Chapter 5 #2
Crystal bottles, jars of creams, and a sparkling glass case of makeup litter my bathroom counter—well, not litter, exactly, because they’re neatly lined up like they’re afraid to take up too much space, but it’s still fucking annoying.
A glance at the shower tells me nothing is safe from the invasion.
“Fuck this.”
I swipe clean clothes from my closet and take my ass to the next room over. In here, at least, nothing has been touched. My housekeeper keeps it from getting dusty, and my brother keeps his favorite bottle of all-in-one hair-beard-body-ass wash in the shower for his rare visits.
I throw my backpack onto the ground and lock myself in the bathroom to take a nice, hot shower—sans jerking off. When I’m done, I pull on clean jeans and a T-shirt and drop into the armchair in front of the bed. I feel clean and less shitty, but I’m still pissed.
Who does this woman think she is? She can’t just waltz into my place, infect all my things with her woman shit, and take over. That’s… that’s squatting.
For the first time in a week, I glance down at my empty ring finger. After our wedding, Barbara made me return his wedding ring, which I had to use soap to remove, and told me I needed to get my own.
I don’t have to do shit. I didn’t fucking agree to this wedding.
Barbara and Turi set it up like backstabbing bastards, and Turi used his new Don status to force me into it.
Well, I’m the sottocapo now, and I don’t have to take this lying down.
They can make us get married, but we don’t have to live together, and Turi’s about to hear an earful about it when I drive over to his house tonight.
Not like I can stay here anyway, not when I can see the soft curve of my young, grieving wife’s vulva through her bicycle shorts. I scowl, throwing myself forward to pull on socks and tie up my boots.
Once I’m downstairs, I turn the corner to the kitchen. She’s bent over my ice cooler, the spandex of her shorts stretching so thin it’s almost transparent across her ass and pussy. I bite down hard enough to crack a tooth.
Minchia!
A few chunks of deer meat have already been packed in parchment paper—where is she getting this shit?—and the sight of that thoughtful action pisses me off even more.
At the end of the kitchen bar sits a plate loaded with a steaming serving of focaccia and a sizzling steak. A drop of condensation slithers down the tall glass cup of amber beer placed next to the food.
She stands, a hunk of raw meat in her bloody little hands. Before I can suppress it, my brain notices how the meat seems to dwarf her tiny frame and how small she’d look in comparison to other—
“Are you hungry?” she asks sweetly.
It takes all my decades of training not to look back at the trap she left on the counter. But apparently, my body doesn’t catch the memo because my stomach lets out a growl so long and pathetic, I’d be surprised if it’s not audible from outer fucking space.
She and I stare at each other for a long moment. Her rosy lips twitch like she’s fighting off a giggle.
“No,” I grit out. If I express anything other than anger, I’m gonna laugh.
She raises her eyebrow in a way that looks exactly like Annetta, and I don’t give a shit what her parents told me.
Serafina would never laugh at a man who didn’t want to be laughed at, and she’d never give him the look she’s giving me now. But Annetta? She loved to laugh.
“You don’t like focaccia? I put extra alici on it,” she says, putting a little Italian accent on the words. Cute, given that she can barely speak the language.
I glance back at the plate once before snapping my eyes to her.
No. I’m getting to the bottom of this twin mix-up, and then I’m kicking her out. This isn’t my shit to deal with. My stomach growls again, the traitorous bastard.
Her smile lights up her face, and she drops the deer flank on top of a sheet of parchment paper on the counter. “Sit down. You must be tired and hungry. I almost have this cleaned up.”
I don’t say a damn thing. I don’t trust myself right now, and my mouth’s too fucking full of saliva—drooling like I’m a goddamn dog. I walk across the kitchen, past all the temptation.
“Where are you going?” she calls after me.
Without stopping, I answer, “Out.”
“When are you coming back?” Her voice is so soft and vulnerable—it pierces my heart like a needle.
“Later.” I turn the corner and jam the elevator button to escape my own fucking house.
Moments later, I pull out onto the street in my SUV—still starving, I might add—and when I spot Mauro again, I make a snap decision.
I park down the street, far away from him, and jump out of the car.
My blood boils as I stroll up to his driver’s side window without him once looking up from his phone.
I rap sharply on the window, and he jumps, throwing his phone up in the air and scrambling for his gun. His terror transforms into a wide-eyed oh-shit face, his stupid caterpillar eyebrows eating up his entire forehead.
I grin at him and motion for him to lower the window, leaning a forearm against the roof of the car.
“Mauro!” I say, the moment the window’s rolled down.
He swallows dryly. “Signore.”
“How’s the family doing?” I ask in Italian. He barely understands English past the word “shoot”. “Six kids, is that right? Palermo? They doing good?”
Mauro nods, sweat already breaking out along his hairline. “Yes, sir. Thank you for asking, sir.”
Some guys eat up the kowtowing and the bootlicking, but that’s never been my style. I couldn’t care less if they respect me, so long as they do their fucking jobs. Right now, though, that attitude is the only thing keeping me from reaching into Mauro’s car and strangling him with my bare hands.
My grin widens, and I drum along the roof of the car. “Who sent you here, Mauro?”
I don’t bother with threatening him to tell me the truth. He knows who I work for. I’ll find out if he’s lying.
“Uh… the don, sir. He wanted me to help keep an eye on the signora.”
“That it?” I exhale a chuckle, and Mauro relaxes a little. “Tell me, Mauro, you got eyes on the back of your head?”
“N-no, sir.”
I strike into the car, clamp my hand around his neck, and squeeze.
“Then how the fuck you gonna watch my wife with your fucking nose in your phone?”
Mauro tolerates it for all of two seconds before he’s scrambling at my fingers, but even with his life literally in my hands, he’s not so stupid as to reach for his gun. When purple blotches start to color his face and the real panic sets in, I toss his body to the side.
He hunches over, gasping for air.
“Next time I see you on that phone while you’re supposed to be watching my wife, I’ll shove it up your ass,” I say, without dropping my grin, and adding loud enough that he can hear me over his heaving. “And I mean that literally.”
Mauro catches his breath enough to choke out a “yes, sir.”
I leave the man to his job.
As I walk back to my car, I exhale, waiting for that familiar feeling of satisfaction to wash over me. Instead, I’m more pissed off than ever as I slam my car door shut.