24. Marisol
24
MARISOL
Salvatore hasn’t said a word to me in the hours we’ve been working at opposite ends of the room. I’d think he was angry I’d pried too deeply about his brother if it wasn’t for the way he keeps glancing over at me.
There’s no trace of the subtle flicker of resentment in his gaze. Instead, it’s long and assessing, like he’s running through some lengthy mental checklist to assure himself nothing’s awry. It’s the way you’d look at the crown jewel of your collection. Admiration laced with a sharp possessiveness, like he’s suspicious I’ll be stolen right from under his nose if he’s not vigilant enough.
I snap each piece of RAM into place, taking care not to touch the gold-plated contact points of my new motherboard. The soft clicks are the only sound in the room aside from the whirring of the computer fans. Salvatore moves in complete silence. No annoying pen clicks or tapping noises or sighs. If some internal compass didn’t keep me annoyingly attuned to his presence, I could forget he was here.
He sifts through emails while video clips of an older woman in navy suits and a severe bob fill half of his monitors. District Attorney Rekhson.
She seems like a nice woman. She goes to dog shows with her bowtie-wearing husband and picks up her grandkids from daycare and works late hours in the office. She wants to clean up Chicago. I vaguely remember voting for her.
I don’t want her to die.
But if it comes down to her or Salvatore, I already know where my loyalties lie.
“What did you think about Worm’s first assignment?” Salvatore asks hours later, voice rumbling through me and dredging me back to the present where my cheek’s pressed against his chest in the SUV. Classical music plays softly around us as Davide weaves through the evening traffic.
Salvatore’s got to be talking about the mob work and not the basic assignments for his real-life company that I started knocking out as warmups. Worm’s going to have me cut my teeth on hacking into CryptTalk, the encrypted network all the major gangs—not just the Italians—use for their cell phones. I’m still not convinced it isn’t some joke of his to haze the newbie, like “go get me the left-handed screwdriver”, because the idea that every major criminal organization relies on a single phone company, a single point of failure, for all of their illegal communication needs is staggering. That company must have the single best security system in the planet, or it’s a house of cards waiting to topple over.
“I can’t wait to get back to it,” I say.
Salvatore’s smile in the car’s dark interior is victorious. “I thought you might enjoy it.”
I don’t just enjoy it. I’m a pint-sized sugar monster with an unlimited budget and no supervision in a candy store. The only thing I can see keeping me from learning about encrypted phone systems and ransomware and DOS attacks and everything else I plan on throwing myself into headfirst are basic physical functions like sleeping and eating. And mind-blowing sex with Salvatore.
I pluck at a frayed string on my champagne-colored wrap dress. I could’ve picked out that blue daisy print skirt that Grant loved, or even my black sheath dress for non-existent interviews so I’d match Salvatore, but I’d been saving this dress for a special occasion. It makes me feel like royalty—and I want every advantage to convince myself I belong at Salvatore’s side. If anyone can fake it till they make it, it’s me.
“Where’d you go?” Salvatore asks, capturing my fidgety fingers and pressing them to his lips.
My stomach flips, but I hold his gaze over my fingers until we’re so close, that a tilt of the head would be enough to kiss. I skate my other hand over the front of his shirt, dipping into the smoldering heat inside his coat. I could touch this man for hours.
“I was thinking we could pop in, show Grant I’m doing swell , and head back home.”
“Seems like a waste to finally get you out of something that isn’t a t-shirt of a wrinkled green man just to put you right back in.”
My laugh is breathless as he wraps long fingers against my lower back and tugs me up against him. I shove my breasts into him, praying he’ll give me mercy and touch my aching nipples.
“But…” he continues in that soft, indulgent tone of his, “if you really want to go home, we could cut dinner short. You wouldn’t even have to show.”
“And what would you do?” I ask through a smile and then bite back a moan when his thumb skates over my bra. Maybe he can ask Davide to take a walk once we’re parked.
His hands trace my body with methodical slowness as his breath burns the shell of my ear. “I’ll take that ex of yours out back. Bring him up to speed. Why don’t you stay in the car? Davide can wait outside. And when I get back, I want you to give me a number between one and four.”
One and four? Of what? Spankings? Fingers?
My trapped moan slips free as Salvatore kisses against my neck. I bury my blushing face in his coat. Every brush of his body against mine is a filthy promise. The man is temptation incarnate.
We’re installing dividers in all the SUVs as soon as possible.
“We’re here, boss,” Davide says.
My eyes flutter open to catch the neon-gold lettering outside the window that reads Nahash .
While Salvatore delivers a steady flow of commands in Italian to Davide, my brain slowly boots back online.
“One through four,” he reminds me in a low voice and unbuckles himself.
“Wait.” I clutch his coat, blinking. “What are you going to do with Grant?”
The dangerous look in his eye cuts through the last of my lusty haze.
“You said you weren’t going to hurt him,” I add firmly.
Salvatore’s eyebrows crash down in disappointment. “Vai via. ”
Davide fumbles with his seatbelt before stepping out and shutting the door behind him. He jogs to the sidewalk a few feet away and pauses there, facing away from us.
“Do you still have feelings for him?” Salvatore asks.
I try to lean back, but he anchors me against him. “Sal,” I warn.
“He was disloyal to you. Used you.”
His arm is a steel bar against my back as I twist to look him in the eye. I resist the urge to laugh in his stern face. Disappointment’s never gotten far with me.
“You couldn’t pay me to go back to him, and if it were up to me, I would’ve already gotten him fired, poured sugar into his gasoline tank, and infected everything he owns with viruses.” I take a breath and as I exhale, Salvatore’s grip loosens. “But his mom Kristin has done more for me than anyone. She fed me, housed me, and loved me when I didn’t deserve any of it and when I needed all of it so badly. If there’s anything good in me, it’s because she nurtured it. I promised to her that I would take care of Grant and Calvin and Buck, and while I don’t owe Grant a damn thing, I’ll never break my promises to Kristin.” I search for understanding in Salvatore’s eyes. He has that Bible in his nightstand. He understands devotion to a ghost. “And I need to know you won’t break yours, either. Are you going to hurt him?”
In the span of one long breath, Salvatore’s fingers tighten and then relax against my back. Like a screw loosening, everything in him releases a measure of tension. “No, passerotta.”
Feeling like I’ve redirected a loaded sniper rifle at the last minute, I smile and stretch up to kiss him. “And I have another request.”
A dark eyebrow rises in silent acquiescence.
“I want you to give him a job.” Salvatore gives me one of those cute disappointed looks again, and I continue, “Something in his field with average pay that he couldn’t mess up. If he’s not fired yet, he will be, and I already had to push him to interview for the job he has. I don’t want him to suffer if I can do something about it and this way… I can still keep an eye on him.”
“I’m sure your Kristin would want her son to become strong. She wouldn’t want him to be an impotent man-child.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure he’s an impotent man-child because of Kristin. When he didn’t make varsity, she tucked him into bed with Die Hard and a plate of sugar cookies. If she could’ve child-proofed all the sharp edges in the world, she would’ve. I think she’d be proud knowing I got him a cushy job he couldn’t be fired from.”
Salvatore makes a non-committal humming noise. “So you know, your ex’s old boss Terrence is also in the restaurant, hiding at one of the tables. I plan on talking to him as well. He wants to take pictures of me and concoct some blackmail scheme to keep me from bleeding his company dry.”
My smile turns sharp. So Grant’s concern for me really was a lie to save his own hide? God, he’s such a sack of crap.
“Surely Kristin wouldn’t be too upset if I cut off only a finger or two?” Salvatore offers at the change in my expression. “It could be just the thing he needs for some character growth.”
The thought raises my mood considerably. “You’d better not,” I say. “But we should get this over with before I change my mind.”
A blast of cold cuts through my wimpy coat as we step out of the car. I fight a shiver as Salvatore calls out in Italian to Davide, reminding myself for the hundredth time that I need to pull my hideous brown winter coat out of storage instead of being vain and using my black peacoat. But when Salvatore shrugs his off and drops it over my shoulders, perfuming the air with his scent and body heat, I remember this is the far superior option.
“You don’t have to give me your coat,” I offer, but he captures my jaw and presses a hard kiss to my mouth, tongue flickering in to taste me.
“I want to,” he murmurs, the words burning down my throat like a shot of whiskey. With a glint of satisfaction in his eye, he ushers me into the restaurant, his palm at my lower back.
“Reservation for Luporini,” Salvatore says to the hostess as I scan the dining area for Grant or Terrence.
Vines and pothos plants hang from the ceiling, pops of living green against stains of dark, velvety russets and olive decor, placing us in a nighttime garden or a domesticated jungle. Months back, I saw a grand opening announcement about this restaurant and thought Grant would like the chicken schnitzel, but he was gone so often on the weekends that we never had the chance. Bitterness fills my mouth. I was so hungry for love that I stubbornly ignored every glaring red flag that came my way.
Grant and Lilah are already seated when the hostess takes us over to our table.
Before I have a chance to sit, Salvatore takes my chair and drags it right next to his. He holds it out for me and pushes me in, ignoring everyone else. Once he sits, he swipes the menu and drapes his other arm around the back of my chair, curling his fingers around the nape of my neck. His thumb sparks a burning path where he rubs lazily against my skin. My cheeks burn, but I meet Grant’s look of distaste without blinking. Lilah is carefully focused on her own menu.
Barely any time has passed, but Grant looks terrible, I note with a small measure of glee. Now that we’re broken up, everything about him is like a shoddy mirror version of what it used to be. His hair isn’t cute, it’s slovenly. The gap in his teeth looks oafish, and his eyes are too far apart, and his dimple, just like Kristin’s… it’s his one saving grace. He’s lost a bit of weight, and he has bluish circles under his eyes. Guilt lodges itself under my ribs, and then annoyance flares. I can see the roadmap of his entire life—jumping from relationship to relationship because he’ll always find a soft woman to land on. Salvatore’s right. Grant will never learn.
Lilah looks beautiful in her blush pink dress and an elegant chignon that my thick hair could never be tamed into. She won’t meet anyone’s eye at the table. Strangely, all I feel for her is a trace of pity. Maybe she’ll be smarter than I was and bail out of her relationship with Grant before it’s too late.
“Salvatore, this is Grant and Lilah,” I say after a long moment of awkward silence. “And this is Salvatore.”
“Her husband,” Salvatore adds, reaching forward to pour water into our cups from the pitcher on the table.
“H-husband!” Grant splutters. His gaze drops to my wedding ring. “When did you get married?”
“This week,” I say, taking a sip from my water in affected casualness. Guess I’m not so unwedable after all.
“How long have you known each other?” Grant asks in a pouty voice. Something thumps under the table, and Grant winces. Lilah throws him a dirty look before burying her face in the dinner menu again.
“I’ve known Marisol for a long time,” Salvatore says, brushing invisible lint from his coat on my shoulders. “I’d admired her on the train for months, and when I finally asked her on a date, she’d just recently become single. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.”
“Yeah, that’s interesting… timing,” Grant says. He gives Salvatore a once-over. “What do you do for work?”
“I run a cyber security company called Black Shield Security,” Salvatore says with a practiced air.
I swallow my water with some difficulty. I didn’t know he owned Black Shield Security. They were a dream hire for me while I was in college. Grant probably doesn’t even recognize the name, but the waiter saves him from coming up with an intelligent answer by approaching the table.
“Still looking at the menu?” the waiter asks.
“Seared black sea bass for me,” I say. Salvatore orders the same in a bored voice.
When the waiter gets to Grant and Lilah, she orders for the two of them, “I’ll take the lamb ribs, and he’ll have the chicken schnitzel.”
“Are you satisfied?” I ask Grant as the waiter hurries off. “I know it’s sudden, but I’m certain. Salvatore makes me happy.”
Happy and almost sick with terror that now I have something precious and irreplaceable that I’m supposed to guard for the rest of my life, and that the longer I’m with him, the worse it’ll get. The loss of Kristin almost killed me with grief. What would happen if I let Salvatore die? How do normal people fall in love without going mad?
Grant snorts, oblivious as fucking always. “For what, a day? It doesn’t strike you as odd that this guy proposed to you after barely knowing you? Did you do”—he glances at Salvatore—“the background check?”
I grit my teeth and claw Salvatore’s thigh under the table. “You need to drop it.”
Grant opens his mouth to speak, but Salvatore cuts in smooth and soft as a blade through mallow, “She said drop it.”
Salvatore touches his knife on the table with the side of his pinky and fixes his gaze on Grant for the first time tonight.
Grant glances between the knife and Salvatore’s face, animal instincts finally kicking in. He takes a breath and turns to me, compassion etched across his features. His little puppy-dog act always used to work, but this time I’m asking myself how in the world I found affection for something that constantly shits on my rug. “I just… I’m worried for you, Mari. This isn’t like you. What would Mom say?”
Ding, ding, ding!
I close my eyes for a moment. He did it. The ultimate ace card he plays when he wants to win a fight for good.
It didn’t matter what she’d say, just the thought that she’d say anything was always enough to make me fold.
I stand up, letting Salvatore’s protective arm fall from my shoulders. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
I march away from the table before Grant can lob another word. As soon as I’ve shoved through the swinging door, I scream through gritted teeth.
An older woman with a cane takes one look at me and hobbles out of the bathroom without drying her hands.
Grant’s not here because he’s worried about me. He’s here because he wants to use me as a stinking bucket of chum to lure in Salvatore and please his stupid boss. And meanwhile, he can’t help but remind me how utterly shocking it is that anyone would want to be with me—desperate, psycho Mari Vasquez.
I splash water on my cheeks and stare at myself in the mirror.
The woman in the mirror isn’t Mari Vasquez anymore. Mary-of-the-Solitude lonely Mari with a deadbeat father’s last name and a crazy mother’s reputation.
I’m Marisol Luporini. Marisol, said with the full accent that turns my name from an awkward, ill-fitting thing into something dark and sensual, and Luporini, a name of promise and power.
I am… desirable.
Salvatore said he wants me, and he’s proven it over and over again. I can just… accept that, instead of creating a bunch of reasons like Grant about why Salvatore would be lying about this.
My husband is currently playing nice with my ex-boyfriend because he wanted to show me off, and at a snap of my fingers, he’d do anything I ask. He got me a matching desk so we could be near each other while we work, he eats me out like a man starved, and he carved out his cousin’s eye for me.
I laugh at myself, my chest suddenly filling with fizzy delight.
I’m going to find our waiter and get our food to go. Salvatore and I are going home, and then I’m going to rub my tits all over my husband’s face while I come on his fat cock.
Plan formed, I leave the bathroom and scan the restaurant for our waiter.
My gaze snags on a familiar face. Terrence hunches over a corner table with a baseball cap low over his face like a paparazzi-harrassed celebrity as he snaps pictures with his phone of… my husband.
I take long strides back to our table. At least one idiot is getting put in his place tonight.
“Sal, we’re leaving,” I say, cutting off whatever dumb bullshit Grant was saying, and without a moment’s hesitation, Salvatore stands in one fluid movement.
He reaches into his wallet, pulls out two hundred dollar bills, and tosses them on the table.
“Let’s go, passerotta,” he says without a hint of surprise or anger. His even tone of voice is a balm to my rage.
I turn on Grant with cool disdain.
“Did you invite your boss here?”
Grant glances down at the table without answer. Lilah gapes openly at him.
“Why would you…” she starts.
I clench my hands into fists. “Grant, I don’t ever want to hear from you again.”
And even as a mother’s guilt shreds into my belly like broken glass, I don’t back down. I’m not breaking her promise—I’ll take care of Grant, but I’ll do it from a distance. She wouldn’t have asked me to sacrifice my sanity for Grant’s comfort. She loved me too.
As Salvatore and I walk away, he takes my elbow and gently guides me toward Terrence.
Terrence spots us and turns away, finding sudden interest in the wall.
“Why don’t we have this conversation outside?” Salvatore says once we’re within earshot.
Terrence blanches, his already pale skin turning paper white. “I… I still have to pay.”
Salvatore sighs, reaches for his wallet again, and drops another two hundred dollars on the table. “Let’s go.”
Terrence lifts himself unsteadily from the table and walks toward the exit.
“Have a wonderful night!” the hostess calls out.
Terrence’s hand is shaking as he waves goodbye.
Cold air nips my cheeks, but I’m comfortably wrapped in Salvatore’s coat. Davide hasn’t pulled the car around yet, but Salvatore seems to know where we’re going.
“Over here,” Salvatore says, pointing toward a dark alley on the side of the restaurant.
Terrence straightens his back. He looks just like I remember, pale skin and sandy hair. His navy coat only makes his beige, washed-out features stand out more starkly.
“I’d like to stay where there are witnesses,” Terrence says, his eyes darting around wildly before landing on a family of four streaming into Nahash .
Salvatore shrugs. “Do you know who I am?”
Some of the bravado seeps out of Terrence’s stance. His shoulders cave in. “You’re the… Mafia,” he whispers.
“And you still thought it’d be a good idea to show your face tonight? To take pictures of me and ruin my wife’s dinner?”
I can’t keep my eyes off Salvatore. He’s so calm and unruffled. This could be the hundredth time he’s had to give this speech. His high cheekbones and prominent nose cut a striking, fierce expression in the half-light of the street lamps.
“I’m going to send those pictures to the police!” Terrence hisses. “I’m going to show them the criminal who’s hacking my company. I knew you guys were responsible, and I’m not going to stop until you see justice!”
Salvatore laughs, cold and cutting. He shoves his hands into his pockets and peers down at the smaller man. “Justice? Where was the justice for those warehouse workers in Biên Hòa?”
Terrence’s eyes go wide as dinner plates. “W-what? H-h-how did you?”
“Do you remember how many people were trapped in that fire, Terrence Kinney?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“One hundred and twelve. Do you remember how many were children? Thirty-four. And who got that email discussing unsafe conditions a week before the fire broke out?”
Terrence’s eyes well up. He wipes the back of his hand across his face.
I stare. When did this happen? I had access to all of Terrence’s emails, and I would’ve remembered something like this . Did he hide it?
“That’s right. You did. And you said you didn’t give a shit so long as your quotas were met.” Salvatore leans in, his face bright and hungry. “And then you covered it up and moved operations to another warehouse one block away. Where’s their justice?”
“That wasn’t my fault,” Terrence whispers. “I… I wasn’t there. I didn’t mean…”
Salvatore laughs and claps his hand on Terrence’s shoulder. “Of course, it was your fault. But maybe you’re still not understanding. Like how Cynthia didn’t understand why you left her with that kid of yours and no child support. She can afford hearing aids on a teacher’s salary, right? And who else is gonna give money to those strippers at Hattie’s?”
Tears stream down Terrence’s face. He glances at me, and Salvatore slaps his cheek in warning. The sound is brief but jarring. Terrence’s eyes snap back to Salvatore.
“You don’t look at my wife,” Salvatore says, and for the first time, a hint of anger steeps into his voice. “Not when you’re not fit to lick the bottom of her shoe. Tell you what, Terrence. If this were any other night, I’d take you to that back alley and give you the justice you deserve, but my wife’s hungry, and I want to take her home to eat. So I’ll leave you with a warning. If I ever see your worthless face again, it’ll be the last time. And you’re gonna stop spreading these harmful lies about your made-up shadow organizations. If someone is stealing money from that company of yours, then that sounds like justice to me, don’t you think?”
Terrence nods, sobbing openly. “I’m sorry… please don’t tell Cynthia…”
Salvatore drops his hand from Terrence’s face with a sound of disgust and wipes it against his pants. “You’re a real piece of shit, Terrence Kenney. Give me your phone— unlocked —and get the fuck out of my face.”
Terrence scrambles for his phone and types in the password, all zeros, before thrusting it into Salvatore’s hands and stumbling away. Salvatore flicks through Terrence’s phone until he finds the photos of us and deletes them. He lets the phone drop to the concrete and crushes it underfoot.
“Well,” Salvatore says, swiveling all of that intensity to me like a floodlight. “I hope that didn’t ruin your appetite too much.”
“Is it true? All those things you told him?” His coat feels like a warm, heavy embrace and an impenetrable suit of armor at the same time. I lean toward him.
“That’s not even the worst of it. I’ll bleed that bastard dry and let his ex-wife pick over the bones. She’ll have a lawyer offer to come work for her pro bono soon enough.”
“Sal,” I start, but I can’t finish with the lump in my throat. I stand up on my toes and crush my mouth to his. His hands brace me against him.
This cold, ruthless, tender man is all mine.