20. Simon

Iknock on Emily's bedroom door, checking my watch. "It's already past seven-thirty," I say and knock again. "You were supposed to be ready by?—"

She opens up and steps back, putting her hands on her hips, looking like she's ready to kick me straight in the throat.

All my complaining dies on my lips.

My god, I don't know how I got so lucky. Or maybe I got exceptionally unlucky, depending on how things go between us. I can't say for sure, but either way, my wife is absolutely stunning.

I mean beautiful. Beyond beautiful. She's alluring, fascinating, whatever adjective that means gorgeous. She's all of those and more.

"What?" she asks, her cheeks turning pink, her annoyed expression fading. "You're staring at me."

"I'm staring," I confirm, really unable to help myself.

"Could you please stop?"

I shake my head. She's wearing a black dress, relatively simple, about knee-length with a scoop neckline that shows just the top of her breasts. Heels make her look a couple inches taller. Her makeup is simple, and only a gold cross hangs at her neck, along with the earrings I gave her.

Stunning. Simple, unassuming, and absolutely incredible.

"If we didn't have somewhere to be, I'd rip that outfit off you," I say through my teeth.

Which makes her laugh. "First of all, I'd kick you in the dick if you tried. And second, you like the way I look too much to take it off."

"You're right. I'd leave the dress on as I fuck you."

Her cheeks are crimson as she pushes past me. Her hand lingers on my chest. "Easy, boy," she whispers. "And anyway, is this too much? You told me to look nice."

"It's perfect." I grab her wrist and hold it for a second before I slide my hand into hers. "You look perfect."

She seems surprised. Our fingers intertwined. She squeezes, and I squeeze back, and I'm tempted to smear her lipstick all over my mouth. I want to devour her, which is a problem, because I'm not supposed to touch her for another three months and three weeks—but who's counting?

"Come on. This is my first family dinner. You'd better stick by my side the whole time, okay?" She tugs me away and we walk together to the front door, still holding hands.

I like that she hasn't let go yet. "I promise, you'll be fine. Unless Laura corners you with a kitchen knife, then you should probably scream."

She gives me a look, eyebrows raised. "I can't tell if you're joking. Laura does seem a little, uh, you know?—"

"Terrifying?" I laugh and open the front door. "Don't worry about her. She'll mostly avoid you."

We walk through a cool summer evening to my parents' house. All the lights are on and Stefania is sitting on the front porch with Mom, both of them drinking prosecco. They greet us loudly as we get closer, and I assume that's not their first glass, which makes me smile. Davide's wife has integrated herself into our little clan, and a part of me hopes that Emily can do the same thing.

Fortunately, Mom can make anyone feel at home, and she immediately takes my wife from my arm and drags her away. Stefania follows, bantering away about how scary and intimidating family dinners can be, especially the first time, and I'm pretty sure she's not helping.

"Good luck with that," Elena says once I'm inside. Emily's stuck in the kitchen with Mom, Stefania, and Davide. "I'm pretty sure Stefania's going insane with excitement. She's so happy there's another wife in the family."

"Can't blame her," I admit. "She's been stuck with you and Laura. Speaking of which, where is our youngest sister?"

"Out back with Dad. They're smoking cigars." She rolls her eyes. "Matty's with them."

"Seriously? Matty's invited?" He's the head of oasis security, but it's unusual for him to get dragged into family gatherings.

"I think Dad wanted to talk business." She sighs and shakes her head. "Even on his night off, he's still working."

I head out back, feeling a pang of guilt for leaving Emily alone, which is exactly what I promised I wouldn't do, but she's fine. Mom's pestering her with questions while Stefania keeps plying her with drinks. I'll rescue her in a bit.

The back yard's dark with only strings of warm bulbs hanging from a lattice roof. Thick clouds of cigar smoke hang over the table, and Matty is laughing at something my father's saying. Dad's got his hand on the young soldier's shoulder, while Laura's looking bored.

Their conversation stops as I step out back. Dad looks over and his smile fades and his hand drops from Matty's shoulder. There's an awkward moment where nobody speaks, and Matty jumps to his feet, thanks my father for the cigar, and hurries off to the side gate. He disappears out front. Laura's eyes roll in my direction and she looks vaguely amused.

"It's probably a bad idea to distract the guards," I say to my father. It's the wrong opening; his expression darkens.

"Thank you for the advice, son, but I've been doing this for a long time. I know what I'm doing."

I grind my teeth and force myself to sit down at the table. Dad stares at me, saying nothing. His expression's closed and hard, and I know what he's thinking. We haven't spoken since my attack on the Santoro call center last night, but word in the Famiglia got back to me, and I know he's not happy.

"Are we going to ignore why you're angry with me all night?" I press him, too annoyed to let this go.

His lips curl. "Your mother doesn't want me talking business during family dinner."

"That's never stopped you before." I lean toward him, staring straight into his face. "Come on, Dad. Speak your mind."

He grunts and puffs his cigar before blowing smoke into the air. "You acted out of turn. You never should have engaged a Santoro operation like that, and you definitely should not have killed anyone. Do you have any idea how many angry calls I've had to deal with today?"

I shake my head. "Angry calls are nothing. I'm the one that put myself in danger."

"Because you wanted to. We both know you're itching to restart the war with Luciano. But if you'd think for one second?—"

"He's not going to let our feud go, Dad," I say, cutting him off. His nostrils flare—he's not used to someone speaking over him. "The man betrayed you. He kidnapped Davide and nearly killed him. He shot you and nearly killed you. At what point do you admit that we can't live in this city so long as he's around."

Dad's tone is ice and his eyes are hard. "I will handle Luciano."

"But you're not. You've done nothing but deescalate."

"We don't want war. There are other ways to dispose of him. If we're patient?—"

"The time for patience is over," I say, slamming my hand down on the table. "I'm not going to stop. We need a strong Don if we're going to survive."

Dad stares in surprise. I look back, heart racing, not sure where the hell that came from and already regretting it. The implication is clear: he's not strong enough. And while I believe that, and I know many other people in the Famiglia agree, it's the first time I've said it out loud.

Guilt hammers into my guts. I don't want to do this to my father. The Dad I grew up with was kind, loving, firm when he had to be, but always there for us. This man isn't him—it's like that bullet changed my father, made him bitter and reactive, and I'd give anything to have the old version of him back.

That won't happen.

Laura speaks up into the awkward silence.

"I think you two should duel," she says. And I genuinely don't know if she's kidding. "Pistols. Ten paces. Turn and shoot. Bang, bang." She shows teeth in what's nearly a smile.

The back door slides open. "Dinner's almost ready," Mom says in a sing-song voice. Her big smile falters when she spots me. "Oh, no, you two aren't starting this already, are you?"

"There's nothing to discuss," Dad says, pushing back from the table. He jabs his cigar out and leaves the husk behind.

Mom gives me a long stare and shakes her head as Dad limps inside. She takes his arm and leads him away.

I lean back and close my eyes, pissed at myself for losing control.

"Seriously," Laura says, puffing on her cigar. "Duels are severely underrated. You could do swords. Fight to first blood."

"Thanks for the advice," I say and head inside to find my wife.

Dinner is strained. Dad ignores me and is in a bad mood. Emily picks up on the discomfort and asks me what's going on, but I'm not ready to talk about it. At least she's fitting in with Stefania, Elena, and my mother really well—the three of them basically carry the entire conversation, since it's not like Davide or Laura are going to pick up the slack.

We leave around ten that night. Everyone disperses to their own homes. Emily hangs on my arm, smiling into the comfortable evening, and we ignore all the armed men hanging around in the shadows and on the nearby roofs.

"You and your father looked like you wanted to kill each other," she says as we walk up our front porch and pause in the darkness before the front door. It smells like pollen and old wood, and she clings against me, slightly unsteady, and practically glowing in that damn dress.

"We had a disagreement before dinner. It's fine. I'll handle it."

"I guess our marriage didn't fix anything." She leans into me and looks up at me through her lashes. "You're not going to divorce me, are you? Just because getting hitched to me isn't having the effect you wanted?"

I run a hand across her cheek and end with my fingers in her hair. She lets out a sharp breath as I pull it gently, tugging her chin back and turning to face her, pressing our bodies together. She's not drunk, but she's definitely buzzed, and I'm wondering how much of this is the alcohol.

"No, baby, I think I'm going to keep you around for a while."

She licks her lips. "Five years. No more. Remember?"

"I remember." I lean down and hesitate, thinking I'm going to kiss her on the cheek, but she doesn't pull away and her mouth parts slightly, showing teeth and the hint of a small, pink tongue.

I can't help myself. I crush my lips to hers, kissing her slow, and she stiffens in surprise for a beat before my tongue invades her, lapping her up, tasting her and drinking her in, my hand in her hair tightening further as I pull her harder into me.

She releases a whimper from deep in her chest and I'm dizzy with how badly I want her right now. All my pent-up anger, my frustration, it pales compared to the desire coursing down my spine. My cock's hard and my head's dizzy, and I don't know how I can stand this, living in my house with her for three months and three weeks, and not able to fuck her into submission.

I hold that kiss until her fingers dig into my chest, then reluctantly break it off.

She's breathing hard. Her lips are swollen and her cheeks are red. She looks like sex and sin, like heaven and hell, like all the mistakes I want to make wrapped up in a pretty black dress, with a cross nestled between her tits.

"Sleep in bed with me tonight," I whisper and regret it immediately. I shouldn't have pushed, and now she's pulling back slightly.

"Simon—" she starts, but I press my thumb against her mouth.

"I don't mean sex. I'd fuck you if you wanted me to, but that's not what I mean. I just want you in my bed tonight. I want you next to me. That's all."

She bites my thumb and I pull away. She's grinning as she shakes her head. "I don't think you have enough self-control."

"Emily," I say through my teeth.

"Sorry, husband, but you still have to wait." She slips out of my grasp and pushes open the front door. "Don't look at my ass when I walk upstairs. It'll just hurt you."

I let out a frustrated groan and do exactly that.

And she's right; it only makes me want her more.