, and instead of being calm, I’m anything but. As if watching the couple in front of me is going to make things better. It’s not like I care for all those cute moments, like when he brushes the hair on her forehead before kissing her.
I’m angry. No, I’m jealous, and I want all those things. I want to have someone take care of me like that and not ignore me. I may have acted on a whim like always and offered myself for this union, but I’m not just a pawn. I refuse to be one. If he doesn’t want to talk, I will make him. I will make him take me and this marriage seriously, though.
The only thing I like so far in this marriage is the fact that I don’t have a bodyguard. It makes it easier for me to stalk my own husband. I know I said I wouldn’t, but I also thought he would be present. I guess I need to remind him that this was a mutual agreement, and avoiding me isn’t an option.
I’m now in front of the Twenty-Seven Club for the first time. The place is luxurious than the club back home. Of course it is. It’s owned by Salvatore Catalano, and it’s fancy, not because of Cosa Nostra, but because of its clientele. I watch the entrance until I see the person I’m supposed to meet. Clara. When I called her and asked her if she would join me, I was surprised she agreed, but here we are.
“Hey!” She smiles and stops in front of me, tiny even against my 5’5” frame.
“You came!”
“Well, I told you I would!” She looks around. “There are even more people than usual. Have you talked to Mr. Savastano about your entry privileges?”
I tilt my head to the side and furrow my eyebrows. “What privileges?”
Her eyes widen. “You don’t just enter. Don’t you see the line? You only get inside if you’re a guest, have a special invitation, or you wait to be picked.”
“How do we get picked?”
“Why would you want to be picked? You're Gabriel Savastano’s wife; you can get inside with just one word from your husband.”
“No! He can’t know I’m here.”
