37. Stefania

Idon't see much of my husband over the next few days.

It's like living with a ghost. I wake up and his side of the bed looks like it was slept in, but the pillow's cold. I notice mugs in the dishwasher that aren't mine, and sometimes the shower's still wet when I go in to brush my teeth.

But he only comes home for a few hours at a time and only late at night after I've gone to sleep. I text and call him to make sure he's still alive, but his answers are brief and noncommittal. Whenever I ask when I'll see him next, he always has some excuse.

It's killing me. I hate sharing my life with a specter. I'm haunted by the memory of him, by the feeling of his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, by all these complicated feelings I have for him building in my stomach and in my chest with no outlet for any of them. I'm stuck and pent-up, and I'm terrified I'm going to break apart.

"That's the life of a mafia wife," Freddie says one afternoon while we're out shopping. About six soldiers are tailing us and trying to be discreet, but they're a bunch of mafia goons and not exactly skilled at blending in. "You'll get used to it eventually."

"I'm not sure I want to," I grumble, annoyed with myself for getting attached. "What I really want is for him to start coming home every once in a while."

"I can talk to him if you want." She beams at me. "Imagine how he'd feel. His own mother telling him to pay more attention to his wife. That'd shame him."

"No, please don't," I say with a laugh, even though I'm tempted to take her up on it. "He's dealing with a lot. I'm mostly just venting."

"I know, sweetie." She puts her hand on my arm. "And I'm here to listen whenever you need it. You've been so good to Davide, and I can tell—" But she stops herself and shakes her head, still smiling. "Well, I can tell you care, that's all."

I think about that moment a lot for the rest of the day. She was going to say something else and settled for you care, which is undeniably true. But what else can she see? How obvious have I been?

It's strange. I came into this marriage thinking I'd stumble through life, sharing a house and an existence with a man I don't know and don't like, only to find that I need him around more than I ever pictured I could. He's a strange, grumpy, brooding prick most of the time, but he lights up whenever I'm around, and that's addicting. I need that look from him. The smiles, the laughter. Whenever I get a glimpse past his carefully composed neutral stare, it's like seeing into a lush, verdant world beyond our own. I just keep thinking how I need more.

Until that night I'm getting ready for bed, resigned to another evening of reading and worrying, when the door to the house opens. I jump up and go downstairs, heart racing with worry, when I spot him standing in the kitchen.

He's leaning against the counter and trying to fill a glass of water with one hand. But it keeps shaking and the water's spilling out of the side. He's hunched over, his other hand pressed to his side.

"Davide?" I take a step in his direction. I'm not sure why I'm scared, but something's wrong. "Are you okay?"

He turns to me and the pain in his expression almost breaks my heart. "There you are," he says and tries to smile. "I didn't want to wake you up."

"Oh my god. You're hurt." I run to him. He shakes his head and tries to resist me, but I drag him to the couch and sit him down before I peel off his jacket. There's no blood, which is good, and he protests the whole time until I get his shirt unbuttoned and suck in a sharp gasp.

His entire side is covered in one big bruise.

"I'm fine," he says when I leap to my feet and start looking for my phone.

"You need a hospital. There could be internal bleeding. Davide, what happened?"

"I got in a fight." He grimaces. "You should see the other guys. No, seriously, they're both dead, but they hit pretty fucking hard. Dolcezza, sit down, I'm okay."

"You're so far from okay." I want to scream at him. I want to break down in heavy, ugly sobs. Why can't he see how fucked this is? First his father gets shot, and now he comes home looking like someone kicked him in the ribs over and over again. And for all I know, that's exactly what happened. "I can't do this, Davide. I can't see you like this."

It physically hurts me, knowing he's out there risking his life every night.

"Baby," he says quietly. "Sit back down."

"Not until you get in the car and let me drive you to a hospital."

He sighs and leans his head back. "No hospitals, but call Elena and tell her what's going on. She'll send the doctor over here, okay? Is that good enough?"

I clench my jaw. It's not good enough. None of this is good enough. But I turn away and find my phone before calling his sister. She doesn't seem surprised and promises to be over soon.

"Come here," he says when I'm off the phone. He winces as he draws me closer and drags me down onto the couch next to him, but I can't make myself relax against his body like I want to.

"I hate this," I whisper, not looking at him, blinking back tears. It's so frustrating and pathetic. "You might be fine tonight. You might be fine tomorrow. But how long until I'm a widow? And the fucked-up part is I'm just—" I bite down on my tongue to keep that part inside, because if I say it out loud, it'll only make both of our lives harder.

Because the fucked-up part is, I'm finally falling in love with him, only for him to start pulling away.

"This is what I have to do," he says and pulls me against him. I stare toward the far window, refusing to give him what he wants. "Baby, you know it's true. After what Santoro did to me, and after what he did to my father, I can't let it go. I have to hurt him. I don't know how I can wake up and look myself in the mirror if I don't. I have to be out there."

"It doesn't have to be you." I make a fist and press it into his muscular thigh. "Or at least you don't have to be the one getting into fights and pulling the trigger. Your family's been talking and they're not good at hiding it from me. Everyone says you're being reckless. Everyone says you're going too far, like you're obsessed. What happened to you, Davide? Do you want to get away from me that badly?"

"Baby," he says and his tone sounds hurt. "That's not it at all."

"Then stop trying to get yourself killed." I finally look at him and it breaks my heart. The pain in his expression mirrors my own. "I need you right here with me."

"I have to do this." He takes my hand in his own and holds it. "My whole life it's like I've been running from who I am, but now I have purpose. Now it's so obvious. I have to fight, baby, because that's the only way I can live with myself."

I want to scream at him. I want him to understand that he has more to live for now. What happened to him all those years ago doesn't have to define who he is now, not if he wants to change.

But the door opens and Elena comes rushing inside followed by a thin, older man wearing sweats and carrying a black bag, and I step away as the doctor takes over and checks Davide for serious injuries.

I pour a glass of wine for myself and for Elena. She accepts her drink with a resigned stare and I shake my head at the question in the tilt of her head.

"Your brother's going to get himself killed and there's nothing I can do to stop him."

She doesn't argue. We stand together and watch the doctor work, drinking our wine, and Davide's eyes never leave mine, but it's not enough.