Say You’re My Wife

1. Meet Cute

CORRADO

1

The mist accumulated on the bathroom mirror blocks my reflection. I wipe the fog off and lean over the counter, checking out my unshaven jaw. I haven’t appeared this rugged since my twenties, but it looks like it’ll have to do tonight. Just to be sure, I check the drawers for the shaving kit.

Since nobody’s lived in this Manhattan apartment since my sister left it over a year ago, and I wasn’t supposed to arrive till next month, no toiletries remain. I would have packed for the trip, but the moment I found out Franko Monelli invited five of the Order’s most powerful families to his niece’s birthday party tonight, I left Sicily for New York.

On the counter, the app with the logo of a gray serpent lying on a pot of gold lights up my phone screen. When the serpent turns red, indicating a call from my older brother, I touch the little square application on the screen so it can read my fingerprint.

A blue serpent joins the red one.

Before I greet him, he says, “There you are.”

“Here I am.” I scratch my five-o’clock shadow. “Did you already send a search party for me?”

“Almost. Paulina called me ten times, since you haven’t answered your phone.”

“I was on the plane on my way into New York.”

“It’s not July yet, so why are you there?”

“I heard that Franko Monelli called in a meeting with the Benvenutis, the Julianos, the Bakers, the Walshes, and the Balashovs.” I put on my pants, going commando since I have no clean underclothes.

“We know the Monellis are looking to wash their money by investing in stocks.”

They asked us for this service, which we refused because the Monellis are getting weeded out of the Order for the kind of reckless behavior that would have been more appropriate in the days before surveillance existed. Bailing them out of trouble costs money, and since the Order pulls from the same well of resources, Monellis are using up more than they’re worth. “You think they figured out we’re going to serve them the severance package?” I ask.

The Bakers deal with politicians, which is where the information we use to manipulate stocks comes from, and the Walshes control Wall Street, where the trades are made. The other three are crime families with cash flow as large as the Monellis’. Two Italian families and one Russian. The difference between them and Franko is that they’re not parasites.

“There’s no other reason he’d breach the rule of three,” Severio says. “He’s desperate.” Only the Order’s founding family, meaning my brother and sister, and I, can call a meeting of more than three Order members. This rule exists to protect everyone’s assets, our lives being the greatest of those assets.

“Where’s the meeting?” my brother asks.

“At the Three Cardinals.”

Severio snorts. “Some balls on that guy.” Our sister owns that hotel. “And what’s he using as the front?”

“His niece’s birthday party.”

“There’ll be family there, so he won’t do anything stupid. By the way, who tipped you off about the meeting?”

“The birthday girl.”

“His niece?”

“Mmhm. Her mother gave her my number. She’s been texting me pictures.”

“What kind of pictures?” Severio asks suspiciously.

I chuckle. “Exactly the kind you’re thinking of.”

He groans. “He put her up to this.”

“She doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Anything else?”

Families wanting better profits and alliances have pushed marriages on my brother and me since we could walk. Our father bartered us all away, but once we took over the Order, we broke all the arrangements. Nobody can tell me who I’ll spend my life with. I live on my own terms. As do my siblings.

“Last week, Paulina got a call asking when I’m coming into the city,” I say. “I think she said it was Baker’s daughter who asked. Maybe Walsh’s.” I’m unsure because I’m uninterested.

Severio chuckles. “They’re all attending tonight’s party. I’m sure of it.”

I groan.

He starts laughing.

“So happy to amuse you, brother.”

“You’re walking into the hornets’ nest.”

“Yes, but I’m carrying the torch.” I hear mumbling at the front door. “Talk tomorrow.” I disconnect and shut off the light in the bathroom. The rest of the apartment is dark, giving the impression that nobody’s here.

Outside, something heavy hits the marble. Nobody’s supposed to be here. This is a safe apartment in Manhattan owned by my sister’s offshore company. Nobody could possibly have traced it since we manage property acquisition so carefully.

When the door starts to open, I walk out, my gun pointing at the intruder.

In walks an exquisite woman in her late twenties carrying two laundry bags and a phone, which she drops the moment she stares down the barrel of my Walther. Big light-brown eyes wide, she shows me her hands, and her lips part.

Gesù Christo, she’s beautiful, with an angelic sort of face I wouldn’t mind being the last thing I see on this earth. Which might be the case if she’s been sent to kill me.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Michela Trantino.”

Mentally, I run the Italian last name through the Order’s catalog and find no match.

“Who sent you?” I press.

“Um… The agency.”

She’s about five foot nine to my six foot four, so when I step closer, I inhale the flowery scent wafting off her long, voluminous brown hair. I press the barrel of my weapon to her forehead. “Little more specific, if you don’t mind? Which agency?” FBI? CIA? She could be a messenger for me or an assassin. I have no idea.

“The Temps of Manhattan Agency. Oh my God,” she whimpers. “Don’t kill me.”

Who are the Temps of… Is she a civilian?

I step back and give her a once-over. Brown hair falls over one shoulder all the way down to her navel, partially covering the little silver dress she’s wearing paired with high heels of the same color. “What are you doing here?”

“I house-sit this apartment. I come here twice a week.”

I can’t imagine anyone house-sitting dressed up as if they’re going out for the night, so I’m still skeptical, my general paranoia notwithstanding.

“What’s in the bags?” I ask.

Still up in the air, her hands are trembling, and it’s clear her knees are threatening to fold.

“Laundry. The housekeeper asked me if I could drop off the laundry.”

“Tonight?”

“Well, no. I was on my way out, and I thought I’d stop by.”

I contemplate what to do with her.

“Please, sir, let me go.”

Looking at the sheets in the laundry bags, I tuck the gun into the back of my pants. “Since I’m staying in this apartment and you walked in on me at eleven o’clock at night, you understand why I thought you were an intruder. So here’s what you’ll do. Take two steps back until your ass hits the door. Then kick off your heels and spread your legs. I’ll search you.”

And enjoy doing it.