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Corrado nods. “That’s fair. I won’t faint if you hurry up and close the wound so I can go to bed.”
“About that,” I say as I pull the needle through his flesh. Corrado did it seven times, so seven stitches, and I’m counting mine.
“About what?” he prompts.
“If you’re unconscious, is there someone I should call?”
He pauses before answering, “I’ll be fine.”
“Ah, my brother said that too. He said it with such conviction that I believed him, and then one day, everything went wrong.”
“He has a parole hearing coming up, no?” Corrado asks.
I nod. “How do you know about that?”
“Your mother told me.”
“When?”
“When I last spoke with her.”
Three more stitches to go. “When was that?”
“Yesterday.”
I groan. “How come you talk to her more than I do?”
“Because she said you call her all the time and bother her while she plays backgammon, whereas I wait for her to call me.”
“How much have you told her?”
“She knows we’re married.”
On the last stitch, I pull the thread a little harder than I should, and when he doesn’t react, I tug for good measure. Corrado’s not bothered (which is good, if annoying). I snip off the thread and wash my hands. “You should’ve let me talk to her first.”
“She asked me what my intentions are toward you.”
“You could’ve said you’re my boyfriend.”
“I could’ve.”
I wipe my hands on the towel. “Now she’ll tell my brother, and my brother will ask around, and the first thing he’ll find out is that you are wealthy and dangerous. He’ll find out you hang out with mobsters. Then he’ll call me and give me a rundown of how he doesn’t want me to end up like Mom. Pregnant in a ditch somewhere. When I tell him I won’t, he’ll ask me to divorce you because you’re bad for me. The worst, as you’ve said already.”
Corrado shrugs. “People have opinions. Nothing new there.”
“His opinion is important to me.”
He rips the gauze package and hands it to me so I can cover the exit wound.
Once done, I cross my arms over my chest, mad at him for not allowing me to speak with my mother before he intervened.
He jerks his head. “We’re going to bed. Come on.”
I huff. “For the record, I’m upset with how you delivered the news of our fakerriage to my mom.”
“Fakerriage,” Corrado repeats, sounding amused. “Is that what we’re calling it?” We cross the living space and enter a small hallway that ends with an office. “Wrong room,” he says.
“You’ve never been here before?”
