9. Davide

My family's private plane lands at O'Hare and Emilio brings the car around. Bruno sits up front and I'm in the back with Stefania, and nobody's talking, even though I can tell my men are both happy to be home.

My new wife hasn't said much since I kissed her. There were a few seconds where my mouth was on hers, my tongue was against her tongue, and her lips tasted like absolute fucking heaven, and I didn't want that kiss to end. But it had to, and the moment the spell was broken, it was like reality reasserted itself and she remembered that she hates me.

Emilio guides the BMW through crowded streets and into one of the nicest sections of the city. I'm tempted to play tour guide, but I decide now isn't the time; Stefania will have a lot of shit to deal with very shortly and she doesn't need me piling more worthless information on top of it.

"Hold on, what's he doing?" she asks as Emilio turns very slowly the wrong way down a narrow, tree-lined one-way street. At the far end, the street is blocked off by enormous county road-work signs, the pavement torn up and a huge hole dug down toward the sewer system as if a pipe needs to be replaced.

"This is where we live," I tell her, and I glance up at the houses. Cameras picked us up and are busy letting my father know that we're here; more cameras tagged the car, the license plate, and took images of all our faces. Anyone that passes within ten feet of this block is photographed and taped for security reasons.

"Yeah, okay, but this is supposed to be a one-way street." She gawks around her, at the line of expensive vehicles parked against the curb, and the gorgeous old houses in immaculate condition. They look like Philly row homes except they aren't attached, and each has a little yard along with flowers in their window boxes, all thanks to my mother. The trees here are in pristine condition, and the landscaping is impeccably maintained. It's a gorgeous little oasis, and once we're past the first houses and deeper down the block, it's like the rest of the city no longer exists.

Of course, there are snipers on the roofs, a profusion of hidden security cameras, and drones that occasionally patrol the surrounding blocks, but she doesn't need to know about those things for now.

Emilio pulls the BMW into my usual spot in front of my house and kills the engine. I tell him and Bruno to go get the place prepped then to head home; we won't need them anymore.

I'm alone with Stefania. She's not moving toward the car door, and I'm in no hurry.

"You should know that my family owns every house on this block," I say, gesturing at the gorgeous, expensive buildings. Her eyes go wide in surprise.

"There must be twenty buildings," she says. "You own them all?"

"There are thirty-six, and yes, all of them. Anyone you see on the sidewalk is affiliated with the organization. We're very good at keeping outsiders away."

"You're in the middle of a city. How the hell do you do that?"

"Cars don't come down here because of the roadwork. Pedestrians don't cut through because of the very intimidating men sitting at both ends. Cops don't bother us because they're on our payroll. This is our block, our family home, and so long as you're on this street, you are perfectly safe."

She stares at me, then looks back outside. There's nobody around—but that's only temporary. The place will be swarming with people eager to see my new wife. It's going to be awful.

"And anywhere else?" she asks, her voice very soft.

"Anywhere else and you'll need me." I put a hand on her thigh. She looks back at me and her face hardens. I can tell she's ready to argue. "We should go inside before my parents descend. Do you want to see our room?"

Her eyebrows knit together. It'd be cute if she didn't look like she wanted to kick me in the crotch again. "Our room?"

"Come on, baby," I say and we finally get out of the car.

She reluctantly follows. My house is right in the middle of the southern side of the street with a red door and black shutters. Mom hates my color choices. "That house is empty right now," I say, pointing at the building to the left. "It's my little brother Angelo's, but he's in prison right now. That place is my sister Elena's, she's a couple years younger than me and a real pain in my ass. You'll like her."

I feel strangely nervous as I lead my wife inside. My place isn't what anyone would call traditional, but it fits with my specific personality quirks. She pauses on the threshold and stares at the enormous room in front of her—the downstairs is all one huge open floor plan. There are hardly any walls and no real divisions between the spaces—the kitchen flows into the living room which flows into the office I have set up in the corner—and it's only broken up by the bathroom and the stairs.

"This is…" She starts and laughs lightly. "I didn't take you as the modern kind of guy."

"This suits my tastes." I watch her as she moves around the downstairs, running her fingers over the backs of the couches, pausing in the kitchen to admire the fancy stove I never use. She opens the refrigerator, shakes her head when she sees there's only champagne and ketchup inside, and puts her hands on her hips when I demonstrate the equally empty pantry.

"You live like a bachelor," she says and that's clearly not a compliment, but it's not like I mind.

"I'm not home much. I prefer being outside when I can."

"Yeah?" Her eyebrows quirk. "You don't seem like the outdoors type."

"I love hiking," I say, deadpan.

She laughs and follows me upstairs. This time, she sucks in a surprised breath, when she finds the next level is exactly like the first.

It's one enormous room with the exception of a walk-in closet and the bathrooms. Otherwise, there are no bedrooms, no separations between anything, only my sleeping area to the right, more lounge space, exercise equipment, and another office section.

"Okay, now this is weird," she says, walking around very slowly. "I've heard of open floor plans for the downstairs, but this—" She stops and stares at where her bag's propped up against the bed. "Are you really serious about this whole sharing a bedroom thing?"

"I'm serious about making this marriage work, and sharing a bedroom is a very normal part of a relationship." I gesture past her at the rest of the house. "And there's also no other bed, let alone bedroom."

"Except we're not really in a relationship, right?" She's staring down at the floor, her face a cloudy mask of emotions. I can't tell if she's angry, sad, exhausted, or some combination. "We're doing this for our families, but that doesn't mean we need to actually go through the motions."

"I don't want to go through the motions," I say, approaching her slowly. I think of her legs spread, her mouth gagged with her panties, and the strangely protective and tender feelings I've been having for her. Those confusing damn emotions I don't know what to do with.

"Then what do you want? Because from my perspective, we're only married so that our families can have some weird business deal."

I'm seething because I don't know how to answer that. What do I want? There are a million things I want: more money, revenge against my enemies, enough guns to put a bullet in every bastard in this whole city. I want to calm the anxiety I feel rolling down my spine every time I step inside a house, and I want to quiet the screams I hear in my head every time I close my eyes.

"I want you to sleep in my bed," I tell her since that's about as simple as I can make things right now.

She looks over her shoulder. "Doesn't seem to be any other alternative unless I want to sleep on a weightlifting bench."

"It's not very comfortable and it smells like sweat. You're better off with me."

"We'll see about that," she mumbles, and I'm about to show her to the third floor—it's exactly like this one, but mostly used for storage—when I hear my mother's voice downstairs calling my name.

Which means chaos is coming.

Stefania looks confused and a little uncomfortable, and I gesture at the stairs.

"My mother," I explain. "And the rest of the family will be close behind. Ready to meet them?"

She laughs like I've lost my mind, but since I'm not kidding, her face slowly gets serious. "Can I get changed first?" she asks. She's in sweats and a baggy shirt. Comfortable travel clothing, but probably not what she pictured she'd be wearing when she meets her in-laws for the first time.

"Yes, but the longer you make them wait, the worse it'll be. I'll hold them off." I slip past her, and before I go downstairs, I look back at her and reach out to grab her waist. She's surprised when I lean forward and kiss her neck. "You'll be fine," I whisper in her ear.

Then she retreats into the bathroom, dragging her suitcase after her, and I head downstairs.

My mother is in the kitchen setting up the electric kettle and whistling to herself. Freddie Bianco is a fit woman in her sixties with short hair and an impeccable sense of style. I don't think I've ever seen her in anything but slacks and a silky blouse—what my older brother Simon refers to as the rich lady uniform.

"Where are you hiding her, darling?" Mom asks using a sing-song voice. She gives me her trademark smile, one of the warmest looks I've ever seen in my life, and I'm instantly put at ease. That's her super power—no matter who's around, she manages to make them feel comfortable.

I'm not worried about Stefania meeting Mom. That'll go just fine. It's everyone else I'm nervous for.

"We just got off a plane. She's getting changed before you animals paw at her like she's a pig in a petting zoo."

"Oh, you're too hard on us, dear." Mom puts out three mugs and drops a tea bag in each. "We're just excited to meet your new wife, that's all."

"Go easy on her. This is a lot."

"She's from a family like ours, isn't she?" Mother's eyebrows raise. "That means she's probably used to it."

I have to admit that she has a point, but I'm feeling strangely protective of my wife and don't want her getting overwhelmed in her very first hour in her new house. It's bad enough that my living arrangements are very unconventional, and she'll have to get used to how open everything is, but now she's getting thrown to the wolves.

Mom's not concerned though, and once the water's boiled and poured, Stefania appears in the kitchen doorway looking absolutely immaculate.

I have no idea how she did it, but she put on a pair of jeans and a simple button-down shirt with a chunky belt, and she somehow looks as if she stepped out of an Instagram model's most recent post. Her hair is thick and dark and hangs in waves around her shoulders, and even though she didn't have time to do anything with it, I swear it somehow shines brighter in the kitchen lights.

My mother rushes over to greet her. They hug, exchange cheek kisses, and Mom steers her over to the island where the tea's waiting, and proceeds to pepper her with questions. She asks about Stefania's family, about her parents and siblings, about her job at the law firm, and they immediately hit it off. Mom makes Stefania relax, and I'm grateful that she came over first, though I'm willing to bet Dad's keeping everyone else away so Mom can lay the groundwork.

And on cue, the rest of the animals come storming into my house without so much as knocking. Simon's first, my tall older brother with his square jaw and angry eyes, followed by Elena with her jangling bracelets and her shoulder-length hair. They greet Stefania happily, while Laura lurks on the edges of everything, my petite youngest sister decked out in black and looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.

Dad brings up the rear. He's in his sixties like Mom with salt-and-pepper hair and a hard stare that never fails to make people feel like he's peeling off their skin and inspecting their insides. Stefania's passed around to everyone and I step back away from the conversation to stand with Laura near the couches.

"You're married," she says, arms crossed over her chest. "Should I say congratulations?"

"Probably not, but I'm handling it."

"What's she like?" My sister glances up at me. "Are you going to kill her?"

I try not to smile. That's exactly the kind of question she'd ask. Laura's like me—there's something missing in her, or there's something that was taken away a long time ago. We understand each other better than anyone else in the family, and we've always been sort of outsiders together. Angelo, Simon, and Elena take after my parents; Laura and I are something else completely.

"No, I'm not going to kill her," I say very softly. "I think she's going to be useful."

"Useful?" Her eyebrows raise. "She's a mafia princess. Isn't she just some spoiled little brat?"

"I haven't decided yet, but I don't think so."

Laura snorts and shakes her head. "Everyone else will make nice and bend over backwards so she feels at home, but don't expect me to give a shit."

"I wouldn't dare, darling sister."

"As far as I'm concerned, she's a liability. Honestly, what was Dad thinking, making you get married?" A bit of worry slips into her tone. "You're okay, aren't you? With all this?"

"As okay as I can be." I stare at Stefania as she laughs at something Elena said. That sort of easy comfort is something I won't ever experience, not like that anyway, the way Stefania can slip into a new role and put on a smile, maybe even form real bonds with people she barely knows. That's never been for me.

"Good." She punches my arm. "I'm happy you're home."

"I can tell. You're practically beaming."

Her eyes roll. "Tell your wife I hope she gets hit by a car." She hesitates at the look I give her and sighs. "Okay, I hope she gets hit by a car and dies a quick, painless death. Happy?" She walks off, shaking her head like I'm the annoying one.

But that's just the way she is. She'll come around to Stefania eventually—though it might take a while. Probably a few years, if we're lucky.

I rejoin the others feeling stiff and uncomfortable, though I do my best to hide it. I don't like indoor crowds—outside, they don't bother me, but inside, a bunch of people shoved into one cramped space makes me feel small and trapped. It's something I've worked on and tried to deal with over the years, but it hasn't gone away no matter what I do, though I'm much better now than I was when I was younger. Even my own family makes me feel it, though—the crawling sensation on my skin, the heat on the back of my hand, the bars of my cage pressing down, forcing me into a stoop, forcing me into the fetal position, crushing me against the floor?—

"Davide?" Mom puts a hand on my shoulder and I realize people are staring. My heart's racing in my chest and sweat's beading down my back. I must've spaced out again.

"I'm okay." I pull away from her and force a smile on my face. The only way I can make everyone stop staring at me is if I pretend like everything's totally fine, and I've gotten good at doing that over the years. "Did Stefania tell you all about how she went to college?"

"Really, dear?" Mom turns away, intent on a new target. "Tell me all about it."

Stefania glances at me for a second longer and I glare back at her, almost daring her to say something. Instead, she talks about her time at the University of Pennsylvania. Elena's jealous—she always wanted to go to college but wasn't allowed—and Dad's impressed that Stefania graduated from such a good school.

Mom eventually pulls Elena and Stefania aside, pours them some wine, and the three of them retreat out into my back yard. I stay in the kitchen area with Simon and Dad, and drink a toast to my wife's good health and her reproductive viability.

"We're glad you're back," Dad says, his happy expression fading away, leaving behind Alessandro Bianco, the Don of the Bianco Famiglia, the man who raised me, my father and my boss. "The Santoros have been making noise again. They're unhappy about the docks situation, and one of our boats mysteriously sank three nights ago."

I grunt in reply and down my whiskey. "Let me guess. You think it was one of Luciano's men?"

"I need you to look into it. I don't care if you find the guy who actually did the job, but someone's got to pay dearly. Do you understand?"

I nod slowly. I understand very well. When Dad gives me a job, he knows exactly how I'm going to handle it.

With lots of blood and bullets.

"Here's to the Bianco Famiglia," Simon says, raising his glass.

I get a refill and drink to his toast.