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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.
