50. Michael
Michael
Ikeep an eye on her while my cousins bullshit around me, tracking every movement without making it obvious.
Bruno is loud as hell beside me, arguing with Tony over something that probably doesn’t matter while Eddie keeps cutting in just to make things worse.
Someone hands me a beer. Somebody else starts asking me about a fight from years ago.
I answer automatically when I have to, but my attention keeps drifting across the yard.
Katie stands near the food table with Sarah, making herself a plate while the noise of my family carries around them.
My aunt’s backyard is packed shoulder to shoulder.
Kids tear past the pool screaming at each other while music hums from the speakers near the patio.
Every few seconds another burst of laughter cuts through the air from somewhere else in the yard.
The tables are covered in trays of food that have already been picked through, and bottles of wine sit between stacks of paper plates and bowls of fruit.
Sarah says something to Katie, but whatever it is doesn’t seem to go over well. Katie goes quiet after that, focusing on the food in front of her instead of the conversation. Then Carmela walks over. My patience thins.
She leans against the other side of the table holding a wine glass, already wearing that smug expression that usually means she’s about to irritate somebody for fun.
I think the fuck not.
Katie notices me first when I reach the table. Some of the tension leaves her face. Carmela looks over next.
“Well, look who decided to show up,” she says. “Coming to save your girlfriend?”
“Screw you, Carmela.”
She smirks into her wine glass. “Isn’t that what she’s for?” She gestures toward Katie.
I step closer, lowering my voice enough that it doesn’t carry past the table.
“You don’t get to fucking talk about her that way. Not here. Not ever.”
Carmela’s smile falters for half a second before she covers it again.
Around us, the party keeps going. Someone near the grill bursts into loud laughter while two kids run past the table dripping pool water everywhere.
My aunt calls out at somebody from across the yard, followed by three different people answering her at once, but the space around us still feels tight.
“You understand me?” I ask.
Carmela holds my gaze before finally nodding once.
Then she forces a laugh. “You’re so dramatic. I’m joking.”
“Funny,” I say.
The silence afterward stretches awkwardly between us until Katie steps in.
“Hey,” she says. “Get something to eat. Then we can go sit down.”
I look down at her, and the tension eases out of me almost immediately. She smiles up at me, and just hearing her voice takes the edge off my mood.
“Yeah,” I say. “That sounds good.”
The rest of the day is easy. We stay until nine. Before we leave, Sarah pulls Katie aside. I don’t hear what’s said, but when they hug, Katie doesn’t let go right away.
“What was that about?” I ask, taking her hand as we walk to the car, my fingers threading through hers.
“We had a fight. It’s over now.”
She doesn’t elaborate.
“Are you going to tell me what it was about?”
“No. Just friend stuff.”
“Alright, but if you want to talk about it, you can.”
“I know.”
I open her door for her, my hand resting against the top of it as she slides into the passenger seat. By the time I walk around and get in, she’s already buckled.
“Want to stay at my place tonight or yours?” I ask, turning the key in the ignition.
“Yours,” she says.
I nod, starting the car and pulling out. The drive is quiet, but not easy. There’s something sitting under the surface. It isn’t until we hit the highway that she finally turns toward me.
“Sarah wants me to go out with her and some friends on Thursday.”
“Friends,” I repeat, merging into traffic, my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Yeah. Just people we’ve known for years.”
I let a beat pass, then, “Are any of those people men?”
She hesitates. It’s small, but I catch it.
“Yes.”
My jaw tightens, and I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to keep my tone even.
“Anyone I’ve met?”
This time the silence stretches longer. Long enough that I already know the answer before she says it.
“Trenton.”
I exhale slowly, my grip tightening slightly on the wheel.
“So you’re asking me if you can go out with your ex.”
“I’m not asking,” she says. “I’m telling you.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Of course you are.”
“Michael, we’re going to the bar. There’s a baseball game on. We’re going to eat and hang out.”
“Do you even watch baseball?” I ask, not looking at her.
“It doesn’t matter. I want to hang out with my friends.”
“And that includes Trenton?” I finally glance at her, then back to the road. “The same guy you were hanging all over at the club?”
She lets out a breath, frustrated. “Oh, get over yourself. It was a hug, and I hadn’t seen him in a long time. We’re just friends, and you know it.”
She pauses.
“And if I remember correctly, that night very much ended in your favor and many nights since then.”
I exhale, dragging a hand down my face.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m a jealous bastard.”
“I recognize that,” she says, her voice softer now, “but if you want me to keep believing you’re the guy I think you are, you’ve got to let up a little bit, okay?”
I nod, my throat tightening just slightly. She’s right. I can’t be Mr. Amato with her. I have to be Michael.
“And anyways,” she adds, “you’re going to be out of town on Thursday, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be up in San Francisco.”
“Okay.”
She shifts closer, her hand moving to the back of my neck, her fingers brushing along it in a way that pulls me out of my head. She doesn’t say anything else, just sits there, eventually reaching over to turn the radio on and singing along as though everything between us has settled.
When we pull into the garage, she waits. I come around and open her door, and when she steps out, I take her hand. In the elevator, I glance over at her.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask.
“No. You apologized. Why would I be mad?”
I shrug. “You have every right to be.”
She looks at me a second before answering.
“I don’t want to be mad at you, Michael.” She sighs. “I like having you in my life. You make me happy.”
I nod, but I can’t hold her gaze for long, not when she’s looking at me like that.
Because I lie to her every day. She doesn’t know who I really am, what I actually do, or the things I’ve built my life on, and every day I don’t tell her, it gets harder.
I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I know eventually she’ll find out.
The next few days don’t ease up. They get worse. Every time Luca or Marco walks into my office, it’s another problem tied back to Donnelly. Harbor Street keeps getting delayed because inspectors suddenly don’t want anything to do with the project.
Two shipments get held at the docks longer than they should’ve been. One of the warehouse supervisors swears somebody asked questions about our unloading schedules before disappearing the next day.
None of it is enough on its own to cause real damage, but together it starts feeling intentional. That’s the problem. One issue is coincidence. Three starts looking organized.
Luca and Marco are in my office constantly with the door shut while we go over the same names, the same schedules, and the same timelines, trying to figure out where the leak is coming from.
Every conversation ends in the same place: somebody close enough to my organization is talking, and we still don’t know who the fuck it is.
I should already have answers by now. Instead, the pressure keeps building.
People at the docks are getting nervous.
Harbor Street is turning into a headache.
Shipments that normally move clean are suddenly getting slowed down just enough to be noticed.
Nothing catastrophic has happened yet, but that almost makes it worse.
Somebody is pushing, and every day we don’t figure it out gives them more room to keep doing it.
It leaves me restless in a way I don’t tolerate well. There’s nothing to act on, nothing to shut down, nothing to put my hands on and end. That kind of thing doesn’t stay at work. It follows me home, sits under my skin, waiting for somewhere to go, and then I walk through the door, and she’s there.
Katie doesn’t ask anymore. She doesn’t need to. She’s in my house every night. Her things are everywhere now, mixed in with mine, her presence impossible to ignore. She looks at me the second I walk in, and it’s immediate. There’s no hesitation or distance. She’s in my arms. That’s all it takes.
I don’t ease into it. I don’t give myself time to think. My hands are on her the second she’s close enough, pulling her into me, backing her up until she has nowhere to go but into me. She gives it right back every time.
Every night this week, I’ve had her exactly how I want her. I take my time with her, make sure she feels it, make sure her attention stays right where I put it. On me. On my hands. On my mouth. On the way I say her name when she starts to lose focus. She responds to it every time.
Wednesday comes whether I want it to or not. Meetings that can’t be moved, things that need to be handled in person. I tell her I’ll be gone until Saturday, and she takes it easily.
Thursday sits in the back of my mind. Her out somewhere I’m not. Him in the same room. That thought doesn’t leave because I don’t say it out loud.
That night, I don’t hold back. There’s nothing distracted about the way I touch her. My focus is on her completely, on the way she reacts, on the way she says my name. She doesn’t fight it. She leans into it.
When it’s over, I keep my hand on her back, holding her there, feeling the way she settles. I let it sit there longer than I should because I know exactly what it feels to have her this way, and I’m not ready to let it go—even if it’s only for a few days.