“No.”
“No? You usually have that much blow on you on just an average day?”
I lifted a shoulder. “I might.”
“How do you pay for it?”
“Money.”
I blew a bubble.
Popped it.
A muscle in his jaw tightened, and a small amount of satisfaction filled me.
“Is that why you married your husband?” His gaze met mine. “Money?”
Anger stretched in my chest, and I refused to even respond. But, after he voiced his next question, I couldn’t keep it in.
“Are you at least a faithful gold-digger?”
Gold-digger?
“Like I ever had a choice in the matter! Vaffanculo a chi t’è morto!”
The look he gave me seared, dark and hot.
I pressed my lips together.
Dammit.
He’d barely begun a conversation and he’d already gotten me to admit I didn’t exactly have a choice in marrying Antonio.
“Your mom never wash your mouth out with soap?”
I didn’t reply. I’d tell him my mamma was the best, and he’d easily deduce my papà would rather lock me in a room for three days than bother with having to listen to me.
“Stupid move, speeding with drugs on you.”
I scoffed. I wanted to ignore him but couldn’t stop myself from replying. To be ignored felt like a cut in one’s chest, and it made me sick to think I’d ever make someone else feel that way. Amusing, as I’d just told this man to go screw his dead ancestors. Italians were creative with their insults.
“It was three miles per hour over the speed limit.”
His finger tap, tap, tapped on the steering wheel. “Who taught you to drive? Doesn’t the Cosa Nostra like to keep their women dumb and docile?”
“Obviously not, because my husband taught me.”
I wouldn’t admit Antonio gave me freer rein than any other man in the Cosa Nostra gave their wife. Antonio gave me many things. And maybe that was why it was hard to despise him for what he took away.
“And how is he going to react when you’re released to go home?”
“How is your mamma gonna react when you get home past curfew?”
“Answer the question.”
I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore the anger brewing inside me by pulling down the sun visor and fixing my hair in the mirror. “Are you asking if my husband hits me? No, he does not.” Hits was plural, so, technically, it was the truth.
His gaze singed my cheek. “You’re a bad liar.”