Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  The rest of me is just curious. “You always cook naked?”

  “Not always. Just for Marco.”

  I make an involuntary movement, and Finch catches it, raises an eyebrow.

  “I’m kidding, husband,” he says, but his tone is still distant. “Still, he could’ve stayed. There’s enough here to feed an army.” He turns back to the stove and dumps pasta into another pot of boiling water.

  I come around the kitchen island and look over his shoulder at the sauce.

  “Puttanesca,” he says. “Since you’re treating me like your puttana every night.” He turns to grab some chopped herbs and adds them to the dish. “Get it?”

  Treating him like my whore?

  My first instinct is to deny it, but I pause, reflecting. “What do you mean?” I ask carefully.

  He whirls around on me, his jaw tight with anger. “What the fuck do you think I mean?”

  He’s pissing me off now. “I keep telling you, I’m working. So I’m sorry if I can’t play house with you, baby bird, but it really shouldn’t come as a surprise.”

  He gives a furious chuckle. “Oh, believe me, you’ve lost any capacity you had to surprise me.”

  I bite my tongue. I’m not going to get into an argument with him. “I’m here, aren’t I?” I say mildly. “Can I do anything?”

  “Sure. Set the fucking table, if you can figure out the silverware.”

  I grab out a handful of cutlery from the drawer and throw it on the small kitchen table, but then I catch myself. I’m not going to give into this petty bullshit. So I do what he says and set the table, just the way my Nonna taught me when I was a kid.

  “Why don’t you pick a wine, too?” he asks over his shoulder, nodding at the cellar door. When we moved in, Tino had set us up with the beginning of what Finch called a very passable wine collection.

  “Look, I know what you’re trying to do,” I begin.

  “Just get the wine,” he says. “Hurry up. Pasta’s just about done.”

  I have no idea what to pick from the scores of bottles in the small cellar, except that it should probably be a red. Red wine with red sauce…right? Now I’m even questioning that. I grab the first red wine I see and by the time I come back up, Finch has served dinner. He pulls off the apron and throws it on the counter before sitting down at the table.

  “Why are you naked?” I ask, sliding into my own seat.

  “Because it’s the only way I can keep your attention. Here, pass it over.” I hand him the bottle and he opens it expertly, then pours a splash of wine into my glass. “Taste.”

  This is beginning to get very irritating. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “Open your mouth, take a sip.”

  Perhaps he’s become bored. He’s bored, and he’s trying to provoke an argument just for something to do. I drink the mouthful, shrug, and put my glass out for more. “Tastes like wine to me,” I say, when it becomes obvious he’s waiting for something. “Can we get on with this?”

  If possible, Finch’s face gets even stonier. “Sure. I don’t want to keep you from your oh-so-important business.”

  I sit back with a sigh. “What do you want from me, Finch? I have to make sure we’re safe. That’s what I’m doing.”

  He stabs his fork into the pasta. “Eat,” he mutters.

  For an Irish kid, his pasta puttanesca is actually pretty good, but he just grunts when I tell him that. The table is covering his nudity but it’s hard not to stare at his pretty pink nipples.

  Maybe he’s right, even if I hate to admit it. I do pay more attention to him when he’s naked. I try to focus on the food, but the heavy atmosphere gets to me in the end. “If you don’t want me in your bed, you only have to say so.”

  His head whips up and he points his noodle-laden fork at me. “That right there. That’s the fucking problem. It’s not my bed. It’s our bed. Why have you been such an epic douchebag since we moved in here? And don’t feed me any more bullshit, I can’t take it,” he spits, as I start to speak. “Just tell me what the hell your problem is.”

  Frank was right. I had no idea what marriage was going to be like. I consider lying, but why should I? If Finch wants to know, I’ll tell him. “Alright. You make me stupid. Being around you, I can’t concentrate on anything.”

  He stares. “Welcome to the honeymoon phase of a marriage, you moron. It’s supposed to be that way.”

  I don’t bring up the fact that we’ve hardly had a traditional courtship so far. Instead, I put aside my emotions and lay it out plain. “If my mind is on you, it’s not on business. If my mind’s not on business, something will get by me. If something gets by me, you’re dead.” I eat a few more mouthfuls while I let that reality settle in Finch’s brain.

  He stares at his food for a while before he resumes eating, and finally I seem to have said something right, because he begins to thaw. “I went to a brunch with the Wives the other day,” he says at last, conversationally, like we’re any normal married couple catching up about what we’ve been doing.

  “It’s nice that you’re making friends in the Family,” I say politely.

  “Shut up and listen,” he replies, and I’m so taken aback that I actually do.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  FINCH

  After I’ve spilled everything I learned from one little brunch with the Wives, I sit back and finish my glass of wine. I’d never tell Luca this, but the Zinfandel he picked from the cellar is actually a pretty good match for the food. I’m sure it was entirely accidental, though.

  Luca is thinking. At first he was amused, even dismissive, but by the end of my story he was listening carefully, eyelids flickering like he was making computations behind his eyes.

  At last, he lets out a long breath. “I never knew any of this.”

  I wait for it.

  “Thank you,” he says after a while. “This is…useful information.” At my look, he adds, “And I would never have heard any of it without you.”

  “There we go,” I say. “You’re starting to get it. Now, why don’t you clear the table and I’ll serve up dessert?”

  He does as he’s asked, taking the dishes to the sink while I rummage in the fridge. I turn back to him with a can of whipped cream and watch him try to keep his eyes above waist level.

  “You’re going to sleep in our bed from now on,” I say, like I’m a hypnotist giving him orders.

  “Am I?” But he smiles as he says it.

  “Yes, you are. And you’re going to come home for dinner every night. If you wanna go out committing crimes after dinner, that’s fine. But you’ll be here every evening for a sit-down meal with me.” I walk up to him and press the can into his hand. “Understand?”

  He presses his lips together.

  “Especially this Friday night,” I go on. “Because we have guests coming over.”

  “I didn’t tell you to invite anyone over for dinner,” he says, frowning even harder.

  “I thought that’s what you wanted me to do. Look pretty, make friends, entertain, just like all the other wives. Right?”

  “I don’t want to waste a night making small talk, Finch. Not to mention the fucking logistical nightmare it’d be to make sure they’re not wearing wires or carrying weapons or anything like that…No. Call it off.”

  “Hm. Well, Tino will be disappointed,” I say casually. “I invited him to dinner to say thank you for everything he’s given to us. He’s bringing Connie, too. You know none of the Wives have ever bothered to invite Connie to dinner? Tino always brings her, of course, but she was just ecstatic to get her own real invite from me, instead of being an unnamed plus-one. But sure, I guess I can call the whole thing off.”

  I have him, and he knows it.

  “Finch,” he sighs, and then looks at the ceiling like he’s at the end of his tether.

  “It’s a power move, baby. You gotta respect me for making it.”

  There’s a long pause before he admits defeat. “What time on Friday?”


  “Seven for drinks. Dinner at eight. But you’d better be home by six to shower and dress for dinner. And I promised Tino we’d show him our honeymoon photos. I’ll get them printed tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” he says. “Now what the hell is this can of cream for?”

  “Oh, that? That’s for dessert.”

  And with that, I turn and lean on the island counter, pulling my asscheeks open for him. There’s a deep silence behind me, so I glance over my shoulder and give him a sly smile.

  “Come on. Cream me, baby.”

  When I wake up the next morning, Luca is still there next to me, his arms around me, his nose pressed up against my shoulder.

  It’s the first moment I’ve truly felt like a married man since the honeymoon.

  As usual, Luca goes out to work, but not before we have breakfast together. And this time I can see his work isn’t just an excuse, like it has been for the past weeks.

  I really do think he meant it, that he finds his mind keener if he keeps his distance. But that’s not good enough for me. He’ll have to find a balance. Besides, regular sex can only be a good thing, right? Keep his brain ticking over and his balls lighter?

  As for me, I set about making plans for Friday night. When I bounce out the front door to see Luca off, Marco is just pulling up, and actually grins to see me.

  “Naked cooking worked out okay, huh?” he asks in a low voice, while Luca is busy getting his coat.

  “Never underestimate my ass.”

  Luca just about runs out the door, until I grab him and make him kiss me in front of the guards and anyone else who might be watching from the streets. His cheeks color up, but he doesn’t try to push me away. I stay out onto the stoop to wave goodbye to him, and to Brother Frank, who’s picking him up. Frank gives me an enthusiastic wave back.

  I turn to Marco after we watch them drive off together. Faithful Marco. Luca’s loyal dog. More importantly, my driver. “We’re gonna have a busy day today, Marco. Hope you’re ready for it.”

  We hit a florist, a linen supplier, a restaurant—Tino’s favorite in the city, which makes his favorite food—one of my favorite stores to order something special for Luca, and then to the hairdresser, where I get my roots touched up by a pro. I want everything to be perfect on Friday night. I want to show Luca exactly what a good little househusband I can be—and how far we can go if we work together as a team.

  Luca comes back for dinner that night as ordered—even a little earlier, and I get on my knees for him the second we’re alone.

  “That was quite a welcome home,” he says breathlessly afterwards.

  “I’m using positive reinforcement,” I tell him cheerfully, and laugh at his expression.

  I even persuade him to take me out rather than eating at home, to a local Italian place that Marco told me has Morelli Family ties. Luca still insists on a booth in the back of the restaurant where he has a full view of the door and bathrooms, and we have not only Marco sitting across the room from us, but two more of Luca’s crew show up as well, one near the door and one near the kitchen.

  Not many customers hang around once they get a view of who’s sitting in the restaurant, but I make Luca leave a sizeable tip.

  “I can’t afford—” he starts.

  “We can’t afford not to keep people on our side, husband. Besides, you’re Capo now, right? Earning more?”

  “That doesn’t mean we have money to throw around, Finch.” But he still does as I suggested and bumps the tip up.

  My husband’s attitude to money is ingrained in him. But then, mine is also ingrained in me. And now that things are looking up at home, I feel like I want to spread myself around town a little more than I have been these last few months.

  “I fancy a shopping spree today, Marco,” I tell my bodyguard the next day. “I’m going to shower and get ready, and then I think we’ll pick up my sister-in-law, and drive up and down Manhattan for the day. What do you say?”

  Marco grins. I guess the prospect of driving me around town is more interesting than staying in, waiting for something to happen. “Your wish is my command, Mr. D’Amato.”

  It’s only after I go back upstairs to get ready that it hits me: I didn’t correct him, didn’t insist on being at Donovan, not a D’Amato. I look down at the ring that I never take off now, not even to wash my hands, on Luca’s insistence.

  Maybe I really do consider myself a D’Amato now.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  FINCH

  Celia is fucking thrilled to hang out with her new gay BFF, and I’m fucking thrilled to have someone new to talk to. Marco is up in the front, but he’s done his best to look like a legit bodyguard today instead of a Mob heavy. All credit to him, he scrubs up well.

  “Frank won’t be happy about me using up the credit card again,” Celia confides to me after our third stop. I’ve taken her to all my favorite couture places, and then conceded to Celia’s deep need to visit Saks.

  “What are our husbands for if not to get angry about our spending?” I ask airily.

  Celia offers me a pill for the third time today, after taking one herself. I’m about to decline for the third time when I figure she’ll only keep pushing them on me. So I shake out a handful and shove them in my pocket. “For later,” I tell her. “I’m taking a break after my trip to the hospital.” That should shut her up.

  “You sure had us worried that day,” Celia says, eyes going round for a second as she remembers. “Hey, I hope you got ahold of Connie okay?” she asks, changing the subject. Celia is the one who gave me Connie’s phone number, after suggesting I extend my invitation to Tino Morelli through Connie instead of direct. It was a clever suggestion on Celia’s part, but I figure she liked the idea of getting one over on Marie Fuscone.

  Celia’s phone rings as Marco pulls away from the curb, and she squeals when she sees the name. I do a double take: Maggie Donovan.

  “We swapped numbers at the wedding,” Celia tells me, before answering my sister’s call.

  I’m still not allowed to have my own phone. I’m not sure if it’s still a thing, or if Luca has simply forgotten that I don’t have one. It occurred to me to lift Celia’s from her when she wasn’t looking one day, but I didn’t.

  I’ve found myself feeling strangely free without a phone.

  None of my old friends can contact me. And I’ve totally lost any sense of FOMO now that I can’t get on social media. I don’t have any accounts under my real name on Insta, Facebook, or the rest of them—even I’m not that dumb. When your Pops is Howard Donovan and your Mom was killed by a contract hit, you keep your head down and you make sure you stay out of other people’s photos too, as best you can. But I still liked to internet-stalk my friends’ accounts from time to time, and all those celebrities who seem to have nothing better to do than post pictures of their fabulous lives.

  It all seems so pointless now, looking at those other lives.

  Celia is chattering away to Maggie, and I’m thinking about the weird capacity for women to form instant, life-long friendships over little more than a shared liking for the same lipstick, when I hear my name and tune back in.

  “Sure, Finch is right here with me now. We’re riding around Manhattan in a town car, making our husbands go bankrupt.” Maggie says something in reply and Celia continues, her voice less chirpy now. “Um, sure, maybe. That sounds like a neat idea. Let me just run it by Finch.” She puts the phone on mute and her eyes are worried when she looks at me. “Maggie’s in town. Did you know?”

  “I did not.” Maggie Donovan wouldn’t deign to share her schedule with me. Besides, how would she even contact me?

  “She wants to see you,” Celia says hesitantly. “She suggested we pick her up, have lunch together. Um…”

  Ah. Maggie Donovan has found a way to contact me.

  I know what Celia’s worried about. After my little overdose incident, Celia got read the riot act by Brother Frank. It must’ve been serious, because Celia is irrepressibl
e when it comes to Frank, and does what she wants ninety-nine percent of the time. When it comes to me, though, I guess she’s been told.

  Maybe she’s even been told I’m not allowed to see my family. But I haven’t been told that, and I have no intention of letting anyone decide who I can and cannot see.

  Not even Luca D’Amato. Besides, I’m curious why Maggie even wants to see me.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say, smiling innocently.

  “Um,” she says again. “Would Luca be okay with that, do you think?”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” I don’t blink, don’t look away, until Celia does.

  She unmutes her phone. “We’ll swing right by and pick you up, Maggie,” she says, trying and failing to sound as cheery as she did when she first answered. “I know, right? Yeah, can’t wait…see you soon.”

  I sit back and look out the window, and I can’t help smiling to myself as Celia gives Marco the new address. Celia D’Amato versus Maggie Donovan. The warmth of the Italians versus the charm of the Irish.

  I wonder which side I’m actually on.

  Maggie greets Celia like a long-lost school friend, and the way they dive into conversation, you’d think they’ve known each other that long. Maggie is staying at the Grand in our standing suite, and makes us come up when we arrive. I know exactly why, because I know my sister. It’s to show Celia that the Donovans don’t play second fiddle to anyone. Celia D’Amato will wait on Maggie Donovan, and she’ll fucking like it.

  I make Marco wait outside the door, too, although he looks dubious, but Maggie has our mother’s autocratic nature, and the way she ignores him and simply shuts the door on him resolves the issue.

  Hired Help are not welcome in the presence of Margaret Fincher Donovan.

  Celia, as intended, looks intimidated by the room and the view out the window over Central Park. I have a sense of déjà vu and remember Luca staring out this same window, like he’d never been so high up in his life before. Frank D’Amato does well enough for his wife, but he doesn’t have money like the Donovans. That’s what Maggie wanted Celia to know when she invited us up here to her room.