15. Emily

Simon comes storming into the house. I hear him stomping around downstairs, and I pull into myself even tighter, afraid to leave the room. I'm already pretty sure I made the biggest mistake of my life when his steps come closer and stop right outside my door.

"Emily," he says and knocks gently. I'm surprised—I expected him to kick it down and come storming in here like he owns the place. Because he does, and now he owns me too.

I sold myself to this man. That's the horrible, ugly truth, and I can tell myself that I did it for all the right reasons, but I still exchanged myself for money.

"What do you want?" I call out and peel myself off the bed. It really is a beautiful room—the sort of room I would've loved in another life. Lots of antiques, soft earth tones, original hard wood, and an obscenely comfortable bed.

The door opens and he looks inside. "Emily, I need you to get dressed."

I look down at myself and back up again. "I am dressed."

"Something nice." He comes into the room and rifles through the closet. There are clothes inside, but it's not my stuff. "Here, this will do." He waves a basic silk blouse in cream at me and a pair of black slacks.

"First, not my style. And second, whose is that, anyway?"

"It's yours. I figured out your measurements and had some things sent over in anticipation of you marrying me."

My eyebrows shoot up. "Okay, I have a lot of questions. Youfigured out my measurements?"

"I broke into your apartment, stole some of your clothes, and used them as a model." He waves a hand in the air as if he hadn't seriously violated my space and trust. "Honestly, none of this is relevant. We have a change of plans and I need you to get dressed."

"You can't just storm in here and drop a bomb like that and expect me not to react." I get to my feet as my anxiety slides toward anger. "You have to stop breaking into my apartment, Simon. I'm serious, and I can't believe I had to just say that."

"You live here now. It seems silly to break into my own house. Now please, get dressed." He lays the clothes out on the bed and nods his approval. "Do you have appropriate underwear?"

"Appropriate—?" I throw my hands up. "What is the matter with you?"

He touches a finger to his lips. "Something black and lacy would be fine."

"My underwear is entirely irrelevant to this situation," I say through my teeth. "Are you seriously going to be this controlling our entire relationship?"

"Most likely." He walks to one of the drawers and pulls it open. Inside is a beautiful display of jewelry filled with rings, earrings, necklaces, and bracelets. He selects a couple of simple pieces—a diamond ring, a pair of diamond studs—and lays them out. "This will do very nicely. Now, get dressed." He steps back, arms crossed, as if he expects me to strip down in front of him.

The goddamn audacity of this prick. If I weren't so upset at myself right now, I'd probably have a meltdown and start throwing things. Lucky for him, I'm too stunned to go right to violence.

"Listen to me, you megalomaniac. I am not going to let you dress me like a goddamn doll. I'm not your toy. I'm not your plaything. I'm your wife, and you'll treat me with a modicum of respect. You overgrown dickhead."

He looks amused at my tirade. "Are you done? Because I need to introduce you to my father in approximately ten minutes, and I'm very positive that'll go over better if you're wearing this—" He gestures at his ensemble. "Than if you're wearing that." He gestures at me.

I could scream.

Seriously, I could scream while also bashing his skull in with a hammer.

What kind of mafia guy has this much to say about a woman's clothing? Shouldn't he be too busy lifting weights and, like, splitting wood or doing something manly?

But the problem is he's totally right.

The clothes he picked out are understated but expensive, and I'm pretty sure they'd be really flattering, while I'm wearing faded old jeans and a ratty button-down. And since I have no other options?—

"I'm not putting this on because you told me to," I say through my teeth as I snatch the clothes off the bed. "I'm doing it because I don't have other options."

"I know," he says, sounding fucking smug. "You don't have to go hide, darling wife. We might as well get comfortable around each other."

I slam the door to the bathroom in his dickhead face.

* * *

He putshis hand on the small of my back as he steers me towards one of the nicest houses on the block. It's right in the middle of the oasis with big, peaked roofs and a dark green door. The exterior is pristine, and the landscaping looks like it's worked on daily. Several guards hang around, all of them armed to the teeth, though they seem friendly with Simon.

I'd wriggle away from my husband's touch except I'm officially on duty now and have to play along.

Which means I need to at least pretend like he doesn't piss me off.

I'm wearing the outfit he chose, and I have to admit I look really good. The blouse flatters my figure and the slacks fit my ass like a pair of cherub angels cupping the cheeks, and the jewelry he chose works really well with the whole ensemble.

My only rebellion is the underwear: I kept on my worn beige bra and tattered white panties.

We step in through the front door into a quiet, cool entryway. Paintings of Chicago's history line the walls, and a vase that looks like it's antique holds a spray of beautiful flowers. The place smells like perfume.

"Now, listen to me," Simon says, his mouth near my ear, his hand still on the small of my back. I shiver, closing my eyes and wishing I could jab my fist into his throat. "I'm not sure what my father knows about you yet. Let me do the talking and follow my lead."

"What's our story?" My stomach starts to twist into knotty nerves. I've been too busy feeling angry and sorry for myself, and I haven't had much time to really think about what my life is going to be like from now on.

"The truth." We climb the stairs as he talks. "I caught you in a compromised position. We married because you need my money and are willing to play the proper, obedient mafia wife, while I married you because I need a good pair of hips and a fresh womb to carry my children. It's a reasonable arrangement."

"You are incredibly repulsive," I say, shivering at the words fresh womb. "Seriously, that's going to work on your dad?"

"He'll understand." Simon's face is grave and there's something in his bearing that makes me pause. I want to be pissed that he's talking about me like some fancy baby factory, just a pussy and the potential for an heir, but he's not kidding around. He seems almost nervous. "We are about continuity for the Famiglia. He doesn't care whether we're in love or not, only that you'll be loyal and provide healthy babies, that's all."

I chew on my lip and look away. What sort of father doesn't care about his son's own happiness? That's what it sounds like, anyway, but this is a world that I wasn't born into and can't really understand, and none of that matters to me.

If Simon's Dad is a prick, that's his problem.

I'm here for a paycheck.

We reach an ornate office door. Simon knocks once and a voice from inside calls for us to enter. I look over my shoulder, wondering if there's still time to run, but Simon steers me past the threshold and then it's too late.

Simon's father sits behind a large wooden executive desk. He's reading a file of some sort, glasses perched on his nose, an expression of distaste on his face. He's handsome with silver-gray hair and a good jawline, and I can see a lot of Simon in him, or I guess it's the other way around.

The office itself is stacked with lacquered wood, old leather-bound books, filing cabinets, a small bar, and several couches and chairs around a fireplace. A thick rug sucks up our footfalls.

"Good, you're here," Simon's father says. He glares at the papers in front of him. "I'm guessing you haven't heard what your boys have been up to yet? Harassing a fucking Santoro-backed deli downtown, right in goddamn broad daylight. I'm reading the fucking report. It says right here—" He looks up, squints at Simon, then looks at me. Surprise registers in his expression, and suddenly I feel Simon stiffen next to me.

Something's wrong.

Silence follows. Simon's father tilts his head, making a face like he's trying to place me, and gestures in my direction like he's wondering what the fuck I'm doing here. And that's when I realize that Simon's father never knew about me at all. This meeting was about something else—and Simon must've been confused about it.

Simon recovers himself. He steps forward, practically dragging me along with him, and his fingers tighten against my back.

"Father, meet Emily." I give him my best smile, but I'm betting I look absolutely deranged right now. This is beyond uncomfortable. "Emily and I got married."

His father slowly lowers the papers and places them back on the desk. He takes off his glasses, rubs his face, and puts them back on before leaning forward on his elbows.

"I'm sorry, son, I think I misunderstood you. Did you just say that you married this girl?"

Oh, god. I expected this to be bad—but this is even worse than I imagined. His father is looking at me like I'm a pigeon that strutted in here with a half-eaten street hotdog in my mouth and he's thinking about stomping on me with his boot.

"I've been planning this for a while now," Simon says, sounding undaunted like this is going totally fine. But his grip on my back is still tight, the only sign that he's stressed. "I understand you don't know Emily, but she's a good match for me. We have an arrangement?—"

"An arrangement?" His father's eyebrows shoot up. "If you wanted an arrangement, there are half a dozen worthy, politically advantageous women you could've married, not some random girl you found on the street."

Simon's jaw works. "Emily is smart. She's capable. And best of all, she's loyal. We have an agreement, and before you say anything else, she is my wife. You've been saying that I'm not serious enough to step into a leadership role, but my relationship with Emily is meant to prove how wrong you are."

There's a beat, and then his father starts laughing. I cringe back, and it's obvious by the expression on Simon's face that this is going very, very badly.

"You think this shows you're serious?" his father roars, shaking his head. He wipes tears from his eyes. "My god, Simon. If you wanted to be serious, you could have married someone worthwhile, but instead you went ahead and did something silly and childish yet again. I've been saying for a long time that you're too impulsive, but this is too much."

Simon's fingers dig into the small of my back and I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from yelping in pain. But then he relaxes and steps forward, putting himself slightly in front of me, which is a relief. The way his father keeps looking over makes me want to melt into the floor.

"Your opinion is not the only one that matters," Simon says, keeping his tone level, but the threat is obvious even to me. I don't know what it means, but I know it's bad, because his father stops laughing. "The Famiglia needs continuity. That's what you've been saying. Emily will provide that continuity. If you wanted a politically motivated marriage then you could have talked to me about one, but you didn't. Emily is my choice. She is my decision, and I'm standing by my wife."

It shouldn't matter whether Simon stands up for me or not.

Our relationship is fake and he's doing this for his own personal benefit.

I like the way he says I'm standing by my wife and he doesn't back down from his father's condescension. I know this isn't about me, exactly, but I also feel like Simon could throw me under the bus right here and now and things might go better for him, but he doesn't.

His father's eyes roll from Simon over to me. I shrink back, feeling smaller than I've ever felt before, and I'm suddenly grateful that Simon picked out my clothes earlier. I would've looked like a pathetic street urchin in my normal stuff, and at least right now I blend in with the decor.

"Emily, would you please excuse my son and me? We need to have a conversation."

I don't move. Instead, I look at Simon, and he turns back to me. There's an interesting expression on his face; he seems almost grateful.

Like he's happy I didn't immediately do what his father wanted and looked to him for permission.

He leans forward and kisses my cheek. A strange thrill runs down my spine and into my core. This isn't really the time to be thinking about my husband's soft lips or what he could do with that mouth, but the image does flit through my stupid, horny brain anyway.

"It's okay," he says softly in my ear. "You can go. I'll handle this."

I hesitate though. I feel bad—I don't want to leave him alone. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Go ahead back to the house. I'll see you soon."

I touch his cheek. It surprises both of us, but he doesn't pull back from the gesture. I kiss his lips very gently, lingering a touch longer than I should. I tell myself that it's a show for his father. Maybe that's a little bit true.

"It was nice meeting you, Don Bianco," I say, gambling on the Don title a bit.

He cocks his head, and I can tell he's considering how to answer. Instead, he settles for a small nod. Neither polite nor impolite.

I turn and get the hell out of that office.