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This man, I could be happy with. This man, I could even love, in time.
But not if I can never trust that it’s really him.
—
The evening of the gala, I haven’t seen David all day. It’s not unusual—he’s often gone dealing with various parts of his business that he doesn’t tell me about—but I can feel the restlessness returning. I’ve stayed away from the attic and avoided snooping any further into the rooms of the house that I haven’t visited yet, but the cabin fever is beginning to get to me. The only thing that’s kept me from it is that David’s good mood has persisted for days, and I haven’t wanted to break the spell.
Since that afternoon in his office, we haven’t fought. It’s only been three days—but that’s a record for our marriage so far. He hasn’t been sarcastic or biting, and if he’s often been quiet, I’ve preferred that to the near-constant arguing. The lack of stress has helped me, too—I haven’t been sick from the pregnancy since the morning we left Boston. As I sit at my vanity getting ready for the gala, I can almost see a hint of that glow that pregnant women always talk about. My skin looks clearer, a bit brighter, and I use a light hand with my makeup. I want David to see me like this, happy, flushed with the glow of carrying his child, and hope that he’s beginning to believe me when I say that itishis.
The dress that David liked me best in is a deep metallic grey, the fabric woven with threads that glitter in the light. It has a high waist, giving it a retro sort of nineteen-twenties style. Although I still don’t have any outward signs of being pregnant, the loose waist makes me feel a little better. I don’t want any sign of it showing up yet, any chance of someone commenting on how quickly David must have gotten to work—or anyone counting back and realizing that it definitely couldn’t have beenafterthe wedding that he got me pregnant. Tonight is another chance to show him that I flourish when I’m around other people, not sequestered away like this. I don’t want anything to ruin it.
There’s a knock at the door, and David steps in. He whistles low under his breath as I stand up, and crosses the room quickly to me, his hand on my waist as he leans in for a kiss. “Anything I can help with?” he asks, and I nod, handing him the strand of pearls I planned on wearing.
“Help me with this?” I sweep my hand under my hair, lifting it away from my neck, and I can’t help but shiver at the brush of his fingers against the nape as he clasps the necklace. They linger for a moment, brushing against the soft hair there, and when he turns me to face him, he tips my chin up, kissing me more deeply.
“We’ll be late for the gala if you keep that up,” I whisper, a little shakily. He’s been remarkably constrained in his desires for the last few days, wanting me only at night before we go to sleep, and never in any of the rough or demanding ways that I’ve come to expect. I almost miss him ordering me to my knees or insisting that I do things that embarrass and turn me on all at once. I try not to think too hard about what that says about me—that I miss his roughness, when he’s making an attempt at being gentle.
“I’m the head of their board,” David murmurs, kissing me again. “If I want to be late, I can be late.”
“We also sent all of the other dresses back. If you ruin this one like you did the red dress, what will I wear?” The question is light, teasing, but even I can hear the thread of desire in my voice, remembering what he did in his office. The skirt of the red dress ended up torn, when he’d lifted me off of his lap and bent me over his desk, ripped in his hurry to move it out of his way so he could be inside of me again.
I liked the dress, but I didn’t care. I’d liked the way he felt more, the urgency in his hands, the way he’d wanted me so badly.
“Maybe I should parade you naked in front of all of them.” His hand slides down my hip, gathering the fabric lightly in his fingers. “Show them all how powerful I can be. There’d be no question then, when all those old men start looking at you, that you’re mine.”
“All those old women would faint.” I giggle, kissing him lightly. “Or die of heart attacks. You’d have no one left to run things.”
“Might be for the best.” David kisses me again, his hand hard on my hip as he pulls me against him, and I bite back a moan as I feel his cock pressing against me. For the first time, I feel like a real married couple—betterthan most mafia couples, even. It’s the sort of domestic banter that makes me feel as if things might be alright, at last, between us—or that they at least might be headed in that direction. “That’s why I want you to volunteer with them,cara mia. They’ll be more inclined to follow my wishes, if my wife sits on the board.”
The statement is enough to distract me from the desire that he’d started to rouse in me. It’s not the first time David has mentioned me volunteering on one of the various committees or for any of the charitable organizations that he has a hand in. Still, itisthe first time he’s said it in a way that hints at the idea that it might be because he values my opinion in some way—or at least finds me useful. He’s always phrased it as if it’s something to occupy my time, some way to distract me from whatever other girlish foolishness I might get up to, to keep me from being bored and causing trouble. But the way he’s looking at me now, with a keen eye and calculating expression, suggests that he’s thinking of me the way a mafia heir thinks of a wife who can help him.
Who might, in time, have influence in other ways beyond just sitting on a committee and reporting home to her husband what they discuss in his absence.
That is, after all, part of the province of a mafia wife. Beyond providing heirs and planning parties, the wives make friends with each other. They hear the gossip, hear snippets of conversations in passing, and learn how to read the men in the room even when those men ignore them. My father didn’t put much stock in what my mother gleaned from the other wives, nor did he particularly respect her opinion—but there are husbands who do. The thought of David seeing me that way, of us being the sort of couple who share power instead of me always living in his shadow, sends a thrill through me that I can’t entirely ignore.
But I can’t let it take root.A few days isn’t enough to rely on.I’ll be happier if I manage my expectations, if I don’t let myself hope that he might trust and respect me that much eventually—when right now, he doesn’t even believe that I’m telling him the truth about my pregnancy.
“You want me to go sit on charity board meetings and then report back to you at dinner?” I press my hand against his chest, giving him a teasing kiss. “I’ll have to think about that. It could be fun.” I lean my head back as I say it, smiling at him, but I want to see his face—to see which version of David I get. If I see the man who would tell me that I’ll do as he says, whether I want to or not—or the one who will play along.
“Don’t think too hard.” David taps me on the nose, releasing me. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Somewhere in the middle, then,I think as he turns away, biting my tongue against the retort that I want to make. I remember my mother telling me, long ago, that being a mafia wife is playing a role. I hated the idea of it then—and I hate it even more now, when the man for whom I have to play that role is someone who makes me desire him instead of despising him.
“Wear this tonight.” David sweeps the fur stole off of the wing chair that I draped it over, holding it out. “It can get chilly down by the water, even in summer. And it looked lovely on you at the party in Boston. It matches your dress perfectly.”
Somehow, I manage not to flinch, to keep the smile on my face. Ihadthought that it matched the dress—had even thought of wearing it tonight—but I hadn’t wanted to risk David’s good mood if he somehow were to find out where I got it. I don’t want to be rebellious tonight. I just want to get through the party, to be the picture-perfect version of the wife he needs, and show him that hecantrust me. That I haven’t lied to him about any of the things that he suspects me of.
But I also can’t tell him why I don’t want to wear it without admitting where I got it in the first place.
I nod, keeping the smile on my face as I take it out of his hand, wrapping it around my shoulders. “There,” David says, leaning in to kiss me lightly once more. “You look exactly the way the wife of a powerful man should.” His hands rest on my shoulders, turning me to face the full-length mirror, his fingers skimming down my bare arms as his lips ghost over my ear. “As beautiful as a piece of art.”
The flattery warms me more than it should. Iwantto please him, to make him happy, and I know how dangerous that can be. How easily I could fall into the trap of always trying to meet his every want and need, and losing myself in the bargain. It’s what I’ve always been afraid of, why I bucked against the future that was planned for me for so long.
In this world, it’s far too easy for a woman to be entirely consumed by a man.
I follow David downstairs, out to the waiting car. He sits across from me, pouring himself two fingers of cognac as he leans back in the leather seat, watching the scenery go by as the car pulls away from the house and out onto the street. I watch him, my pulse beating a quick rhythm in my throat, wondering how tonight will go. If the night will end the way our last night in Boston did, or if something will go wrong.
For all the grandeur of it, this party feels more intimate. It’s held at one of the other mansions, a gorgeous estate owned by a couple who has a great deal of public-facing influence for this particular organization—a Mr. and Mrs. DeRosa. “They’re the public face of it,” David tells me as our car pulls into the long, winding driveway, following the line of other cars headed for the valet. “They answer to me, of course, and the DeRosa family has had ties to the mafia for generations. We keep those ties quiet, and they give us the means to funnel our money into something legitimate and respectable.” David shrugs, sitting up and setting his glass aside as the car slows to a stop. “All a part of the game. So tonight, we pretend to be a part of the elitewithoutthe criminal connections. Although—” he smirks, his eyes glittering with dark humor as he looks at me. “There is no such thing as elite and wealthy without being some sort of criminal. It’s just whether you can admit it to yourself or not.”
