6. Play Along
MICHELA
6
The bug-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look on their faces tells me I heard Corrado correctly. He said my wife.
The ringing in my ears intensifies. Are the walls tilting toward me? My feet aren’t quite on the ground, are they? Corrado planned this and predicted my reaction, which is feeling nauseous and faint, so he’s holding me up with his arm around my shoulder.
People at the table are smiling, but it all appears more like a show of teeth than genuine smiles. Franko Monelli blinks and looks away while his niece, Isabella, looks like she might cry.
Corrado picks up his drink and sips it, then stands there waiting for our collective shock to wear off.
Mine surely won’t, and neither will Isabella’s. She saves me by storming off.
Franko dips his head, his eyes locked with Corrado’s. “Congratulations.”
Corrado snorts. “Get out of my sight.”
“It’s my niece’s party.”
Corrado slaps him. Franko’s head turns, and Corrado slaps him again. It’s more humiliating than if he shot him with that golden gun. Gasps sound, and when Corrado raises his hand to slap him again, I grab the arm that’s around my shoulders and turn my face toward him. I rise onto my toes. “Please,” I whisper. “Let’s sit down.”
Corrado’s jaw works, and he jerks his head toward the door. “Get out.”
Franko simply nods and, without preamble, walks toward an older woman dressed in a white suit who waits for him by the door. The moment they leave, Corrado sits down, takes my red napkin, and unfurls it. He looks up at me, then down at the chair, signaling for me to sit as well.
I glance at the door, wondering if I’m fast enough to make it out. I might be, but something about this man tells me he’d let me think I got away only to corner me later. What did I get myself into when I agreed to his deal?
“Have a seat, Michela,” he says firmly.
Dutifully, I do as he says, and he arranges the napkin on my lap. “You’re doing great. Keep it up.” He pecks my cheek and says at my ear, “I saw the way you looked at the door. Are you thinking about running?”
I shake my head.
He pinches my earlobe between his teeth, and I shiver while something dreadfully embarrassing stirs in my lower belly. It’s arousal.
“If you run, I won’t chase you.”
“You won’t?”
He snatches the napkin from my lap, then pushes his chair away, giving me space. “Go on, get going. I’ll even give you a running start.”
I whip my head toward him. “A running start implies a race where someone runs first.”
“It’s not a race. Or a chase,” he says. “I enjoy watching such games, but I wouldn’t participate.”
“What kind of games do you play?”
“The power kind.”
“I know nothing of those.”
“Which is why you’re here.”
Oh boy. “How about that man? You let him go. Is that part of a power game?”
“It is,” he says, a dangerous glint in his eye. “The difference between him and you is that if I decide to play, you’ll enjoy the game, while he won’t enjoy it at all.”
The man clearly crossed Corrado at some point, and Corrado came here to confront him. The underlying message about Franko’s life hanging in the balance doesn’t escape me. “Will playing with him excite you?”
“You excite me.”
We lock gazes, and I feel as if my world is tilting toward him. Under the table, I tap my foot so I can ground myself. The way this man flirts makes me want to throw caution to the wind.
Corrado dissolves my thoughts when he puts the napkin back on my lap and looks over my head. “Lean back,” he says just as the server places my filet, grilled asparagus, and roasted baby potatoes in front of me. Corrado does the same so the server can set a plate in front of him. “Once I took stock of the situation, I had to improvise. Thank you for indulging me.”
I think he’s referring to calling me his wife, but I can’t be sure. I open my mouth to ask him if that’s what he’s referring to, but he pushes his plate away and takes mine. He starts cutting my steak. The way he slices reminds me of a surgeon instead of a butcher. Once done with the steak, he cuts my asparagus diagonally into pieces precisely the same length.
“I haven’t had anyone cut my food since I was a little girl. Actually, maybe not even then.” I doubt my mom parented with such care or that we had enough money for steak dinners.
“Then allow me to pamper you.”
“Why are you doing all this? I mean, I can cut my own food.”
“A queen can drive, and yet others take her places.” He returns my plate.
“I’m hardly a queen.”
On the outside, his steak appears well done, but once he cuts it down the middle and separates the two halves, the bleeding flesh reveals it’s raw. Blood spreads on the plate and hides under the vegetables. “That’s true, but you’ve indulged me,” he says, “and exceeded my many high expectations this evening. Let me treat you like one.”
His “let me” sounds more like an order than a request.
I take a bite of asparagus. It crunches under the pressure of my teeth while Corrado nods at someone past my shoulder before slipping a piece of meat into his mouth.
“Excuse me, dear,” a female voice says. Because Corrado takes up so much of my bandwidth, I nearly forgot there are people around.
I wipe my mouth and turn toward the older woman. She has gently curling dark hair and wears large, thick gold earrings.
“I couldn’t help but notice you’re not wearing a wedding band,” she says. Just when I open my mouth to make up a lie about it, she adds, “Men rarely get the right size.” She slides a business card under my palm, and her gaze slips past me to Corrado.
“I didn’t get the wrong size, Stephania. I proposed with no ring.”
Stephania’s eyes widen. “Oh dear, how could you? A girl must have a diamond.”
“Why else do you think I requested that my wife sit next to you?”
Her brown eyes light up. “You honor me.” She takes my hand and examines it, then puts it near my face. She purses her lips, then smacks them, and shakes her head. “No, no.” She moves my hand over my neck and puts it over my heart, then leans back and nods in approval. “I have just the one.”
The server places a dry martini with two olives in front of the woman. “What can he get for you, dear?” she asks.
“I’m fine with?—”
Corrado slides his hand between my thighs and shuts me up immediately.
“Michela can’t drink,” he says. “She’s pregnant.” He squeezes my thigh, and when I stare at him wide-eyed, he smiles, showing me those dimples again.
Someone, please put this crazy man away.
Since there’s no way he’ll pay for a real ring while in a fake marriage, I’m starting to think he enjoys watching me squirm, but that would mean he pays attention to what his behavior does to me, which he probably doesn’t. It’s more likely that he’s merely entertaining himself. I play along.
“Oh,” the lady next to me says. “You sure move quickly, dear. Congratulations.”
Another older woman comes over to Stephania and draws her attention.
Corrado leans in. “Is there something wrong with your food?”
I shake my head. “It’s a bit much to digest this late in the night for a woman in my condition.”
Corrado hisses and drops his utensils. “If you please me any more than you already have, I will dismiss all these people so that you and I can enjoy the dinner all by ourselves.” He slaps my thigh and squeezes harder this time.
I swallow because his touch turns me on, as does the way his eyes meet mine and stare deep inside my soul.
He breaks eye contact and sweeps his hand across the table.
“I was just telling my wife,” he says, and everyone stops talking, drinking, eating. Even the music tones down. “How much I enjoy pampering her and how her benevolence makes me want to reward her even more. I want to reward all those who come forward and are honest about their intentions this evening, since we all know rules were broken tonight.”
The mood in the space changes and becomes charged with danger.
“I don’t think I have to remind any of you of the rules, but I will anyhow. The endgame is stability, prosperity, and peace.” He raises the glass. “The Head rests.”
The entire space responds, “The Body follows.”
Strange. They all go back to what they were doing before he spoke, and when the music cues back up again, I taste a piece of meat. Cooked medium rare, it’s soft, but not chewy, and the tang of butter and what I believe is orange zest coats it perfectly so that the combination causes an explosion of flavor on my tongue. Rolling my eyes to the back of my head, I moan, “This is so good.”
“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “The chef is a friend of mine.”
“Is everyone here a friend of yours?”
“No, they’re all business partners.”
The music is loud enough to cover our conversation, but Corrado speaks covertly, often at my ear, with his drink raised to the level of his mouth. I guess when one lies about his wife and her pregnancy, one’s bound to speak in secrecy.
Once the service staff clears the table, I lean back and pat my full belly. “I’m well-fed, married, and pregnant. What’s next?” I mumble to myself.
Corrado surprises me with an answer. “Three kids, two golden retrievers, and a pony named Lofty.”
“Then one sunny morning, I slide in a key into your car, and the next thing you know, you’re crying at my funeral ’cause someone blew up your car with me in it.” That came out worse than I imagined it in my head. Not funny at all. My smile falters when Corrado glares.
“I’m joking,” I say, knowing I went too far, but still wishing he would deny that what happened to Apollonia in The Godfather would happen to me. Corrado is important enough to command this room full of scary people. They respect and fear him.
“My car is keyless,” he says.
He’s not denying it. What have I gotten myself into?