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My father chuckles at that. He knows as well as anyone the dynamics of a mafia marriage, and the difficulties and pitfalls that come with it. It might not be the mark of a good family man to leave my wife and newborn child—if the childismine—with her in-laws, but few mafia men could be called good atfamily.What we’re required to be good at is dealing withtheFamily, the organization that, to some extent, controls us all. We’re responsible for keeping up appearances, always—something Amalie will have to learn to be better at…something she should already know how to do. Who can blame us if, when we’re not dealing with the pressures of managing these empires, we like to blow off steam somewhere other than our own households, if we prefernotto spend our evenings with wives we don’t love and children who have been sired for a purpose?
I certainly don’t blame any man who does, myself least of all. Amalie should have been raised to expect a marriage of convenience, not one of trust, companionship, or fidelity. And whatever ideas she might have gotten in her head, she’ll learn differently soon enough.
“It might.” My father cocks his head slightly, as if thinking. “Are you not happy with her?”
“She’ll do. She’s good enough for what we need, isn’t she?” There’s a wealth of things that I’m hiding under those words—my doubts about Amalie’s truthfulness, the outrageous lust that she provokes in me every time she’s near, the way I’m not entirely sure if it’s possible for us to make it out of this marriage without killing each other. But I force a tight smile, and my father seems to take it at face value.
She’ll get used to it,I tell myself as he turns to other matters—our businesses in Boston, finances, shipments, the things he wants me to help him run out of Newport.She’ll stop fighting me, and we can find some peace. A truce, at least.And there’s the baby to consider.
If the baby is mine, then the matter of an heir will be settled, so long as Amalie gives me a son. She’ll be distracted with our child, and I’ll be free to go on about my life as I please. And if the babyisn’tmine—
In that case,I think, teeth gritted against the very idea as I try to focus on what my father is saying,she’ll go the same way as the rest of her family.
And in that case, I tell myself I’ll be glad to see her go.
18
AMALIE
There was never a chance in hell that I was going to actually listen to David, and stay in the house.
If anything, I was thrilled at the chance to get out of the awful, creepy mansion for a little while. David’s company does nothing to warm the place, figuratively speaking, but being alone there is somehow even worse. The night after he leaves, it takes me hours to fall asleep, every creak and groan of the old building making me jolt awake. I’m not foolish enough to believe in ghosts, but the ancient, dark atmosphere combined with my discoveries in the attic and the feeling of being utterly alone is enough to make me so jumpy that I don’t rest well. Which is a shame, because I would have enjoyed having the bed—one of the few luxuries in the mansion right now, plush and huge—to myself.
David has security posted all around the mansion, but they’re good at making themselves scarce. It makes the house feel empty, but it also means that once I’ve made up my mind to slip out and explore, slipping past them isn’t all that difficult. I don’t know if they expect me to try and make a run for it or not, but all that time dodging my own security detail in Chicago to spend time with Claire has paid off. The driver is apparently the one staff member who hasn’t been told that I’m supposed to stay close to home—I think David assumed the security would be buffer enough—and he defers to me when I ask him to take me into Newport for the day.
I have no idea if David will get a call from security once they realize I’m gone, but I can’t bring myself to care. The feeling of abrupt freedom and being out to explore all on my own makes any consequence feel worth it.
The giddy blissof freedom is only marred by the reminders of just how caged I am. No phone, and no credit card either. I found some cash in David’s office—left unlocked, as if he really thought I wouldn’t dare to snoop— and stuffed it into my clutch to get me through the day. It’s more than enough to shop and eat on, and I let my worries drift away as I walk down the sidewalk, the skirt of my sundress ruffling around my knees as I try to decide where I want to go first.
There are plenty of shops—some cute and kitschy, others touristy, and some more elegant. Nothing is as fancy as the sort of thing I can find in downtown Chicago—there’s nothing designer here, but I decide to lean into the charm of it instead of being put off by the idea. I’ve never set foot in a thrift store in my life, but I duck into one that’s housed in a small whitestone building that’s nestled between a coffeeshop and a jewelry store, curious as to what I might find.
The small bell over the door makes a chiming sound as I step in, and a middle-aged woman with greying blonde hair looks up from a ledger that she’s poring through at a glass counter. I can see that the inside of the counter is filled with all sorts of things—mostly jewelry, but some other odds and ends, too, and I wander over toward it.
“Can I help you find anything, love?” she asks, her voice kind, and I glance up at her. There’s a casual friendliness to her that I’m unused to. It takes me a second to realize that here, to her, I could be a local or a tourist—but certainly not the wife of a mafia heir.
There’s a certain pleasant freedom to that, too.
“I’m just browsing. I haven’t been in a store like this before.” The moment it comes out of my mouth, I realize it might seem rude, but the woman just chuckles.
“No, you don’t look like you have.”
I bite my lip. “I just meant with so much—variety.”
She laughs again, but pleasantly, without any rancor. “Well, look around. You might find something you like.”
I’m not so sure about that, but to my surprise, I find that there are more interesting things in the shop than I might have expected. The antiques and household goods are all a bit quaint for my taste—even if they do look like they’d look right at home in David’s crumbling old mansion—but near the back of the shop, I find a surprising treasure.
On one of the clothing racks, draped over a silk-wrapped hanger, I find an old fur stole. It’s in remarkably good condition, definitely vintage, and I run my hand over it, marveling at how soft it is. The rich grey color, flecked with black, would look beautiful with my dark auburn hair, and I immediately decide that I want it. The fact that my mother would be horrified if she knew I was purchasing something from a thrift shop only makes me more determined to buy it.
The price shocks me—only fifty dollars. “Are you sure this is genuine?” I ask the woman behind the glass counter, and she chuckles again.
“Of course. Got it at an estate sale. Lovely piece. I’m sure you’ll put it to good use.” She takes my cash and wraps it up in paper, slipping it into a plain brown paper bag. I stifle a small grin, thinking of a future opportunity to wear it—to the first gala or party David takes me to as his wife, maybe. There’s a thrill to the idea of wearing something that would embarrass him if he knew were it was from.
The purchase makes me feel rebellious enough to try something else new. My whole life, I’ve either eaten the meals our culinary expert of a cook has crafted, or dined at five-star restaurants. Ibiza was no exception. The first time I’ve eaten food from anywhere that might be called an ‘ordinary’ restaurant has been the takeout David has brought home, and even that was exceptional. I keep an eye out for where he might have gotten it, but nowhere jumps out at me, and I start to wonder where I might want to get lunch.
There’s a small restaurant towards the end of Thames Street that I notice—a little terracotta building that clearly serves Mexican food. It smells amazing—rich and spicy, and I wander inside, wondering if I’ll like it. Once again, I feel a little rebellious, going to a place I normally never would, that my mother woulddefinitelydisapprove of…that David might disapprove of. It’s that same reckless feeling that sent me to Ibiza, but on a much smaller scale.
The moment I’m seated, a bowl of salsa and a plastic basket of chips are set in front of me, along with a laminated menu that’s a little cracked at the edges. It’s a far cry from anywhere I’ve gone in the past,but that’s the point, I remind myself. I’d passed any number of fancier restaurants, but I wanted to try something different.
