Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  Celia gives a timid smile when Maggie urges her to try her new perfume, just come in on shipment from France and not for sale here yet. Yep, Maggie plays her like a fiddle, keeping Celia in her place while pretending to give her a hand up.

  It’s mean, and I refuse to share the catty smile Maggie sends my way behind Celia’s back.

  “You know what would be fun?” Maggie asks, making her eyes go wide and sparkly. “Why don’t you have a look at the new couture I just got from Milan, Celia? See if there’s anything you like? Try it on? We have time before lunch, right?”

  Maggie looks at me. I know that look. She wants a moment alone.

  “Plenty of time,” I sigh, and Maggie just about shoves Celia into the walk-through closet, then shuts the door on her.

  “Take your time!” she calls, and then hurries over to me. “Here,” she says, pressing a phone into my hand.

  I look down at it.

  “It’s encrypted, don’t worry. Pops wants to call you tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? He wants to hear what intel you’ve dug up.”

  “Intel? Jesus, Maggie, I’m not James Bond.”

  She gives me a derisive glance. “No, you’re certainly not. But surely you’ve heard some of their plans. You’re in a key position, baby brother. With your help, we could bring the whole Morelli Family down.”

  I give her a sharp look. “What do you mean, bring them down?”

  Maggie gives me a smug smile. Celia shouts something through from the closet. “Try some of my jewelry too, honey,” Maggie calls back. Then she returns to hissing at me. “Once you’ve got enough evidence, we’ll get you away from D’Amato and take you back to Boston. Then you can testify to the Feds about all the terrible things your darling husband has done.”

  “I haven’t seen my darling husband doing any terrible things,” I say. It’s true enough. Even shooting Tommy the Thug on the Maddalena was in my defense. It wasn’t cold-blooded murder or anything, and besides, I haven’t told anyone about that particular incident.

  Nor will I.

  “Then make shit up,” Maggie says impatiently. “Tell them what they want to hear, and help them get the D’Amato brothers over a barrel. They’ll turn on Morelli, and then it’s all over. And you’ll be free to live your life however you like.”

  I stare at her, incredulous. “Who exactly came up with this—and I use the term loosely—plan?”

  “Me,” she says coldly. “I told Pops what we should do, and he agreed.”

  “Uh huh. Well, listen, I don’t know that you two have really thought this shit through. If the Morelli crime family could be brought down by—”

  “Shh,” she whispers harshly, as Celia tries to open the closet door. Maggie slams it shut again.

  “It’s a dumb plan, is all,” I say in a normal voice, as Celia tries the door again. Maggie has to let her out this time.

  “What’s a dumb plan?” Celia asks, looking between us. She’s squeezed into a horrific sequined minidress.

  I wait a beat, just to see my sister sweat, and then I say, “Maggie wants to go out for lunch, when there’s a perfectly good restaurant in the hotel.”

  “Ooh, that might be fun!” Celia says, ever-anxious to please. “Um, I think I might be a size up from you, Maggie. I can’t get this dress to zip shut.”

  “It’s hideous, anyway,” I tell her. “Sequins are so last year.”

  “It’s Chanel,” Maggie snaps. “So fuck you.”

  She says no more about the alleged plan, but makes sure I stash the phone in my pocket when Celia’s distracted again by the view over the park.

  “Remember,” she says in a low voice. “Tonight. Eight o’clock. Pops will call.”

  “Sure, I’ll remember,” I tell Maggie, smiling. “Eight o’clock. Pops will call.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  LUCA

  Finch is running his mouth this evening at dinner, talking about what he’s been doing with his time the last few days. He’s so good at acting like we’re some normal couple catching up over a lovingly-prepared dinner (pasta puttanesca leftovers), that I almost let it pass me by when he mentions he saw his sister today.

  “What did you say?” I break in.

  “I had lunch with Maggie and Celia. Celia was worried you wouldn’t like it, but—”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Maggie is my sister, Luca.”

  “I told you on our honeymoon: you have a new Family now.”

  He puts down his fork and leans back in the chair. “And I told you,” he says softly, “that I’ll always be loyal to you. To you and Brother Frank. And in that vein, I have something to show you.”

  He shifts in his seat and for a moment I wonder if he’s about to show me the business end of a gun. But when his hand comes back into view, he has something even more dangerous: a cell phone.

  He puts the phone down on the table between us, then picks up his fork again. “Maggie gave it to me,” he says through a full mouth. “Apparently there’s some big plan for me to rat on the Morelli family, and then I get to return to the bosom of the Donovan clan.”

  I study his face, looking for signs. Signs of what, though? Regret? Contempt? Hatred?

  “Do you really think I’d ever let them take you from me, baby bird?” I ask at last.

  “Do you really think I want to go?” he shoots back.

  I stand up, walk around the table, and grab a handful of his hair, tipping his head back so I can look into his face. “You’re mine. Until death.” I wrap my fingers around his neck, reminding him that even his death is in my hands.

  He swallows, his throat moving under my grip. “I know that,” he says hoarsely. “That’s what I’m saying. I told Maggie I don’t need rescuing.”

  I let him go after another moment, and go back to my seat.

  “Jesus,” he complains, patting his hair back in place. “You need to work on your trust issues, buddy.”

  “What I need to do is have a word with Marco.” My heart is thundering in my ears and I can’t think straight. How did I miss this? How the fuck is this news only coming to me now, that my hostage husband spent the day holed up with his goddamn sister? “You won’t be seeing Celia again, either. When she’s not fucking aiding and abetting your suicide attempts, she’s helping you escape.” I slam my fist down on the table on my last word.

  Finch just chuckles. “Don’t blame them, baby. You told Marco yourself to take me wherever I wanted to go, didn’t you? Besides, he sent you his daily report on me already. It’s not his fault if you don’t check your emails regularly. And Celia, well, she just wants me to be happy.” He puts his fork down in his empty bowl and locks his fingers under his chin, looking at me. “What you don’t understand, husband of mine, is that you are my escape. Pops has no real interest in taking me away from you. In fact, he thought I might be useful; that I’d snitch on you given the chance. But I will never leave you. I will never betray you. And—” The phone starts ringing. “—now I’ll get to prove it to you.”

  He puts a finger to his lips, signaling me to keep quiet, and then answers the call, putting it on speaker. “Hiya, Pops,” he says brightly.

  “Howie. So Maggie got you the phone.”

  “She did, Pops, and she told me there was some crazy plan for me to turn on Luca and somehow take down the whole Morelli Family.”

  My hands clench into fists, and I grit my teeth to stop from saying anything.

  After a pause, Howard Donovan asks, “Are you alone, son?”

  “I sure am, Pops,” Finch replies. “And I wanted to tell you, forget the plan, okay? I’d rather be in New York than anywhere else on earth, and I’ll never be safer than I am now. Luca D’Amato is protecting me.”

  “Luca D’Amato is a two-bit gangster who’s only got as far as he has because his Boss has a thing for him. The same Boss who had your mother killed.” Finch goes pale at that. “And now you’re telling me you’d rather suck It
alian dick than avenge your mother?”

  Finch puts his head down so I can’t see his face. “Are you really sure it was them, Pops?” he asks quietly. “You’ve never said before that it was them.”

  “It was the Morellis,” Donovan says stubbornly. “And if you were any kind of man, you’d start that payback by killing D’Amato in his sleep. But I know you won’t. You’re soft, Howie. It should have been you that died that day, not your mother, bless her soul.” Donovan’s voice is rising, but cracks as he tries to shout. “God cursed me when he sent you into my life. Now you listen to me, and listen good! Don’t contact me or Maggie or anyone in this family until you’ve got something worthwhile to tell us!”

  The line goes dead.

  Finch sits there with his head down for a moment. I say nothing. I’m still trying to figure out if this whole thing is some scheme, something to make me believe again that Finch is on my side.

  “Wow. You think he’s gonna write me out of the will?” Finch looks up, and his grin is full of pain.

  This was no setup. I can see the truth of it in his eyes, the hurt, the bewilderment, the anger. He might have known deep down that his father was an asshole, but now he has proof definitive. Besides, he didn’t have to show me the phone. He didn’t have to tell me about any of this.

  Finch stretches out his arms, hands flat on the table and looks at his wedding ring. “Well,” he says to it. “I guess I burned my last bridge. You get that, right?” He glances up at me. “You’re it, now. My last, best hope.”

  “Morelli didn’t take out your mother,” I tell him. There’s something in me that just wants to see his pain ease. Make him see he made the right choice when he chose me over his father.

  “You don’t know that. How could you? It happened years before you were even in the Family.”

  “I guess I don’t know it,” I concede. “But I can’t believe it. Tino is old-school. He wouldn’t take out a hit on a civilian like that, and besides, the Commission would never have agreed to it. Something like that, taking out the wife of an Irish Mob Boss? Tino would have had to run it by the Commission, and they would have told him no. Too risky, too likely to stir up retribution. And Tino plays by the rules.”

  Finch just shakes his head. “My Pops is no Mob Boss. He’s legit. We might have had ties back in the day, but—”

  “Angel. Your Pops was head of the Donovan Family before your mother died. How do you not know this? He ran Boston for years. He got out after your mother’s death, but…” I stop, because the logic is coming around to bite me in the ass. If someone wanted Howard Donovan out of the fight, they found the way to do it.

  But not Tino. I won’t believe it.

  I want to keep talking about Finch’s mother, keep trying to figure it out, but I don’t want to press him. He’s had enough unpleasantness for one evening, and some of it has been at my own hands. I reach across the table and put my fingers over his. “I made a vow. I will protect you. Even against my own people, if it comes down to it.”

  He nods. “I know you will. And I’ll protect you.”

  I hide my smile at that, and then remind myself: there was a time, long ago, when he did protect me.

  Finch stands and begins to gather the plates.

  “That really was a good sauce,” I say awkwardly, following him back into the kitchen. “You gonna make that tomorrow night for—” I break off. Stupid.

  “You can say his name,” he tells me as he begins stacking the plates in the dishwasher. “Make it for Tino? No, baby. I will not be forcing my attempts at a classic Italian pasta sauce on the Godfather himself.”

  “I didn’t know you could cook.” I want to change the subject. He seems okay now, but who knows what the fallout of that phone call with his father will be? I just pray he doesn’t have a secret drug stash in the house.

  “Puttanesca’s the only thing I can make. Mom taught me when I was a kid. It was her favorite.”

  Great. In my attempts to avoid mentioning Tino, I’ve managed to bring up the dead mother. I clear my throat. “Can I help with the dishes?”

  “I don’t think your Italian machismo will allow you to,” he says seriously, then smiles. “Sure. Hand me that dish over there.”

  When we’re done stacking the dishwasher, we face each other over the kitchen island. It’s a comfortable feeling, despite what’s gone down tonight. I can’t take my eyes off him.

  “Are you gonna kill me in my sleep?” I ask lightly. “Because if not, I was thinking, maybe I won’t go back out tonight. Maybe we should just have an early night.”

  “Heavens.” He puts a hand to his heart. “You mean make love to me, your husband, in our bedroom, in our bed?”

  I smirk. “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”

  “Sure. Since we’re married and all, I guess it’s allowed. But first, I have a surprise for you. Don’t frown, baby, you’ll like it.” He comes around the island and holds out his hand to me. I take it, and he pulls me out of the kitchen towards the stairs.

  “Pro tip,” I tell him as he leads me up to our bedroom. “Never tell a Family man you have a surprise waiting for him.”

  Finch grins over his shoulder at me. “Even if that surprise is sexy?”

  Eyes on his ass, I say, “Hm. Maybe then it’s okay.” But when we make it to the bedroom, Finch doesn’t head straight for the bed. Instead, he goes over to the closet and takes out a long black garment bag. He hooks the hanger on the door, unzips it, and pulls the insides out, as careful as I picture those ancient Roman auguries disemboweled their animal sacrifices.

  He glances back to me and gestures me over. “Feel this.”

  I take the material between my fingers. It’s soft. Classy. Expensive. Everything I’m not, but Finch is. “Nice,” I say. “You get this on your shopping spree with Celia?”

  “It’s for you,” he says patiently. “This one, and four more. I took your measurements from the wedding tux. Hope you haven’t gained too much weight since the wedding, got comfy now that you’re a married man.”

  I don’t know what to say. I check the label, wondering, hoping.

  Finch chuckles. “You take his name in vain so often, I figured you should finally own some Armani suits. Now you can quit damaging his reputation with those clown clothes you insist on wearing.”

  I glare at him then. “Those suits are fine for day-to—”

  “No, they’re not, and I fucking threw them out. Trash collection came this morning, so they’re long gone. Say hello to your new life. I got you shirts, socks and underwear, too.”

  “Where did you get the money?” I snap, frustrated.

  “Well, darling husband, there’s this trick the ultra-rich like to use, called living on credit. I charged it all to my Pops’ store account. I did plan to tell him tonight, but he went all nuclear on me. So fuck him. He can have a surprise, too.”

  I always thought Howard Fincher Donovan the Third was the apple of his daddy’s eye. How wrong I was. Still... “He kept you hidden. After your mother, I mean. Got you out of Boston and into New York.”

  Finch picks up my thought process. “I kept myself hidden. I’m the one who stayed off social media. I’m the one who knew when I had to get out of town. He pushed me out to New York so he never had to see me. No. I owe him nothing—didn’t even inherit the Donovan family baby blues. So now do you understand? I’ve broken ties with him, with all of them. I’m not Howard Fincher Donovan the Third anymore. I’m Finch D’Amato from now on.”

  He presses up against me and I drop the Armani suit-sleeve, clutching at his body out of instinct alone. “I’m yours,” he says, his voice low with desire. “Until death.”

  I kiss him for that, take his mouth and ravage it like I’m planning to do with his body once I get him in the bed. I pull at his clothes, get him naked as fast as I can. There’s something about him that makes me crazy, makes me rage inside where normally I’m like ice.

  “We’re going to do great things together,” he sighs, as I
push him down on the bed, kissing down his neck, biting, marking my territory. “The clothes are just the start. Tomorrow night, you’ll see what I can do for you.”

  “Tomorrow?” I pull back, blinking. Shit. Of course. In all the Armani and naked Finch, I’ve forgotten about the dinner tomorrow night. “Oh, Tino.”

  “Yes, Tino,” he laughs. But then his smile drops. I try to kiss it back on his lips, but he turns his head. “Baby, when Tino is here tomorrow night…can you do something for me?”

  “Anything.” I actually fucking mean it, which is the scary thing. But it brings the smile back to his lips, so it’s worth it. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to ask him.”

  He doesn’t have to say what he wants me to ask. It will be difficult to find a non-offensive way to ask it: Hey, Boss, did you whack some Irish broad back in the day? But it’s important for me to know, too. If there’s a story there, I want the details. I need to know exactly what my Boss is capable of, the skeletons in his closet. I need to protect my back as much as Finch’s.

  Without me, he’s dead.

  I lean in to kiss Finch’s trembling mouth.

  “I’ll ask him,” I promise.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  FINCH

  Just like I reminded him this morning, Luca is back by six on the dot, so I can make him shower, shave, and dress in his brand-new Armani suit. I’ve dumped the Old Spice along with the old suits, and got him Armani cologne to go with his new look. He even lets me pull his stupid, stuffy tie off and artfully arrange an open collar on his shirt.

  “There’s a reason I didn’t buy you any fucking ties,” I say when he worries, with a strange insecurity, that Tino Morelli might be offended at him not wearing a tie. “Have you ever seen Tino Morelli wear a tie?”

  “He wears cravats,” Luca points out sullenly.