I recognize some from the wedding. Others from Antonio's funeral.
The fact that I know so little about them reminds me of how closed off I'd been, and it makes me feel like Saint really didn't mean to keep me.
They all stand when I enter, and I smile softly as Saint introduces me. I'm sure that he should have introduced me ages ago, but he didn't. I try not to stiffen as it reminds me of the words that Antonio spoke.
"Gentlemen," Saint says. "You all know my wife, Gemma."
Nods. Murmurs of greeting. Eyes that assess and dismiss in the same glance.
This is symbolic to me, but not to them.
I'm decoration. A pretty accessory to prove Saint is settled and worthy of leading.
I want to scream at them that I took down the Pakhan of the Russian outfit in New York. Instead, I smile.
I'm gracious, demure. Everything a mob wife should be. Inside, I am fuming. Saint knows I am more than a trophy, and yet, here I am serving that purpose for him. This is a set-up.
"Please, sit," Saint gestures. "Gemma, you'll be here." He pulls out the chair to his right.
The position of honor. The seat that says this woman matters.
But as the meeting starts, I realize I'm correct in my initial assessment—he's placating me.
I'm not permitted to talk. No one even looks at me.
The focus is on Saint, the Don.
He talks. The captains respond. They discuss business.
When someone addresses me, it's to compliment my dress or ask how I'm settling in. Everyone seems politely confused as to why I am here.
An hour in, I'm ready to scream. My cheeks ache from smiling, and I'm ready to pull my hair out.
What the fuck is Saint thinking?
Later, in Saint's office, I confront him.
"Was that a test?"
He looks up from his paperwork. "What?"
"The meeting. Having me sit there while you talked around me. Was that a test to see if I'd obey you?"
Saint glares, folding his hands over top of his document. "You always think the worst of me."
I cross my arms over my chest in challenge. "Are you serious?"
Something flickers in his green eyes, guilt? Unsure. It's always been hard to decipher his true self. There's a time I think we are on the same page, and boy, am I wrong. Saint wears a mask, same as me, only, his is much harder to shatter.
"I wanted your input." He sets down his pen. "I wanted you to sit there and learn. You're smart, Gemma. I'd be an idiot not to use that."
"Use." I lean against his desk. "That's an interesting word choice."
He squeezes the bridge of his nose and releases a heavy sigh.
"You know what I mean."
"Do I?" I move closer. "Because from where I'm sitting, I'm still just an accessory. A pretty wife who occasionally gets asked questions to make her feel included."
