A question rose in my throat, and before I could stop it, I blurted, “Is he just a clean freak, or is it more than that?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He paused what he was doing with several boxes of colorful, chemically sweetened kids’ cereal, like he was buffering, before carrying them over with two bowls. “Your problem, Sicily, is that you ask questions that get you into trouble. That’s none of your business, and though he shouldn’t be ashamed or hide it, you—" He caught himself babbling and sighed, closing his eyes momentarily. “You’re his wife; of course you deserve to know.”
“OCD?” I threw out.
Adriano nodded once. “Autism, OCD, antisocial behavior, complex PTSD… Don’t tell him I told you.”
I hadn’t expected such a long list of diagnoses, but then again, I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. I busied my hands with two kinds of cereal and excessive amounts of milk just to give myself a moment to think.
People said he hadissues.
“Have you known him for a long time?” I asked.
“Since we were five.” Adriano smiled. “He was my next-door neighbor; my father was Hugo Lucca’s Consigliere. He’s my brother in all but blood. I knew he was different from the moment we had our first conversation through the hole in the garden fence, but I didn’t care. He listened, and he was physically incapable of bullshitting me, so I loved him right away.”
The love emanating from this man was astonishing. I could feel it in my heart, how much he would do for Milan, how hard he trusted that Milan would do the same for him. This didn’t feel like friendship nor brotherhood; it was something more, soul deep. I wondered how much Adriano knew about Milan’s past,whether he knew about the things his father had called him, whether it was his father who had given him this complex PTSD.
“That’s why he thinks you wouldn’t be in hell then.”
Adriano threw his head back as he laughed. It was full and happy and unrestrained. “You’ll learn to translate Milan. He won’t ever say that you’re a good person, but he will say he doesn’t believe you would go to hell. He won’t have the words to say he can’t understand your anger, but he will tell yourepeatedlyto stop saying the word fuck.”
I laughed with him, but I was deep in thought about who my husband was inside.
How could I learn more about him while also being someone I still liked,andhe didn’t hate enough to kill? Those two factors seemed to clash, and perhaps it was impossible to believe that Milan and I could ever coexist in a way that made us both happy.
“Look, about yesterday.” Adriano’s gaze landed on the floor like that was where his shame sat. “I’m sorry I was such a dick. Ofcourseyou deserve an explanation for what happened with the Camorra at your own wedding, I just—” He paused, looking at the door like he expected someone,Milan,to come in.“I just don’t know what I’m allowed to say and what he wants to talk to you about himself.”
I shook my head because this entire thing was a disaster waiting to happen. “He doesn’t want to talk to me about anything.”
“He will, you just have to give him time. I think you’ll be good for him.”
“And what about me?” I whispered. “What’s good forme?”
His smirk created more questions than it answered. “Don’t discount him just yet, Sicily. If all else fails, you’ve got me.”
Even if Milan couldn’t be the husband I thought I’d have one day, Adriano was turning out to be the friend who would get me through this crazy arrangement, and I could live with that.
For now, at least.
8
MILAN
She was here.Again.
Then I remembered that she was my wife and sighed.This was an unacceptable arrangement, but one I could do nothing about.
There was business to partake in with the people who still thought it was a choice to fall under my leadership. I had the Gioffres and the Bianchis under my thumb, so it was only a matter of time before the other families caught up, but agentleprobe with the next family on my list was far from harmful.
The Bonafedes were next, and I was certain they would fold into my leadership with ease. Don Tommaso Bonafede cared mostly about his appearance in our society, and if he was seen to be one of the only people not following me, his image would suffer greatly.
I assumed Adriano had told Sicily of our necessary plans to attend the Bonafede poker yacht when they conversed loudly in the kitchen at seven-thirty this morning, but I was sorely mistaken, and we were fifty-five minutes late because she could not pick an outfit fast enough. That was not preferable in the slightest.
“You good, Milan?” Adriano half-smiled as we walked through the sleek, white-paneled yacht.
I had learned that half-smiling did not mean half-happy. Adriano had once informed me that it was a filler expression, and it indicated more unhappiness than happiness, but most notably, neutrality.
“No,” I said firmly, shoving my sunglasses harder onto my face.
