15. Deanna
DEANNA
Six bags are lined up on the bed.
Fendi. Prada. Gucci. Each one filled with clothes and perched on top of a small stack of dress boxes. I stare in pure astonishment before a glimmer of anger rustles up through my core.
“Prime!”
I find my husband in the game room, which isn’t ideal. He’s bent over the pool table lining up a shot, and I swear, he’s doing this on purpose. He knew I’d want to talk, and he’s making damn sure he’s in the one place in the house that makes me feel very unbalanced.
“Yes, darling?” His aim is perfect and a ball clatters into the corner pocket. He straightens and chalks the tip of his cue, his eyes on mine. “Something the matter?”
Don’t get distracted, damn it.
“What’s with the clothes? You’re dressing me now?”
“I wasn’t personally putting them on your body, but if you need help?—“
“You know what I mean. What’s the deal?”
“I didn’t realize a husband buying his wife some presents is such a problem.”
I get flustered at that. “You’ve never gotten me anything before. I didn’t know… I wasn’t sure…”
His smile is acid. “You’re my bride now, and I’m going to make sure you look the part too.”
“There it is!” The anger returns. “You don’t think my clothes are good enough.”
“I love the way you dress. That tight skirt, the black one with the subtle pattern? You had it on yesterday when I slipped my hand between your legs. And that navy blouse that’s always a bit too loose in the chest and gives me a lovely peek of your tits whenever you bend over? Or the cream sweater?—“
“Okay, I got it! Jeez, since when did you memorize my outfits?” A tremor runs down my spine as his eyes roam up and down my body.
“Since always. Go try on your new presents, wife, and tell me if anything is not up to your satisfaction.”
He emphasizes the last word. I glance at the pool table. Get it together, Deanna.
Back upstairs I start tearing open boxes.
A deep emerald A-line Max Mara column gown, a Saint Laurent tuxedo blazer and tailored trousers, a cream silk blouse from The Row, Louboutin pumps, a silk slip dress from Cucinelli, and dozens of other pieces, all in my size, all fabulously designer, overpriced, and gorgeous.
I’ve never seen clothes like this before in my life. Not outside of a magazine at least. My paycheck stretches at Target and Marshall’s, and rarely I’ll treat myself to the Gap or Banana Republic. That skirt he likes so much is six years old and from Abercrombie.
This is wealth like I’ve never experienced.
My heart races as I lift a black Dolce & Gabbana lace dress, lovely and conservative, and I know instantly it’s what I have to wear.
Despite myself, I’m excited to pull it on and strip immediately, kicking off my tattered old jeans and t-shirt from when I went to summer camp at sixteen, and pull the dress over my head.
Once it’s on, I turn to the full-length mirror, and nearly scream to find Prime lurking near the bedroom door.
“What the fuck!” I whirl around to face him. “You scared the crap out of me.”
He’s staring like he’s never seen me before. His face is hard, almost angry, as his eyes rake from my ankles to my throat, up to my lips, lingering for a long time there, before meeting my nervous gaze.
“You look incredible.”
“Th-thank you.” I hug myself and look back at the mirror. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. It’s perfect.” He approaches and stands beside me. He’s so much bigger than I am, so much more handsome. His large hands dwarf my hips as he touches me, smoothing over the dress slowly. There’s a needy energy between us, one I’ve never felt before.
“Were you watching me get changed?” I whisper.
“It’s not my fault you didn’t bother looking around.”
“Prime…”
“It was an accident.”
“Sure it was.” I let my head fall back against his chest. I like the way it feels, like it’s natural and I fit just right.
I take a moment to admire his powerful forearms, the veins and the tattoos, and his incredible hands, big and calloused.
Not the hands of a CEO, but those of a man used to fighting for his life.
“Wear this tonight.”
“That was the plan.”
“Good girl.” He pats my ass lovingly.
In another life, at another time, I’d tell him off for it.
But here and now? In our bedroom? In this dress?
He can get away with one.
Il Cardinale is a hole-in-the-wall Italian place off Washington Ave. It looks like a restaurant that was built in the fifties and hasn’t changed a bit in the years since. The carpets are beautifully maintained, the tables all have white linens, and there are candles flickering everywhere.
The hostess is strangely deferential to Prime.
It surprises me the way she falls over herself to bring us back into the place like he’s a regular here or something.
But I know everywhere he goes, and I’ve never heard of this place before.
As we follow her, Prime takes my hand, drawing me close as we navigate the tightly packed establishment.
“People are staring,” I whisper to him as we wind our way to the back.
“Don’t pay it any mind.” He pats my arm affectionately. “They’re only jealous that I have the most beautiful wife in the room.”
I’m not sure that’s true, but it’s nice to hear anyway. Many of the other couples are young and wealthy-looking, though there are more than a few older professionals mixed in with the crowd, the kind of elegant men and women who make me feel like an idiot even looking at them.
We’re taken to a table in a good, private spot, only to find two people already waiting.
“Deanna, this is my associate, Ricardo Salerno and his wife.”
“Charmed, dear.” Ricardo shakes my hand. He’s an older Italian man, heavyset in a black pin-striped suit with his dark hair slicked back. His wife is the mirror image of him: shorter, on the thick side, but wearing an immaculately expensive dress, earrings, and a glittering diamond necklace.
“Donatella, darling,” the wife says, giving my hand a cursory swipe of her palm. “The pleasure’s yours. And hello to you, Prime, I’ve heard so much.”
“Wonderful to meet you finally, Donatella. That’s a beautiful necklace. Which jeweler did you use?”
The old woman immediately starts talking diamond vendors, giving way too much detail and complaining about each and every one.
Prime listens half-politely, interrupting her only to order his usual bourbon.
I ask for a glass of rosé which earns a wrinkled nose and a chortle from the lovely Donatella, but she’s back on stones the second the waitress is gone.
“I noticed you’re not wearing anything, dear. Don’t tell me your husband is being tight with his new bride?” She leans in closer. “You know you can always take his credit card?”
“I don’t—I mean, I wouldn’t—“ I look at Prime in a panic.
But he only laughs. “I have an entire treasure trove of jewels waiting for my wife. She doesn’t know it yet.”
“Lucky girl.” Donatella looks at me with pursed lips. “I bet you don’t even realize it.”
“We heard the wedding had a bit of a hiccup.” Ricardo cuts in and I wish I could be relieved that someone else is talking for once.
“There were some last-minute alterations,” Prime concedes, touching my hand. “But we made it to where we needed to be.”
“That happens in our line of work.” Ricardo grins happily at me. “And look at you, young lady. He’s a very lucky man to have married you after all.”
“Ah, thank you.” I lower my eyes to the table, but only after noticing the purely venomous look Donatella’s throwing my way.
I do my best to stay involved in the conversation. Prime and Ricardo talk sports and real estate. Donatella tries to engage me in clothes, cars, and which dry cleaners are the best, but I don’t have much to offer. At least Prime orders my meal for me that earns a nod of approval from the old lady.
Her passive aggression doesn’t relent. There are comments about my hair (“so lustrous and long, very nice for a young woman like you, at least if you’re not trying to be taken seriously”) and barbs at my accent (“tell me, did you grow up in Fishtown, darling, it’s just the way you talk is all”) and more than one reference to the fact that I still work for Prime (“an… interesting arrangement, to be sure…”).
It becomes clear by the time the main course is taken away that Donatella hates my stinking guts.
I don’t even know why. Her husband is perfectly pleasant.
I laugh at her jokes, ask her questions, engage with whatever inane bullshit she throws my way.
I don’t defend myself. I don’t rise to the insults.
I sit there and take it, because this is my job, and it’s killing me.
I stop after two glasses of wine, otherwise I’ll get drunk and stab the old bitch in the carotid.
More than once Prime puts a big hand on my thigh under the table to make sure I’m keeping it together.
And I really do. Even as I’m essentially laughed at to my face.
Because that’s my job: smile, make nice, play the role of the dutiful wife to Prime.
If these people are important to him for God knows what reason, I’ll take this awful woman’s abuse.
She can think I’m some hussy rube all she wants, that’s fine, so long as my parents are taken care of and Prime upholds his end of the contract.
I’m not about to ruin everything just because some old bat hates my hair and thinks I’m a whore.
Miraculously, I survive it all. We exit the restaurant, though not before both the manager and the chef come out to pay their respects. On the sidewalk, I shake Donatella’s hand and thank her for a nice evening. “Yes, well, it was an evening, wasn’t it?”
“Wonderful to meet you, dear.” Ricardo beams at Prime and elbows him jovially. “I think you’ve got a good one on your hands. It’s great to see you two getting on so well. I’ll put in a good word.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Come on, Riccy, I’m tired now and my feet are killing me.” Donatella stalks off with barely a wave of her shoulder.