12. Simon

The drive over is tense. She's on edge and I don't blame her. We're about to get married and we barely know anything about each other, and I decide maybe she'll relax if I break the ice a little bit.

"What's your favorite TV show?" I ask, watching the road.

"Uh, sorry, what?" She seems startled. "You're asking me about TV shows?"

"I figure if we're going to spend the rest of our lives together?—"

"Five years," she reminds me, sounding very stern.

"Right, five years. I figure we should see if we have anything in common. Favorite TV show?"

She looks back at me and I can tell she's reluctant. Maybe she thinks this would be better if we kept a professional distance, but after seeing that belly button ring and sharing that body-melting kiss, I don't think I can do anything professional with her anymore.

"It's hard to pick a favorite. But I've been watching Grey's Anatomy since I was a teenager, so probably that."

"That show's older than you are," I point out. "Seriously, what year were you born?"

"Thank you, I'm aware," she says, looking annoyed. "You asked my favorite and I answered. What are you into, The Sopranos?"

I wave a hand in the air. "I don't have time for television."

She groans. "Unbelievable."

"I'm kidding. I love The Wire. Basically, cop and crime shows are my thing."

"I shouldn't be surprised. You can relate to all the bad guys, right?"

I shrug and say nothing, because she's kind of right. TV dramatizes my world and makes it seem more exciting than it is, but every once in a while, they get something right. And sometimes, my world becomes more like TV.

I start peppering her with questions. Favorite song, favorite movie, favorite vacations. I ask her about high school, jobs she's worked, her relationship with her father, everything I can think of, jamming years' worth of dating into a few minutes. She gives up on asking anything in return, since I'm evasive and not really interested in talking about myself, and by the time I reach the entrance to the oasis, she seems much more relaxed, and she doesn't notice when I pull the wrong way down a one-way street, nodding at a few guards as I roll toward my customary parking space outside of my house.

"This is the place?" she asks, squinting out the window. "Where are we, anyway?"

"This is my family's block." I get out of the truck and go around to help her down.

"Sorry, what do you mean, your family's block?"

"We own all these houses." I gesture around myself at the single-family units, each with their own small, perfectly manicured lot. The far side of the street is blocked off with fake road work, the pavement ripped up and taped off, making it such that the only way in here is down the other end, past a bunch of signs screaming Do Not Enter and One Way Street. There are lots of big shade trees casting shadows across the pristine sidewalks, and though she probably can't see them right now, at least a dozen guards are patrolling the area and watching with sniper rifles on the rooftops.

"You have to be kidding me," she mutters, staring around her. "You said you were rich, but this is insane."

"This is the oasis," I say, guiding her up to my porch. "It's the only place my family feels safe. Right here, in the heart of Chicago, we have our own world. Only important members of our organization live here and on the neighboring blocks. When you're in the oasis, you don't have to worry about anything."

I open the door and guide her into the entryway. While some of my siblings decided to update their homes and modernize them, I chose to keep mine as original as possible. The dark floors gleam with polish, and the original Victorian detailing makes it look like we fell into a time vortex. Light casts colors through stained glass on the floor, and Emily looks around her like she can barely believe it. Art covers the walls and the furniture is all designer and utterly tasteful. I put a lot of effort into my home, and I'm proud of it.

My sister's voice calls from the kitchen. "Simon? Are you finally here? Late to your own damn wedding, I shouldn't be surprised." She comes around the corner and stops when she spots Emily.

The girls look at each other. I put a hand on the small of my future wife's back, feeling strangely possessive. I go through the introductions and Elena sweeps over to kiss Emily's cheek.

"It's nice to meet you," Emily says, looking uncomfortable again. I want the girl that briefly appeared in the truck, at ease and prepared to banter me back to hell, but I can tell she's crawling back into her shell.

"Simon told me all about you," Elena says, taking her arm. "I bet you're pretty nervous right now, but don't be. Things are going to be totally fine." She guides Emily back toward the kitchen and I trail after the pair, aware that I've been usurped.

Father O'Shea's sitting at the table in street clothes with steaming tea in his hands. We shake hands and do the introductions a second time, and the father gets right down to business. "First order of business is the prenuptial agreement," he says, squinting at the papers. He's an older man, in his mid-sixties, with thick black-rimmed glasses and bushy gray hair. "That's this one right here, if you want to take a look at it." He shows Emily some paperwork and she takes it with shaking hands.

I give Elena a discreet nod and she goes off to make Emily some tea. I walk my fiancée through the agreement, taking my time as I explain to her the clauses, but everything's there per our arrangement. When she's convinced that I didn't slip some poison pill in one of the paragraphs, we sign at the bottom.

"Wonderful, very good. I'm so happy to see two young people such as yourselves—" Father O'Shea starts but trails off at the look on my wife's face.

She seems like she's about to bolt. Elena puts the tea in front of her, but she doesn't touch it.

"Are you okay?" Elena asks, leaning down to put a hand on her arm. "Do you need a minute?"

"Yes," Emily says, jumping out of her chair, nearly knocking it back. "I mean, sorry, I just have to—uh, where's the bathroom?"

"Right over here." Elena walks her back the way we came, leaving me alone with the father. He shifts in his chair, looking like he also wants to bolt.

"She'll be fine," Elena says in a low tone when she comes back. I stand with her over near the stove while the father pretends like he went deaf. "Just getting cold feet, that's all. It'll be fine."

But it won't be fine, not if Emily decides she wants out. The prenup means nothing without the marriage paperwork, and there's still time for my jumpy fiancée to sprint out the front door and leap inside the first taxi she can find.

I'm not leaving anything to chance. I brush past Elena, mumbling about needing a second, and storm back to the bathroom. I knock once, and when I hear nothing, I use the key I keep on top of the frame to pop the knob open.

Emily's sitting on top of the toilet lid, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.

I take her in, saying nothing. She's not crying, just sitting there, not moving, and she doesn't seem surprised that I burst in on her. She's probably getting used to that already.

"Don't back out," I say, and when she still doesn't move, I slowly kneel down in front of her. I put my hands on her elbows and gently start to lift her. "Emily. Don't back out."

"Tell me why I shouldn't." She slumps slightly but glares at me. Her eyes are red, but there aren't any tears. "This is crazy. Your family owns a freaking city block and you didn't mention it."

"Forget about my family. Forget about everything but why you're here to begin with. It's for your father, right?" She nods, biting her lip. "You've worked ten times harder than anyone else ever would for their parent. You've already sacrificed more than I can imagine to help him. Now let me take care of you both. Marry me, Emily. Be my wife. Do this with me, and let me take on some of the burden." I lean closer, taking her hands in mine and holding them tight. "I need you."

She looks back at me, tongue running across her lips, and she shakes her head. "Why me?" she asks. "Because I need something from you?"

"Yes. And no." But I don't know why it has to be her anymore, and I wish I could explain it, but now that I've kissed her and brought her into my home, I don't want to marry someone else. I don't want to find another random woman, some gold digger only in this for her own selfish reasons.

I want Emily. I want a girl who gives a damn.

I want her.

"That's not a very clear answer." She smiles slightly.

"Can I admit something to you?" I lean closer, pitching my voice lower. "I'm also a little nervous."

Her eyes brighten. "Simon. Are you human?"

"Don't get the wrong idea, baby. I'm mostly nervous you're going to run screaming out of here and fuck this all up."

She sighs and rolls her eyes, but she's smiling a little bit now. I stand and guide her up with me. She's so fucking small, and I could wrap my arms around her and lift her into the air if I wanted. I could pull her to my chest and kiss her.

"How bad could it be?" she asks, and she's still holding my hands. She hasn't let them go. If anything, she's squeezing harder.

"That's what every little boy dreams of hearing his wife say on their wedding day."

Another smile, and this time a laugh. "I can do this. I can sign."

"Good girl." I brush a hair back from her face and feel a jolt in my stomach, the same sort of flip I felt when I kissed her yesterday, and I stay there inches from her wondering if I'm going to press my lips to hers for the second time, and she's staring back like she might let me, but I hear Father O'Shea laugh in the other room and that breaks the spell.

I lead Emily back to the kitchen, and it's all business. I keep the father on track, and the marriage is official ten minutes later. Elena cracks open champagne, and O'Shea gets the hell out of there as she pours three glasses.

"To a long, happy life," Elena says.

"To my wife," I say, and we all touch glasses to that.