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“Am I under arrest?” I ask, my brow raised at the arrogant officer.
His jaw tightens.
He knows what comes next.
I smile my siren’s smile.
“No, Mrs. Carluccio. You are not under arrest.”
My smile widens as I stand, my red bottoms clicking on cheap linoleum as I do.
“Well. Then you won’t mind if I head out, will you?”
He sighs but closes his manila folder as I walk out of the interrogation room.
And then I move out of the building, ducking into the blacked-out car and ordering Marco to take me to my husband so I can ream his ass out.
Just another day in the life.
* * *
“Carmine Dante Romano Carluccio, where the hell are you?” I call as soon as I walk in the door of our home.
It’s not the compound, not anymore. For our one-year anniversary, my husband bought me my dream home.
Not too big, but big enough to house the kids I told him I wanted, big enough to host family parties, and most importantly, big enough so our room is far enough from any future gremlins.
I don’t plan to stop letting my husband rail me just because there are kids under our roof.
And with the lack of cars out front, I know only my husband is home.
“Dante!” I yell again, walking through the foyer toward the kitchen, not because that’s where he normally is, but because that electricity is pulling me there.
And when I walk into the kitchen, I stand in the entryway, putting my hands on my hips, staring at my handsome husband.
The hair at his temples has gone just a bit more salt and pepper, the lines on his face a bit deeper, but he’s still as handsome as that first time I saw him all those years ago as a drunk girl in Jersey City playing dress up as Rapunzel.
His fiorella.
Though these days, the laugh lines are a bit more prominent than his frown lines, and I like to think that’s all my doing.
He sits back, leaning into the chair before looking at me.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to get yelled at?” he says, a smile on his lips.
I glare.
“Ah, because I am.” The smile grows. “Where were you when you got angry?” he asks as if that will help him remember which of the things he’s done recently got me mad.
“The police station,” I say, deadpan, and he sits up straighter, the furrow in his brow forming.
“The police station?”
“Yes, Dante. Apparently, Shane Turner has gotten himself in deep once again and told the police that his daughter would come help out. Sat in a fuckin’ interrogation room for twenty minutes, them telling me about all the trouble Shane’s been getting into and how he’s claiming that it’s all my fault.”
Thunder crosses my husband’s face, and I fight the way it makes my belly flutter in a good way.
“Your fault?” Dante says angrily. “Where the fuck was Marco?”
