Page 33 of Married With Lies

I’m a little stung by the command. “No, I’m happy here.”

He’s so rude. If he doesn’t like my company then he can be the one to go somewhere else. Although I suppose his options are limited. We’re supposed to be having honeymoon bliss in here and if his buddies spot him roaming around the casino there will be questions.

Cale sighs. He runs a hand through his black hair and makes it even more messy. Then he says something I never expected to hear from him. “Please do it.”

Maybe I’ve underestimated Cale’s emotional depth. This day must have been difficult for him too. We’re both stuck in this place with each other for tonight. If he needs some privacy then he can have it.

“Fine.” I stand and begin cleaning up.

“The staff can do that,” Cale says, a little too harshly. Apparently he can’t even wait ten seconds to get rid of me.

“Look,” I say as I stack my dirty dishes, “I totally get that this has been a stressful day and there’s more stress coming down the pipeline. But we’ve made it this far. If we’re going to see this through then the least we can do is be polite to each other.”

Cale doesn’t answer. He’s not even looking at me. He glowers out the window.

I set the dishes down and stalk over there to plant myself right in front of him. I snap my fingers two inches from his face.

His eyes veer back to focus on me and for a second I wonder if I’ve just made a grave mistake. The healthiest choice would probably be to escape to the bedroom and leave Cale to wrestle his inner demons alone.

But Cale abruptly captures my chin in his big palm and forces eye contact.

Part of me is afraid. A bigger part revels in the touch of his hand.

“Scraps,” he says, “you’d best scamper behind that bedroom door and lock it.”

“But I just-”

“Do it right fucking now.” He slowly slides his thumb over my lower lip and watches as I tremble. “Before I decide to stop you.”

His meaning is clear.

If I stay, he’ll kiss me.

Things won’t end there. I wouldn’t want them to.

This would cease being a mutual business arrangement and become something else. Something hot and dangerous and far messier.

That’s why I take Cale’s advice on our wedding night.

I break free and run to the bedroom as if I’m being chased. Maybe I am.

Without pausing to breathe, I flip the lock on the door.

8

CALE

As I roll my wedding ring around on my finger, I’m trying to pay attention as Gino Brisetti curses his way through a bawdy story about a set of supermodel twins, an inflatable raft and a New Orleans hotel room.

He’s a chronic bullshit artist but he’s also entertaining to listen to. Even if he wasn’t, I’d still be required to act interested out of respect. Brisetti has been a capo for Richie for nearly twenty years. There may have been a time when he had designs on inheriting the boss title but he lost a few steps after a boating accident off Montauk Point left him with serious burn scars and a bum hip.

Brisetti completes his punchline and erupts into wheezing laughter.

Patch Franco, another capo, swirls spaghetti around a fork. “You’ve been peddling that same tall tale for fifteen fucking years.” He shoves a mound of spaghetti into his mouth.

“Up yours, one-eyed little man,” Brisetti grumbles and cuts into a thick sausage.

The two of them might bicker like schoolyard boys but they’re pretty tight. Decades ago, Franco got busted back when he ran a numbers racket in Brooklyn as part of Brisetti’s crew. He served thirty months and never squealed no matter how many threats and incentives the feds battered him with. He lost his right eye in a prison fight with two gang members. That’s the kind of allegiance money can’t buy and it’s the reason Franco gets a seat at this table next to Brisetti and across from the boss.

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