Page 32 of Tainted Princess
Little did George know, the fringe was exactly where I thrived.
It was late afternoon when I exited the copy shop, having ordered exactly what I was hoping for, and settled in the back of the cab for my final ride with George, letting him direct me to a grocery store near the apartment. When I was snooping in Enzo’s place, I had noticed that his fridge contained nothing but beer and ketchup and his cupboards were even more dire. I may not be the wife he wanted, but the least I could do was provide a decent meal when he got home.
If he even came home.
Holy shit. This was all so messed up.
To say I was shocked to see only one bedroom in the place was an understatement. It’s not that I was a snob; far from it. I thought Enzo’s apartment was great, modern and functional, everything my father’s dusty old brownstone was not. It was the kind of place I would have picked for myself if I had been allowed to move out before my marriage.
But it wasn’t the size or style of the apartment that had me sweating. It was the fact that there was only one bed, and I was expected to share it with a man who was, essentially, a stranger.
I couldn’t seem to get a read on Enzo. One minute he was gruff, the next he was cocky, and then the next he seemed completely unsure of things. I think that was why he bailed so fast; he was just as overwhelmed as I was. After all, it’s not like this marriage was everything he had dreamed about either, I’m sure.
The setting sun glinted off the strangely proportioned glass of the condo building, Veer Towers, casting bright light back at me as George and I gathered the bags from his trunk and stood on the sidewalk.
“These are some swanky digs, dollface,” he said with a chuckle, tipping his head back to stare up at the yellow and black glass panels that decorate the outside of the twin buildings. “I knew you would be one of the good ones. I got a sense about that sort of thing, ya know?”
If only he knew.
“Thank you for everything today, George,” I said with a smile, handing over the cash to cover our day’s travel as well as a hefty tip.
He turned to me, his eyes crinkling as he grinned. “You call me anytime now, girlie,” he instructed, handing me his business card. “I’ll come for you if you need me, you can bet on that.” George tossed me one last wink before climbing back in his cab and driving away, and it occurred to me that I may have just made my first contact—and possibly friend— here in Las Vegas. My heart soared, imagining how proud my father would be watching me put all his lessons into practice.
But that good feeling was only a memory now, standing here between a scowling Arnold and a bouquet of flowers that were literally making me gag. Breathing deeply through my mouth, I blinked at Arnold, smiling my most needy smile and asked, “Do you think you would be able to call him? I seem to have misplaced my phone?” Lie. I actually had two of them in my purse right now. It was my husband’s phone number I didn’t have, but if I told Arnold that, he would start asking even more questions that I was not prepared to answer. “Please.”
Blink blink.
Arnold gave a sigh that indicated picking up the phone at this moment was the single most trying task he was going to have to accomplish today, but pick it up he did. I listened as he spoke to Enzo, gritting my teeth as he referred to me as awoman, when I had clearly indicated I was Enzo’s wife. But in the end, whatever Enzo said on the other end of the phone must have been good enough, because when Arnold hung up, he very begrudgingly escorted me to the elevators, not bothering to offer to carry one of my many grocery bags, and then down the hall to the apartment door. As soon as the door was open and I stepped inside, I turned around to thank him, but he was already striding back down the hallway, ignoring me and my words of gratitude.
Well, it was safe to say that Arnold was off my Christmas card list.
I put away the groceries I had purchased and glanced at the clock, not knowing for sure what time to expect Enzo, but letting my growling stomach dictate the fact that it was ready to start dinner. And if there was one aspect of the traditional expectations for a Mafia wife I liked, it was cooking.
Food had always been the easiest way for me to insert myself into the Family business meetings. There was always a steady stream of men in and out of the house, and by providing food and drinks for them, I could be around them without any of them really questioning my presence. My father used to do everything he could to conduct business in the kitchen, and eventually, the men seemed to forget that I was there.
And of course, the better my cooking, the more they wanted to have their meetings at our place, making my secret involvement much easier to orchestrate.
Tonight, I was planning on making one of my favorite simple dishes, fettuccine alfredo. It was quick and tasty, and I hoped it would help settle the mood between Enzo and me. I hated that all our interactions seemed to end in animosity, but I was going to do my best to be what he was expecting, while also being true to myself. Enzo and I had yet to have an actual conversation, and I hoped to change that tonight.
After digging around in his cabinets, I placed a large heavy pot and a wide frying pan on the gas stove, neither of which appeared to have been used before. The oven was separate from the cook top, placed at the end of the kitchen area and built high into the wall. I turned it on as well, getting it nice and hot, then sliding in a tray with a few seasoned chicken breasts on it. While I was prepared to eat just pasta and sauce (and a whole boat load of cheese) I wasn’t sure how Enzo would feel about a meat free meal. The men I had grown up with felt that no meal was complete without some sort of meat option, so I would be broiling some chicken breasts to go with our pasta tonight, and I hoped that would suffice.
Once the oven was heating, I chopped a couple of cloves of garlic, then added that to the frying pan with the butter, watching as it browned. While that was cooking, I salted the water in the pot and set it to boil. It took some digging, but I eventually located the cheese grater and proceeded to grate said boat load of parmesan cheese.
I added the dried pasta to the boiling water, lamenting the fact that I hadn’t had time to make my own. In my opinion, fresh pasta was always better, but this would do in a pinch. Once the cream was added to the garlic and butter, I mixed in about half the parmesan and stirred, watching all the cheese melt into a gooey yet delicious mess.
When the pasta was done, I drained it and mixed it into the sauce. I was just about to add the finishing touch of fresh chopped basil when I heard the door opening. I looked down the hall, trying to gauge which version of Enzo would be walking in tonight, the raging asshole or the cold asshole, but I was prepared to face just about anything.
Anything, that was, except the look of pure shock that I saw on his face. He was dressed differently, with a leather jacket zipped up to his neck, and his hair was extra messy, yet still appearing to have been artfully styled. His gray eyes, which I had previously seen often narrowed in suspicion, now appeared wide and guileless as they took in the kitchen. His gaze roamed over the simmering pan on the stove, the pile of cheese on the board beside me, and the fresh basil in my hand, before it stopped on me. He looked me up and down, his eyebrows almost at his hairline, before he seemed to recover himself. Striding down the long hall, Enzo positioned himself near the table and stood, just staring at me with a look of complete bewilderment on his handsome face.
“Hi,” I said a bit hesitantly. “I’m sorry about the mess.” I glanced around at the spatters of heavy cream on the backsplash a little sheepishly. “I hope you’re hungry. I made lots.” He just kept staring, and I was starting to think I had something on my face. Finally, the timer on the oven sounded, and he looked away from me to stare at it. Shaking off my own stupor, I grabbed the oven mitts and removed the tray of perfectly broiled chicken. I took out two plates and dished, placing a large portion of the sauced pasta on each, then slicing a chicken breast and adding it to the top of the pile. I finished the whole thing with more cheese and a pinch of the fresh basil.
When I turned from the counter with the plates in my hand, Enzo was still standing next to the dining table where I’d left him, his broad shoulders making the space between us feel small. Moving past him, I placed the plates down, then spun and walked to the fridge and removed the bottle of chardonnay I had chilling. I set it on the table between the plates and began to dig through the drawers for a corkscrew.
“I wasn’t sure what time to expect you back,” I said, suddenly tired of the silence in the room. “And I don’t actually know what you like to eat. Or drink for that matter.” I laughed quietly as I closed one drawer and opened another, unable to find what I was looking for. I was about to move to a third when suddenly he was behind me. I froze when Enzo placed his hand on my shoulder, gently drawing me back from the cabinetry, my back pressed against his front. As he stepped close, reaching into the very back of the drawer and withdrew the corkscrew, I could smell his sandalwood and smoke scent again, only this time there was the addition of leather from his jacket.
I tried to be discrete as I inhaled, the heady combination of smells making my eyes close for a second. My mind flashed back to our wedding night—was it really only last night? I shivered as I remembered his hands on my shoulders, the callouses rough as he dragged his palms down my arms. I tried not to remember the look in his eyes, the one that made me think he was about to kiss me.
Then I tried even harder not to remember my disappointment when he didn’t.
