Page 40 of Mafia Bride
I miss feeling like wallpaper.
I miss him wearing clothes.
“It makes more sense out here. Matches the house. Nothing else does.”
“Ah, you noticed.”
“It’s impossible not to.” I want to talk to him, not insult him, so I shrug as if it’s not a matter of taste even when it is and say what’s on my mind. “It’s like a museum in there.”
Santino drops in a chair next to me and crosses one leg widely over the other. His long hands drape past the end of the armrests. He even reclines like a damn king.
“Inside, that is all my grandfather’s furniture. My inheritance. The only thing that bastard left me was a house full of Rococo furniture. Can you imagine?”
No, I can’t. I don’t say anything, though. Because I don’t want to get involved in his stories like he got involved in mine. We aren’t a we.
“I had it shipped here from Italy,” he continues. “Because what else was I supposed to do? Sell the only thing my grandfather left me? Keep it in storage so the rats could shit in the cushions and termites eat the wood?”
Celia appears with two bottles of water and a small tray of snacks. She’s very good at anticipating her boss’s needs, which is why she stays in the kitchen and I read medical journals.
“I won’t disrespect my grandfather,” Santino says when she’s gone. “God knows, if the devil told Giacomo DiLustro his grandson didn’t have his ass on his inheritance, he’d dig his way out of the grave.”
“That’s disgusting,” I say with a lilt of humor.
“That’s my grandfather.”
I don’t know what to say, so I sip water.
“You don’t like it?” He turns his burning gaze to me. I’m suddenly very self-conscious. “You want new furniture?”
“It doesn’t go with the house.”
“A new house then?”
“You’d move for me?” I say it sarcastically because I don’t think I can process what he just offered. “I could change the furniture and let rats shit in your grandfather’s cushions?”
He says nothing. That somehow makes me angrier.
“You’d make a pretty little prison for me, Santino? How nice of you. How accommodating. What other terrible generosity will you exhibit for my comfort?”
Getting sassy with him never works, but I can’t stop the words or the attitude from rolling off me in big, angry waves. Did he honestly find this romantic? Think this was the way to win me over?
If it wasn’t for him, I’d be at the airport right now, on my way to Santorini. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be finished with my summer reading list. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be free and happy.
None of those things are happening. Because of Santino. My family’s lives are all in danger. Because of Santino. I am a fucking prisoner in this too big house. Because of Santino.
And he offers to buy me new furniture, buy me a new house? Is he insane? Is he stupid? Could it be the rest of my family is so small-minded they think a man like this runs the world?
I’m stewing and he’s sitting there, king-like, as though what he said wasn’t offensive.
“This is also your home,” he says gently.
“Is it, though?”
His anger rises. I can feel it. Well, good. If I’m angry, let him also be angry. Let him also feel powerless against his situation. He can’t control me. He forced me into his home and into a marriage, sure, but he cannot control my heart, my mind, or my actions.
He refuses my feminine wiles? Fine. Then he can deal with my attitude.
“You have moods like a child.”
