Chapter 13 Ruby
RUBY
I think that went okay? Dante cleared his plate, and touched my cheek as he said thank you before he left for work. My skin is still tingling.
As instructed, I’ve not gone to the salon, and there haven’t been any messages from my boss, so I guess Dante has spoken to her.
I feel a bit bad for leaving them in the lurch, but equally, I have something important to do—inform myself about my husband’s mafia, so I can be a good wife to him. Supportive.
Especially since I’m not sure how long the annulment will take. I might not have long. So instead of looking into getting an annulment, I set about searching out information on the area of London, and its mafia.
There’s frustratingly little. Dante is clearly supremely wealthy, and is on several lists of London’s billionaires.
But Clerkenwell isn’t even like Angel, or Blackfen, where the leaders are a black hole of rumour and misinformation.
The Angelini family keeps things to themselves, and Clerkenwell cares for its own.
There are references to Dante and Lucia’s parents and grandparents, and photos of a huge funeral, years ago now.
I read that the Angelini family are fourth-generation immigrants from Italy.
I guess that accounts for their British rather than Italian accents.
This area of London is known as Little Italy because of the large Italian population, and although there are more up-and-coming city types living here, the core of the area remains the Italian Roman Catholic churches, authentic restaurants, and café culture of Italian coffee shops and wine bars.
I’m a bit stunned still that I’ve accidentally ended up as part of this mafia family. Married to the Don, no less.
Various staff come by during the day, offering me drinks and snacks. They seem almost happy to have someone to fuss over.
I explore the house during breaks from my research to try to understand Dante better, and get my fix of him, since his absence is a physical ache in my chest. It’s the very definition of plain.
The walls are all painted in that very pale-yellow.
There’s no artwork. No family photos. The furniture is all premium quality, but in neutral colours and bland designs.
In the basement is a gym with massive racks of weights and well-used sturdy benches. It’s all a bit intimidating. A treadmill faces the wall, and has a worn belt as though it’s used a lot. There isn’t even a television.
I imagine Dante exercising here, sweating with nothing but the blank walls and his own thoughts, and it breaks me a bit.
Since Dante said I should, I spend a bit of time working on a fan art piece of a dragon, and sketching out something new with a couple. And if the male character is tall and has green eyes and tattoos? Well. I can’t help that my husband is inspiring.
It’s a bit 1950s, but I get ready for Dante arriving home, putting on a cute dress and posing myself on the sofa. I draw, but I can’t really focus on it. I make myself all anxious about whether I’m pretty enough to be married to Dante. The answer is obviously no.
But when he walks in, I’m there to look up with a bright smile. “How was your day? Would you like a cup of tea?”
Dante regards me as though he’s surprised I’m here, which, fair. Yesterday he was a bachelor. But I’m going to be such good company for him, he won’t know how he managed without me.
“It was fine. Thank you.”
I’ve been planning this conversation all afternoon, and in the moment I dither about which opener to use—“Would you tell me about what you’ve been doing today?
” or “I’d be interested to hear about how things are going at work, if you’d be comfortable telling me?
”—he comes over and lowers his big frame onto the sofa beside me, and my mouth goes dry.
He’s so big. And the tattoos that swirl over his neck, broken by his stubble, make me want to touch him.
“This is for you.” He pulls out a matte black credit card from his pocket, and holds it out for me.
Warily, I take it. On one side is the name of a bank I don’t recognise in fancy gold lettering. But when I flip it, I gasp.
Mrs Ruby Angelini.
I might faint, seeing it written like that. It’s far more real than when I saw the wedding certificate, because Dante arranged this.
That’s my name. For now. I can’t fully comprehend it, but my heart is light and my mouth is doing a thing. Smiling.
“It’s to buy anything you need,” he says. “To be comfortable. While you’re here,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “I want you to make yourself at home. Maybe decorate? Or get some more books?”
“Thank you!” I’m grinning as I tilt my head up to look into Dante’s face.
He got me a credit card with my married name on it. That has to mean something, right? If this were temporary, he could just give me a stack of cash if he thought it mattered that I buy things.
“It’s so cool.” The card is matte and almost silky. I gaze at the name. Mrs Ruby Angelini. It gives me a tingle down my spine. “I’ll keep it forever!”
He tilts his head. “Cards expire in a few years, you know.”
“Right, yes.” I do know that. I’m just acting like he’s declared everlasting devotion and I’m his wife permanently, when actually he’s… I’m not sure what he’s doing. But it’s not love.
My smile drops.
“Let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to buy for you, or for the house,” I add, remembering that I need to be a good wife.
He opens and closes his mouth, confused because I am making as much sense as a toddler explaining quantum physics. If he wants something, he’ll buy it himself. He doesn’t need me to do his shopping, he has the internet and staff. Because he’s a billionaire.
Ugh, I’m such an idiot.
“I thought more for you to treat yourself, Ruby,” he says gruffly.
“Yeah.” No. I couldn’t do that.
But he mentioned decorating. I could sort out his prison-cell aesthetic in the gym downstairs. I’d like to do that for him. Make it nice, soothing but inspiring. I’m toying with the credit card, running my thumb over my name.
“There was something else I wanted to talk with you about,” he adds, and the caution in his tone makes me look up from the card.
Oh god, that sounds bad.
“Sure!” I sound as chipper as a squirrel on high-quality drugs.
“If it’s about the annulment, don’t worry.
I’m going to call a lawyer tomorrow.” I search desperately for a reason I didn’t do it today, that isn’t, I’m pathetically in love with you and attempting to make you love me, even though that’s as likely as a pot-plant winning a talent show.
“Now I have this.” I hold up the credit card. “I can pay for their time.”
“I have a team of lawyers on staff.” Dante’s expression is pained. By how stupid I am, no doubt. “I’ll have them visit and talk you through the process. It might not be immediately, as I have other work they need to do first.”
The tightness in my chest eases and I let out a subtle sigh. Hopefully they’re really busy.
Dante notices, brows lowering again. “It’ll be soon,” he grits out. “I promise.”
“Good,” I say faintly.
“But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t? I suffered all that, and there’s more? Being temporarily married to a man and wanting it to be permanent is like one of those platform games where each time you beat a boss, there’s another, harder level beyond, and on, and on, forever.
I push the card into my pocket. I don’t want him to take it back.
“It’s about breakfast.”
I brighten. “Yes.” That was a win. “I bet it kept you going all day!”
“I didn’t need any food at lunchtime, that’s for sure.”
Ah, that doesn’t sound entirely positive. “Was there a problem?”
“The Brent kingpin’s chef will recover that for once I didn’t eat her farfalle puttanesca.”
Well, that sounds filthy, and I don’t like it.
“Pasta,” he clarifies, eyes sparkling with mirth as though my jealous thoughts are all over my face.
Oh, okay. But still, I am not having my husband dining out on some other woman’s pasta.
Temporary husband.
I nod, helpless with irrational suspicion.
“Do you normally make breakfast like that?” he asks gently.
“No, but I don’t mind doing it for you!” I hasten to add.
“We actually have a chef to cook anything you want.”
“Oh.” Right. Of course he does. My stomach sinks that I’m not needed. I mean, obviously. I should have known. It’s not as though Dante would be throwing together food from a can himself like a normal person.
“Perhaps you’ll try my usual breakfast tomorrow?” he suggests.
I’m a bit sad that the one task I’ve identified as his wife so far has been quietly taken from me. But I nod, because whatever Dante wants to show me, I’m here for.
“I’d love that.” The word love comes out too loud and pronounced, and hangs weirdly in the air between us.
“Good girl. I think you’ll like it. It’s different to an English breakfast you hurt yourself making. How’s your burn?”
He takes my hand and is examining it before I can stop him and my poor little heart does a flip-flop.
Because his fingers are warm and gentle.
He looks like he really cares about my silly little self-inflicted burn that I got because I was nervous about cooking him a nice breakfast. That it turns out, maybe it isn’t what he wanted.
“It’s fine!” I tell him, probably over-enthusiastically. “It doesn’t hurt.” A tiny bit, but it’s really not bad.
“Hmm.” He makes a sceptical noise and ignores my words, turning my hand in his and brushing his thumb pad over my palm.
He’s cradling it, and it’s absurd, because for a second I think I might cry.
When did someone last touched me like this?
Even when he was bossy this morning, I kinda enjoyed it. It made me feel cared for.
“There is one other thing.” He keeps hold of my hand.
I press my lips together and take a studious interest in the floor. There’s no way I’m putting my foot in it this time.
I’m so bad at this marriage thing. Wife thing.
“Ruby,” he says seriously.