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“What was I gonna do, Kay? Crossword puzzles? You would do the same thing if you were in my shoes!”
She almost argues it, but even she can’t.
“You’re supposed to be better than me,” she mutters.
“Did you want to come here and find me beat up and starving and miserable? If that was how he was keeping me, you and I wouldn’t even be talking right now. Right?” I see the reluctant admittance on her face. “Look, this whole party, you being here today—all of this is for me. Sal is only doing it because it makes me happy. He’s trying to make it all…not so awful. And it’s not lost on me that he doesn’t have to.”
Kay looks like I’ve told her he only punches orphans in the face twice a week.
Before I can convince her, the party gets underway.
Live music fills the air as Vinny takes centerstage to welcome everyone to the party.
Throughout the yard, white tablecloths are manned by faintly familiar faces, the springtime weather a perfect backdrop. And Kay is here.
It should be perfect.
Maybe it isn’t—but it’s as close as Salvatore could make it, and I am grateful to him for that.
“Ladies and gentlemen, others and both, please sit down and strap in—except for Sal, who can do whatever the hell he wants.”
Salvatore glances my way, motioning me to join him and Marcel at one of the centermost tables. I bring Kay with me, ignoring her wide-eyed look as she is made to sit at the table with a mafia don.
“Now, as always, please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times—” Vinny continues. From the kitchen, the women bring out large single plates for the table, each one with a live flame blazing in the middle. I’ve only ever seen Vinny’s more typical evening dinners. I have never been treated to his fine dining experience.
He personally brings our plates to our table—I have learned, in my time here, that only Vinny is allowed to touch Salvatore’s food. No one else is as trusted.
It’s a gorgeous spectacle as each table lights up with its own unique flame, the tiered plates melting motes of some kind of sauce into the basin.
“It looks pretty, tastes magical, but there’s no alcohol,” he winks at Salvatore, as he sets my drink in front of me. I’m given the virgin alternative of the flamboyant cocktail everyone is served, and ours is the only table that does not have a bottle of wine.
Kay’s eyes lock on me like a turret. Her drilling stare demands to know why I’m not having alcohol. I feign being overly interested in the pretty display in front of us and pretend not to notice.
Salvatore finishing inside me is almost as good as the orgasm itself. Knowing that I’m worth him. Worth carrying his heir. It’s the kind of insane thinking that Salvatore can make feel normal.
Right until someone outside of all of this comes in and stares at me like I’ve gone off the fucking deep end.
I don’t have siblings. Kay is the closest I’ll ever get to that bond, and her approval matters so, so much. But I know she thinks I’m fucking crazy.
As if I’m the one who charged in here with no plan, a gun, and a spicy tube of lipstick. If Kay and I had a baby, maybe it would even out into being a completely normal person.
Salvatore calls Vinny over to trade out his drink—although I never complained, Salvatore hasn’t been willing to drink in front of me when I’m not allowed the same privilege. It is one of the many tiny things that has endeared me to him over the past weeks, the countless little courtesies that I don’t have time to illustrate to Kay.
That Salvatore is not all bad, no more than he is all good.
Maybe I should just point out that my man is very willing to fight the mafia for me.
Kay leans in while he’s distracted, her voice a whisper against my ear.
“Be honest with me. Right now. Do you want us to get you out of this or not?”
I stare ahead.
I know the answer, even if I don’t want to say it. It was easy to tell my father I didn’t need him. I haven’t needed him for a long time. But telling Kay that I think I might find a future here, that Salvatore and I might be good for each other, that I can’t imagine just walking away from him now and never seeing him again…that’s harder to admit.
How much would it tear us apart?
I dodge her question.
