Page 85 of Married With Lies

I waited until Sadie was on a plane back to Colorado. It didn’t take much digging to discover that the guy was in the hole to a notorious Bronx sports bookie. Plus he was using company assets as leverage.

As luck would have it, that bookie happens to be under the Amato family umbrella. All it took was a couple of calls and Grant Gallant was summoned to a meeting. He was sweaty and nervous when he arrived. He soon got a whole lot more sweaty and nervous when he found himself chained to a table in the basement of a pizzeria while an electric drill hovered two inches from his forehead.

Rarely do I enjoy being the enforcer when sent out on one of Richie’s errands. It’s just part of the landscape. This was different. Anyone who causes Sadie pain deserves to suffer. Still, I never broke my promise to her. Grant Gallant left the room with all the parts he arrived with.

The dumbass must have assumed I was a paper tiger. After a lifetime of being drunk on his own high society status, he assumed he was untouchable.

Now he knows better.

Any sign that he has dared to bring his ugly face within a mile of Sadie will be met with swift punishment. If any dirty videos of my wife are ever seen again, I’ll treat it as a declaration of war. To add to the fun, I have some new video footage of my own, featuring Mr. Steakhouse shitting his pants and blubbering so hard he was choking on his own snot while begging for mercy. I’m keeping the video for my own satisfaction but if I ever feel the need to use it, viral social media humiliation will be the least of that fucker’s problems.

A few days later, I’m still feeling pretty good about reducing Sadie’s ex to a whimpering blob with a big shit stain on his backside as I drive out to Long Island. Richie is recovering from hernia surgery so he’s holding court at home this week.

As I coast through Richie’s neighborhood, I take a slight detour to pass right in front of the gates of the Wingate mansion. In the aftermath of the wedding fiasco, Sadie thought she’d hear from her family. Nothing that happened at the wedding was her fault. She covered up the hurt by cracking jokes when none of them reached out, not even to make sure she was okay.

I made sure she was okay. I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do right by her anyway.

Not the point, though. The point is the Wingate family is a collection of self-involved scumbags with their collective heads stuck up their waxed asses.

The warm June weather has helped thick strands of ivy snake across the fences and the view of the house is obscured. Anyway, no one is likely to be home in the middle of a weekday afternoon. Before I drive by, I flip the Wingate estate the bird just because it feels like the right thing to do.

Next door at Richie’s house, Vinny Tello is hanging around in the front courtyard and yakking on his phone. He gives me a curt nod and I ring the bell, which is answered immediately by Brisetti.

“Whatcha doin’?” he says with his mouth full. He waves a beefy hand holding half a meatball hero. “Ringin’ doorbells and shit. Get in here.”

He waddles down the hall without waiting for me to agree. Along the way, he drips tomato sauce on Aunt Donna’s floor.

The fellows who are sitting in the living room as we pass by are new faces. They pause their conversation and stare without saying hello.

I could swear the vibe in this place feels off, although I can’t put my finger on the reason. There’s nothing earth shattering about running into new recruits. This is just a typical meeting.

“Tray of sandwiches in the kitchen,” Brisetti says with a loud belch.

“I’m good,” I say and follow him to Richie’s office.

There’s no one sitting behind the mammoth desk. Franco sprawls in one of the leather chairs with his head back and his mouth open, having dozed off. He flinches when his leg gets kicked by Brisetti.

“Where’d you put the boss?” Brisetti says as he lowers his bulky body into a chair.

“Shitter.” Franco yawns and then notices my presence with a jerk of his head. “Where you been? Haven’t seen you around much.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I keep busy.”

Whatever I’ve been doing it’s none of Franco’s concern. I don’t answer to him.

My phone goes off in my pocket. Since Richie isn’t watching right now, I see no reason why I can’t back out of the room and check my messages. Besides, any amount of time spent solely in the company of Franco and Brisetti is destined to melt some IQ points. Right now they’re arguing about whether or not tomato sauce needs oregano to still be considered tomato sauce. Franco says it does. Brisetti says it doesn’t. Compelling stuff.

There’s no one in the hallway when I lean against the wall and check my phone. The alert on my phone is a text from Sadie. At least three times a day she sends an update from the world of Bright Hearts Ranch. Sometimes she wants to introduce a newcomer to the ranch. Other times she wants to share a picture of an early summer sunset or let me know that the cowboy romance novel she’s reading reminds her of me and by the way, do I know how to lasso a horse?

Since we started this whole phony marriage arrangement I’ve read all of Sadie’s texts. I just didn’t usually answer them. That has changed. We talk every couple of days and our conversations are rarely short.

Sadie has got to be one of the most optimistic people on earth. Even when she gets internet infamous after puking at her sister’s wedding she manages to keep her chin up and finds a reason to laugh. Got to admire that kind of resilience.

I understand that I’m walking an edge here. Yet I can’t stop. Sadie and I made a deal. Nothing about that deal included two hour phone calls with a lot of flirty subtext that I’m not allowed to act on. Even if all the fake marriage factors could be overlooked, Sadie’s life is on a Colorado ranch. While I’m stuck here in the Amato family crime web. There’s no way to change this.

In spite of it all, hearing from that girl is the best part of my day. Every single time.

This time Sadie sent a video of one of her daily tours of The Doghouse. She talks a mile a minute in between greeting the exuberant resident of each individual kennel. Her voice is sweet music but I’m impatient to see her face.

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