Page 83 of Say You're My Wife

“Where were we?” I ask, knowing exactly where we left off. “The figure you’re seeking as retribution, you’re not going to get.”

Pascal snarls and starts cursing at me in Spanish.

Jose barks at him, and I shift my attention to Jose, since he’s the one in charge. The brothers might share power in the cartel, but I can tell Jose is the mastermind and Pascal is aggressive muscle, more like an enforcer than a deal breaker.

I continue, “You won’t get it because you were either cocky, desperate, or dumb when choosing the ports of entry into the US market. I think it’s desperate. You used the ports the Benvenuti family has controlled since before each of us was born. You didn’t pay tax, so they took it.”

Outside the Order, I defend my members. Inside, I deal with them. “I can’t reward your incompetence.” Can’t, not won’t. It makes me think of my wife. Briefly, only briefly, I allow an intrusive image of her angelic face into my head.

Pascal and Jose argue, with Pasal’s voice rising. He stands up and starts fidgeting with his belt buckle, which gives me the impression he wants to reach for his gun. Maybe I pushed him too far.

I could’ve chosen my words better. I could’ve delivered the bad news with more honey or some sugar, as my wife would say, but it’s late, and this is my seventh meeting today. I’m tired, my neck hurts, and I want nothing more than to lie down next to my wife after I eat her lasagna and her pussy. With something to look forward to after this, I say, “Settle down. I have a solution.”

“Mr. Mancini,” Pascal spits out, hands on his hips. “The only solution is your money.”

“Excellent. That is how I prefer to solve problems.”

Pascal pauses, then laughs and sits down. “We’re listening.”

“You can seize all of the Benvenutis’ legal assets, which bring in about fifteen and a half million a year right now. Within a few years, if you’re smart, you will figure out how to launder your cash through the assets. This is worth more than the cash-back option.” It’s the severance package the Order would’ve taken if we’d decided to sever ties with them.

The Benvenuti family stays in the Order. For now. It’s just that it requires a change in the leadership and retribution for making my family an unknowing launderer of cash we never vetted.

The brothers talk it over, and when they settle, I stand, stretch my back, and crack my neck again. I use my hands to twist, and whoa, it cracks at the spot I need it.

“We have a deal,” Jose says.

The men shake my hand, and finally, my shitty day is over.

“Stay for dinner, my friend.” Pascal rounds the table and pats my shoulder.

“I promised my wife I’d be home tonight.”

“Ahh, wife. Is this why you will not sample our sweet Maria?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer, mainly because he’s right. If I wanted to remain single and sample pussies around the world, I would have.

Needless to say, I part ways with my cartel associates on a good note. They send me off with a bottle of premium tequila and a souvenir for my wife. It’s a silk scarf from a local designer, a beautiful flower-and-skull design I think Michela will like.

On the flight back, I answer several messages and phone calls that I ought not to be taking this late at night. It’s almost eight when I land in New York and nearly nine when I’m taking the steps from the garage up to ground floor two at a time so I can get to the elevator faster and make it upstairs before my wife goes to bed.

Thinking about her lasagna makes my mouth water and my hungry belly growl.

The moment I enter the apartment, I know something’s not right. After Michela cooks, the subtle smell of food lingers in the air. I smell nothing. On top of that, everything is exactly as I left it this morning, and her shoes aren’t randomly discarded anywhere my eyes can see.

I check the stove for the lasagna and even the dishwasher in case she ate, then dumped the leftovers to make a point. It’s possible.

I’m not exactly an ideal husband. I’m the asshole who comes home, eats her food, and wants her to give me a neck rub. I’m also the asshole who interfered with her job today. A job she really enjoys.

She wouldn’t leave, would she?

I set the box with the scarf on the counter before strolling to her bedroom. The empty bed greets me.

“Michela?”

The bathroom door’s ajar, and I don’t think she’s there, but I check anyway.

Empty. Her makeup bag is gone, but she left her toothbrush.

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