Page 14 of The Marriage Contract

“Good or bad, I don’t care. I want to know she’s one of us.”

“You have some control over my life, Father. I’ve promised to do my best for the Family, but respectfully, you need to get your nose out of this. I’m going to get married, just like you wanted. The rest is up to me.”

“Don’t let things with the Romanos escalate,” he grumbles after a pause, “and if it does, handle it—preferably without my involvement.”

“I wouldn’t dream of involving you.”

“Then we have an agreement.”

I hang up the phone, taking a moment to compose myself. Usually, staying calm isn’t much of an issue. I can bury any feelings deep because I rarely have much to bury. I focus on the Family and what I must do on any given day. If I get freedom, I go to the gym, go for a drive, and maybe even try to get some fishing time. It is—itwas—a simple life, at least as much as a mafioso’s can be.

“Everything okay, Dario?” Paolo asks.

“Hmm,” I grunt.

Allessio, who’s known me longer, says, “Your old man giving you a hard time?”

“He thinks my uncharacteristic desire to tear Vincenzo’s head off had something to do with Elena.”

There’s a long pause as we drive across the city toward the poor side of town.

“Go on,” I snap. “Say it.”

“We didn’t say anything.”

“I know, but you want to. Allessio?”

“I was just thinking …” He looks at me in the rearview, chewing the inside of his cheek. I even make my friends afraid. Not seriously, not in a crippling way, but enough to make them cringe away from me just a little. “Is he wrong? You said you only got physical when he started talking about Elena.”

“He shouldn’t have brought a civilian into this,” I grit, “and he pissed me off using the foundation like that.”

They exchange a look. I know what they’re thinking. We’ve encountered far worse during our time in the Family, and I’ve never let my rage fly like that. If I snapped because of Elena, I should call off the sham marriage and find somebody else—somebody who won’t sass me and make me feel…something.

When we arrive at her apartment building, I leave the car and walk over to the other mafioso ride. “Rocco,” I say, nodding to the driver. “Do me a favor and ride with Paolo. I’m going to take my fiancée back to the townhouse myself. You’ll tail us on the way home.”

“Sure, boss,” he says, climbing from the car and tossing me the keys.

I walk to the apartment building and press down on her apartment’s buzzer. I, of course, know where she lives and where she was working before she took this gig. Her voice crackles over the old intercom. “Hello?”

“It’s me. Buzz me up.”

“Manners, Dario …”

Even now, she’s got me smirking. The door makes a mechanical noise and then clicks as it unlocks. I take the stairs two at a time, too full of frantic energy. When I knock on the apartment door, she opens up. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which is no big deal, nothing that should make a man’s mouth water. Nothing that should make a man consider tearing her shirt off to reveal what is hidden.

“This is my friend, Giulia,” Elena says, waving me inside.

A small woman with a bob haircut walks over, smiling awkwardly. “Hello, Mr. Moretti.”

“Hi,” I say, looking around the small apartment.

“I know it’s no townhouse,” Elena mutters.

Before I can reply, a voice rises, taut with anxiety. “Elena,” she calls. “Elena!”

“That’s Aunt Rosa,” Elena whispers. “Excuse me. Uh, make a drink or something if you want.”

“I can do that,” Giulia says. “Coffee?”

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