Chapter 6 Santino #2
"I'm serious, boss. You've spent three days with this girl. Do you actually know anything about her? Besides the fact that she likes old people and has questionable eating habits?"
I think about it. What do I know about Liana Costa?
She's beautiful. She's educated. She sits on charity boards. She volunteers at a senior center. She speaks three languages. She watches terrible reality television. She doesn't drink whiskey, apparently, but she'll steal cognac. She's close with her sister. She had a grandmother she loved.
And she wants to take care of my grandmother.
"I know some things," I say finally.
"But not the important things," Bruno presses. "Like why she's really marrying you. What she wants out of this. What she expects."
"She knows what to expect. I told her. She'll have a comfortable life. A nice home. Freedom to pursue her interests."
"And she's good with that?"
I remember her face at dinner that first night. When I explained her role. She smiled. Agreed. Said she understood. But there was something in her eyes. Something I couldn't quite read.
"She said she was."
"Said," Tommy emphasizes. "But did you believe her?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because women say what they think you want to hear, then do whatever they were planning to do anyway," Sal says. "That's how they operate."
"She's not operating. She's just..." I trail off. "She's just being herself."
"And you can't handle it," Bruno says quietly.
"That's not true."
"Boss, you're sitting here complaining about a girl who ate your dinner and wants to be nice to your grandmother. If you can't handle that, what happens when actual problems come up?"
He's got a point. A point I don't want to acknowledge.
"I can handle her."
"Yeah?" Paulie grins. "Prove it."
"How?"
"Stop complaining. Stop analyzing. Just get through it without losing your shit.
" He leans forward. "She wants to house your grandmother?
Say yes. She wants to eat your dinner? Order extra.
She wants to talk about reality TV? Pretend to care.
You've done harder things. Whatever happens, buckle down and take it. Keep your eye on the prize."
"He's right," Tommy says. "You're overthinking this."
"I'm not overthinking anything."
"You're sitting here having a breakdown about steak and lettuce," Bruno points out. "That's overthinking."
I want to argue. Want to tell them they don't understand.
That there's something about Liana that throws me off balance.
Something I can't quite pin down. But maybe they're right.
Maybe I am overthinking it. Maybe she's just an enthusiastic, slightly odd, very beautiful woman who's going to be my wife.
And maybe I need to stop trying to figure her out and just accept it.
"Fine," I say. "You're right. I'll stop complaining."
"Great to hear." Paulie picks up his phone again. "Because honestly, boss, your problems aren't that bad. Hot girl wants to marry you and take care of your family? Cry me a river."
We move on to business. Territory disputes, shipment schedules, the usual. But I can feel Bruno watching me throughout the meeting. When the others leave for lunch, he stays behind.
"What?" I ask.
"You're not telling us something."
"I told you everything."
"No, you told us the facts. But you didn't tell us how you feel about her."
"I don't feel anything. It's an arrangement."
He doesn't believe me. "An arrangement that's got you wound up tighter than I've ever seen you."
"I'm not wound up." Bruno leans against the table. "Something about this girl is getting to you."
"Nothing's getting to me."
"Is it that she's not what you expected? That she's not falling in line like you thought she would?"
"She's falling in line fine."
"Then what's the problem?"
I don't answer. Because I don't know the problem. That's the problem. Liana does everything I ask. Shows up when I tell her to. Agrees with whatever I say. Smiles and nods and plays the role.
But something feels off. Like she's performing. Like there's another version of her underneath the enthusiastic, slightly chaotic surface.
And I can't figure out which one is real.
"Just talk to her," Bruno says finally. "Actually talk to her. Not about logistics or schedules or what's expected. About real things. Get to know her."
"Why?"
"Because you're going to marry her, boss. And spending the rest of your life with someone you don't understand? That's a special kind of hell."
He leaves.
I sit there alone, thinking about Liana. About the way she smiled when she put lettuce on my plate. About how she held my grandmother's hand. About the kiss on the cheek before she went inside. About how she ended her text with talk of lavender paint colors for Nonna's room.
Like it was already decided we would be married.
My phone buzzes.
A text from her.
Liana: Good morning! Hope you're having a great day! Should we have dinner this week? Just the two of us? I promise to order my own meal this time!
She adds a smiley face.
I stare at the message.
She promises to order her own meal. Which means she knows she ate mine. Which means it wasn't an accident.
Was it?
I type back: Sure. When works for you?
Her response is immediate: Tomorrow night? I know this great little place. Very casual. You'll love it!
Me: Sounds good. I'll pick you up at 7.
Liana: Perfect! Can't wait! See you then!
Multiple exclamation points. Always with the exclamation points.
I set down my phone and lean back in my chair.
I can do this.
I've handled hostile negotiations, territory wars, and assassination attempts. I can handle one enthusiastic woman with questionable eating habits and a strange attachment to my grandmother.
Right?