Page 14 of The Mafioso’s Bride

I look at her apron. “I’m averse to strong odors. Fish in the morning is difficult.”

“What can you eat?”

“Plain toast, but it needs to be crisp. Scrambled eggs if they're cooked until they're dry. Bacon if it isn't soft. Apples without the peel. Bananas, but they can't have brown spots. Plain oatmeal, if there are no lumps.”

Each item gives her another chance to frown, to roll her eyes, to glare at me for being so difficult. She does none of these things.

“My grandson has similar issues with food,” she says. “His eggs have to be dry too. Come into the kitchen. We'll make a new plate.”

My stomach cramps again. “You don't mind?”

“No. Would you prefer toast and bacon, or eggs?”

Two choices, and both are safe. “Toast and bacon, please.”

“Crisp bacon?” Susan asks.

“Yes.”

She gathers the croissant and untouched plate. I follow her through a swinging door into a large kitchen with white counters and rows of copper pans. Susan opens a bread box, takes out a loaf, and places two slices in the toaster.

She lays bacon in a clean pan rather than taking pieces leftover from the breakfast platter.

There is no laughter or lecture or ridicule. I may like living here. I don’t know yet, but at least I’ll like some things about it.

“Please don't tell Luca I needed a special breakfast.”

The toaster releases two crisp slices. Susan puts them on a clean plate, far from the bacon grease. “Mr. DiCenzo was the one who insisted I ask.”

Luca

The credit card statement fills the left side of my monitor.

Where are all Giada’s purchases?

I expected enormous deliveries of clothes, shoes, jewelry, handbags…hell, I know women who’d buy a Lamborghini on their husbands credit card. Women in our world treat marriage as an opportunity to establish rank. I wouldn't have objected. I told her to buy whatever she wants.

The total at the bottom of the statement is eighty-seven dollars and forty-three cents. I read the charges again. Two online novelty shops. Nothing from the boutiques, jewelers, or high-end department stores I expected.

There's a knock against the open office door. Giada stands there in gray trousers and a blue sweater with a cardboard box in her hands.

“Come in,” I say.

She stops beside my desk. Her attention lands on the statement. Her fingers press into the cardboard.

“You checked the card,” she says.

“I did.” I turn the monitor toward her. “You spent less than a hundred dollars.”

Her shoulders draw toward her ears. Her fingers press deeper into the cardboard. “You said I could buy whatever I wanted.”

“You can.”

“You said no limit, but I kept the receipts. I can return all of it.”

“Giada.” I wait until her eyes rise to my tie. “I'm not asking you to return anything. I expected a larger bill.”

“Why?” she asks.