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“What are you thinking about?” I ask.
“Where I’ll fuck you. Here, on the couch, or in my bed?”
Oh God.
“Do you want to pick?” he asks.
Yes, and the answer is anywhere, but instead of sounding like a desperate duckling, I shake my head.
“No, what? You don’t want to pick, or you don’t want to fuck?”
The fact that his language is turning more raw tells me he’s losing control. I like this side of him, the raw one. I’m slowly meeting the real him, and not the version of him the rest of the world sees when they look at his tailored suit, his heavy gold and diamond-studded watch, and five-hundred-dollar haircut.
“No, I don’t want to pick,” I say, meaning having sex with him isn’t off the table.
On the bar, his phone rings, and I glance at the screen. Unknown number. From the way my brother conducted his business, I know these types of calls are important.
“You should probably take that,” I say.
Corrado rolls his shoulders, then reaches into his pocket. He pulls out an apartment key card, a key that looks like a car key, and a little gold box.
He points. “Wear the ring. Drive your car. I’ll meet you back here tonight.”
I nod, even though we should talk about sleeping arrangements. I can’t leave my mom alone, so I have to negotiate that with Corrado. He won’t be happy, but judging by the urgency of the phone that keeps ringing on the bar, now isn’t the time for me to bring this up.
“One more thing,” he says. “My wife, by pretense or not, is still mine, and I expect you to understand that men who disrespect the ring on your finger will meet my Walther, so if you want any of them to survive, fend them off yourself. This includes your biker friend Jesse.”
“How do you know about him?”
“I had you followed.” Before I can protest, he presses a finger over his lips. “Shhh. No talking back on that subject. Two weeks is a long time for my wife to roam around New York. I did what I had to do.”
Fine. I get it. “Jesse is family to me.” Even if we’re not related by blood.
“I like hearing that. Still, should you get lonely and want dick…” He pauses when my eyes widen. “All you have to do is crawl into my bed. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
He swipes the phone off the bar and readies to leave, then curses and yanks me to him by my hip. A hand fists my hair again, and Corrado slams his mouth down on mine, pushes his tongue inside, and starts plundering, taking his pleasure, bending me backward as he growls.
I’m reminded of Vikings. They come and go, leaving destroyed villages behind them. Knowingly, I signed up to become the village he conquers and leaves behind. I guess I can find solace in the fact I’ll get a job and an opportunity at a better life at the expense of a shredded heart.
24
THIS VS. THAT
MICHELA
The difference between what Corrado is offering and where I’ve lived most of my life hits me the moment I walk into my home. The spaciousness of the bright Manhattan apartment makes this cramped and dark one feel sad. The stale smell of alcohol adds another layer of misery, and now it just looks depressing. It’s taken me this many years to notice just how sad I feel upon entering the space.
Piles of laundry dumped on the couch near the freshly poured drink tell me Mom’s likely at the laundromat. Just as well. I’m not ready to tell her about Corrado, and even when I tell her, I won’t mention the marriage arrangement.
My room, still very much the same as it was when Gordon and I were teens sans the dumb posters of chicks in bathing suits sitting on Harleys, smells better than the rest of the house. That’s because I keep it closed, and Mom rarely comes here.
In fact, I can’t remember the last time she peeked in here. Which isn’t a bad thing since she’d drink even more if she saw all Gordon’s stuff. She misses him terribly. I miss him too, but I’m dealing with the hollow in my chest in my own way.
I need an overnight bag to pack a few things for when Corrado confronts me about not staying at the apartment. I can show him I’m partially there. He’ll disagree with my returning home at night, but if I explain the situation, he might understand.
It’s just that I dislike talking about my mom’s alcohol problem and our lack of means to deal with it and life in general. I’m not looking forward to the conversation, which will get even more heated if I don’t find a bag.
