17. Stefania

Ifind I'm kind of enjoying the domestic thing.

It helps that I don't have to do the hard stuff. Davide's family has approved cleaners that go from house to house every few days, scouring every inch of every room. The ladies appear chattering away in Russian and Ukrainian as they do their thing, and I retreat up into my library to hide from their easy, comfortable laughter. It's weird that I'm jealous of cleaners, but I miss my job and I really miss Giorgia, and I don't know what I'm doing with myself right now.

Playing wife is one thing. Cooking, straightening, sleeping in bed with my husband, that's the fun stuff—but it's like I'm at summer camp. The real world is on vacation and I can pretend like turning myself into a mafia Martha Stewart is fun and cute, except the summer always ends, and I don't know what I'll be once I decide to come back home.

Which is how I find myself walking down the Bianco compound's private, shady street, and stopping at a house a few doors down. It looks a lot like Davide's, but it's bigger and more austere, with more turrets and fancy molding around the roofline. I knock at the door and stand back, feeling nervous and silly, until Davide's mother, Freddie, answers.

She seems surprised, but not unhappy. "Stefania, I didn't expect you."

"I'm sorry to drop in like this. You said to come by if I ever needed anything and?—"

She seemed like she meant it, which most people don't.

"I'm so happy you're here," she says, ushering me inside, and again, I actually believe her. When someone says that, normally they're being polite or filling silence or whatever, but Freddie seems so genuine. I've met a lot of women in the mafia world and none have been such a ray of sunshine and comfort like this lady. She's not even wearing any designer clothing, which is practically unheard of in most Famiglia circles.

I feel at ease the instant she sits me down at her kitchen table, which is shockingly unassuming and simple, and starts to make tea. She makes small talk the whole time, and when it's finished, she comes over and sits across from me.

"I'm really sorry to barge in like this," I say and accept the mug she offers.

"It's totally fine. Everything's okay with Davide, right?"

"Oh, yeah, I mean, as good as they can be." I laugh awkwardly because I'm not about to tell this lady that I'm having some of the most intense and satisfying sex of my life with her son, but we haven't exactly formed an emotional connection yet. Davide's frustratingly hard to get a read on. "This isn't about him."

"What can I do for you then?" She sits back and sips her drink.

With most mafia women, I'd do the dance before asking for a favor. I'd compliment her home, coo over her hair or nails or whatever, do a little ass kissing. That's practically expected. Except here, I get the feeling that the direct approach would be appreciated.

"I was hoping you could help me get a job," I say, sitting up very straight and doing my best to look like a Very Professional Lady.

Freddie's eyebrows raise and she puts her cup down. "A job?" she asks as if that's the most absurd idea in the world. "Davide gave you his credit card, didn't he?"

I have to laugh, because come on, obviously I don't want a job to earn money. There's enough wealth in this little oasis to last me the rest of my life, and Davide's made it pretty clear that if I want something, all I have to do is order it.

"Back home, I had my own apartment." I'm not sure how much of this she's going to understand but I have to try anyway. "I worked at a Famiglia-related law firm, but the pay was enough to handle all my bills with some leftover for discretionary expenses. I gave up a life to move out here, and while I really appreciate all the kindness your family has shown me, I miss getting up in the morning with a purpose."

She nods to herself and tilts her head as if getting a new read on me. She leans forward and taps her nails on the table, all of which look perfectly manicured and beautiful, but simple and understated. No gaudy tips, no bright colors.

"What kind of job did you have in mind?"

I make some stalling noises because, shit, I didn't actually think this conversation would get that far. I pictured letting her know I was looking for something and maybe hearing back about whatever jobs were appropriate for the wife of her son in a few weeks or whatever. Instead, now I feel like I'm at an interview.

"I have a marketing degree from the University of Pennsylvania and I did competitive intelligence research for a pretty good law firm. I can show you my resume?—"

She laughs and waves a hand, bracelets jangling. "No, dear, that's okay. I just mean, really, what do you want to do? Our family is involved in a lot of industries, and I'm fairly confident I could find you something reasonable."

"Well, I was thinking an office job." I hesitate because that's not exactly specific, and it's not like these people would let the latest member of their inner circle work at a car wash. "I'd be happy at another law firm, or maybe an accounting practice needs an administrative assistant, or I could even put my degree to actual use somewhere."

His mother nods to herself and looks over toward the window. "Let me think about it and get back to you in a couple days, but I have some ideas already. There's just one thing though. You need to get Davide's permission first."

I pause with my teacup in the air and slowly lower it back down. "I need my husband's permission to get a job?" I ask her very slowly, and it makes her laugh.

"I'm sorry, dear, I don't mean to be regressive, but things are unsettled in the family at the moment and I want to make sure this won't be a problem. If you had come along a year or two ago, I would've told my boys to quit being little whiny bitches and let you work, but this is our situation."

I snort-laugh at whiny bitches because that's like hearing Mary Poppins call her children bloody annoying pricks, but I appreciate her point. Even if I don't like it. I worked hard to have a life that wasn't dependent on what my brothers wanted from me, and now here I am suddenly asking for permission to sit at a stinking desk in some boring law firm.

"I'll get him to agree," I say and finish my tea. "Thank you for hearing me out. It means a lot."

"I know the reason for your marriage wasn't exactly love, but I'm sure Davide wants you to be happy the same way I do. I bet if you ask very nicely, it won't be a problem."

"You're right." I get to my feet, sensing that the conversation is over and not wanting to take up more of her time. "I really appreciate the help."

"Stop over more often," she says as she walks me to the door. "I really mean it. You're the first daughter-in-law, which makes you kind of special. Elena says she's been getting to know you, and I'd like to as well."

"How about lunch tomorrow? Or the day after if you're busy?"

She beams at me. "Tomorrow it is. I'll see you here at noon."

I wave to her and hop down the steps. That went so much better than I ever could've expected. My experience with mafia families suggests the gender relationships are conservative and bordering on outdated, but my brothers spoil their wives, and it's not like I'm asking too much. Davide might not like it, but he'll allow it.

In a few weeks, I'll start building my own life here, and I might even find what I've been looking for all these years.