“She sounds brave,” I say after a second.
“She is,” Eliza says. “And I won’t have any man controlling me, either. I did as my family wanted and married you. My duty is done. No one is going to tell me what to do now. I’m going to keep doing what I have been, whatever the fuck I want, and you can’t stop me.”
“Okay…”
“I mean it,” she says. “If you mess with me, if you hurt me, you’ll see just what my father is capable of.”
“I’m not interested in being your surrogate father or telling you what to do,” I say. “You’re an adult. We’ve been over this. Act like a married woman when you leave the house, and you can do whatever the fuck you want when you’re at home.”
“Good,” she says. “I just wanted to make sure we’re still clear about that.”
It’s the first time we’ve really talked since the car ride home, when we came to a shaky peace. I got carried away when I saw her dancing with a stranger on our honeymoon, and that’s it. When I saw his hands on her, the frustration boiled over. She’s my fuckingwife. Only my hands should be on her.
And yeah, maybe the week of sleeping next to her and seeing her and not touching her, maybe it caught up with me. Finding out it was all a lie, that she just didn’t want to fuck me, pissed me off. I shouldn’t have treated her like that, though. I shouldn’t have let my anger and resentment bubble over. I shouldn’t have let my lust get away from me, shouldn’t have touched her at all. I shouldn’t feel any of those things, period.
I don’t have the time or inclination to argue with Eliza today. What am I going to say, anyway? If I fuck with her, she’ll make sure I’m killed in some unimaginably horrible way. And why should I care what she does with her days? I won’t be there. Just because I can’t afford to love her, that doesn’t mean I don’t want her to be happy. I want her to do whatever she pleases.
I just need to get better at not feeling for her, for the people I have to get money from, for anyone. I can’t help but want to take care of her, but that doesn’t mean the feeling is mutual. I need to remember that and be careful. Just because I won’t fuck someone else, that doesn’t mean I get to fuck her. Just because I can’t love anyone else, that doesn’t mean I love her. She’s better at this than I am, and I should be grateful she’s keeping the distance between us when I fuck up. One day, I’ll get better at it, and it’ll be easier.
“Well, enjoy your day,” I say, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. It’s one of those offhand gestures that wasn’t planned, but after I do it, it makes the place behind my sternum tighten into an ache. That’s something a man would do with a wife he’s comfortable with, a wife who loves him, who cares whether he comes home that night.
When I get to Al Valenti’s, his guards check the car, including the trunk and underneath it, as if someone could be clinging to the bottom of the Evija. I almost laugh.
“Gotta check everyone,” the guard says, giving me a friendly salute. “Can’t be too careful.”
“I know,” I say, saluting back before heading around to park. Little Al’s car is there, too, and after being stopped by two guards at the back door, I’m allowed to enter.
One more guard is stationed outside the dining room where I find Uncle Al, Little Al, and Al’s consigliere having lunch.
“There he is,” Little Al crows when he sees me, dropping his hoagie and holding out a hand for me to slap. “You been working on your tan?”
I shrug. “I’ve been at the beach for a week.”
“How was Bora Bora?” Uncle Al asks, looking up from his food and fixing those watchful eyes on me. The guy doesn’t miss anything.
“You better not have seen any of it,” Little Al says, winking at me and biting into his sandwich. “Why were you on the beach, bro? You should have spent every minute in your hotel room.”
I’ve had about enough of this conversation, so I steer it in a different direction, though I notice Al Valenti watching me like he knows something’s up.
“What’d I miss?” I ask, taking a seat and scooting in next to Little Al.
“Nothing important,” Uncle Al says. “I’m meeting with Anthony Pomponio this week. If that wife of yours hasn’t checked in with him since the honeymoon, make sure she does that.”
My stomach clenches at the unspoken threat in those words. Make sure she gives him a glowing report of our marriage. Of me.
That’s not gonna happen.
Guilt flares inside me when I think of the last night of our honeymoon, when I all but forced her tocum for me. Considering her aversion to sexual contact, god knows what she’ll tell her father about me.
Both Als are watching me, and I give my head a little shake to clear it and grab a sandwich off the tray in the middle of the table. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Hey, why doesn’t he go with you?” Little Al asks his grandfather. “He can give Anthony a first-hand account of the honeymoon.”
I want to punch the guy when I see the glimmer of humor in his eyes, like he has some idea that things aren’t too peachy between Eliza and me, and he thinks it would be just hilarious for Mr. Pomponio to grill me about my treatment of his daughter. He did seem to know an awful lot about her upbringing when I asked him about her, even the goings-on of her family. Does he know more than he let on?
Maybe they have a history I don’t know about. Or maybe he’s just being a garden variety asshat and knows exactly how uncomfortable that situation would be.
“Not a bad idea,” Uncle Al says.