Page 49 of The Mafioso’s Bride

“Then you have time to tell me many next facts.”

Her chin lifts toward me. “You should return home.”

“With you.” I move no closer.

“No.”

The answer empties my lungs. I keep my body where I placed it.

“Tell me what you need,” I say.

“I need you to accept the release.”

“What release?” I ask.

“From the marriage. Your attorneys can handle the legal process.”

“You want a divorce?” I ask.

“I don’t want one.”

My shoes plant against the stone floor. “Then we aren’t getting one.”

“What I want doesn’t change what is fair to you.”

“I determine what is fair to me.” My legs lock against the urge to stand.

“Not when the marriage began with an order.”

“Giada—” I stop when her palm rises.

“You didn’t choose me at the church.”

“I chose to obey,” I say.

“That is not the same.”

My throat burns around the admission. “No. It isn’t.”

She arranges her coat so its edges meet across her lap. “You can choose now.”

“I have.”

“You were assigned responsibility for me. You built routines out of duty. You protected me under Corsini rules. You had sex with me after I asked, and you wanted sex.”

“Stop.”

“Those facts are consistent with duty and physical desire. They are not proof that you want a life with me,” she says.

“You are my life.”

The coat bunches in her lap. “You don’t need to say that.”

“I needed to say it before today.”

“You should marry someone whole and normal. A wife who can attend a gala and remain in the room. A woman who doesn’t wear the same shirts or talk about one subject until people become bored. Someone who can give you children without worrying she will make them defective too.”

The bench scrapes the floor when I stand. Two visitors glance toward us. I don’t care. I face her, every plan and careful sentence gone.