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“What’s it like being married?” one of the kids asks, her eyes wide with curiosity.
Weird.
Frustrating.
A master class in compromise.
“Like a roller coaster ride,” I say honestly, the words barely scratching the surface of what being married to Enzo is like.
It isn’t that I want to spread the news. Frankly, I’d be happy keeping it under lock and key, tucked away in a safe, and tossed into the middle of the ocean.
But the local media has other ideas. They swarmed like vultures, forcing Enzo to amp up security for the dance school and secure private transportation for all the kids.
And let’s not forget the full-time security detail shadowing our every move. Though it’s been nice to see regulars like Spike, who despite his terrifyingly pierced exterior, is really quite sweet.
At first, the parents were a little alarmed, but now they know that Spike wouldn’t hurt anyone. Unless, of course, someone touched a hair on any one of these kids’ heads. Then, he’d really fuck someone up.
For the past few weeks, revamping the dance school has consumed me. Every corner, every barre, and every mirror reflects the all-expenses-paid renovation, a lavish gift, courtesy of Enzo’s limitless resources.
“Where’s Zo?” Addie asks, her wide eyes brimming with curiosity.
Question of the month.
For whatever reason, my tiny dancers have adopted him, turning him into their unlikely mascot.
But despite the grandeur of our wedding and his bold declaration—that I’m claimed—Enzo has been gone, and I feel his absence everywhere.
At first, I thought him being distant would be a relief, a chance to breathe. But it’s not. It’s isolating and lonely.
Each night, he sends a text. Nothing sweet or sentimental. Just the most random photos of buildings and sunsets.
Are they places he’s at? Dozens of pics that all look like Italy. And the more I’m carried away under the subtle haze of his aftershave and the lingering scent of cigars hovering around our bed, I find myself missing him more than I’ll ever admit to his smug face.
So, I grab Titan and give the camera a show. Each and every time. I know, I know. Pathetic attempts to show him exactly what he’s missing, but fuck him, it feels better.
Then, just yesterday, a postcard arrived from Elafonisi Beach. Wish you were here was preprinted in big, bold letters across the front, with no return address on the back.
It’s a small consolation to know he actually listens when I speak, but damnit, I wanted to go to Elafonisi Beach.
He’s probably lounging in the sun, puffing on a cigar, his bare feet sinking into all the pink sand he can find. That’s my pink sand. My idea. Knowing he’s there, without me, is just cruel.
Suddenly, the door flies open, and Riley bursts into the classroom, red-eyed and urgent. “I need to talk to you.”
I jump to my feet and quickly throw on my playlist. Riley should be back in Italy. If some bastard broke her heart, I’ll sic the D’Angelos on him.
What’s the point of marrying into the mob if you can’t wield power against assholes?
I cue up a new viral song that’s PG enough for the kids, and they instantly jump around like it’s the dance party of the century. “I’ll be back,” I tell them, slipping out the door.
I barely make it into the hallway before Riley grabs my arm and drags me further down, her eyes darting around to make sure we’re alone. “You married him,” she cries, her voice a mix of shock and urgency.
For the record, I didn’t exactly have a choice. But that’s neither here nor there.
Rubbing her arms, I try to calm her down. “Yes. I married him. You were there.” I take a step back, confused. “Shouldn’t you be in Ita?—”
“He killed Da.” Her guttural words are an arrow to my heart, hitting me so hard I take a step back, my breath catching in my throat.
“Who did?” The question slips out, but I already know the answer. The truth is written in every line of her face, stark and undeniable.
