Mother Mary, this place is bad.
I mean, it’s what I wanted, but Frank doesn’t exactly have a woman’s touch when it comes to picking a home. I almost regret not telling him to take Celia with him when he went hunting for it, but then I remind myself: it doesn’t matter what it looks like, it only matters if it’s useful.
“Yeah, I’ma go back to that Central Park West place,” Finch snorts, and picks up his bag.
“Frank, get out.”
Frank touches a finger to his forehead in farewell, and makes a face at me that Finch doesn’t see. I lock the door behind my brother, and turn back to my still-pissed-off husband.
“You try to keep me here and I’ll just fucking jump off the roof one night when you’re sleeping,” Finch snorts.
I walk right up to him, crowding him against the door Frank just walked out of, and put a hand around the back of his neck, stroking my thumb along his hairline. “You still don’t get it, baby bird? You’re a prisoner in this marriage, and this is your cage. But I’ll be in it with you. Perhaps you can take some cold comfort from that.”
He pulls away from me, but I put my arm up against the door so he can’t wriggle past. The problem with Finch is, I believe he would throw himself off the building just to spite me.
“Where do you propose we live?” I ask him.
He quits squirming at that. “Well, shit, that Central Park West place was okay,” he says. “Or NoHo is cool.”
“The Central Park West place is Tino Morelli’s property,” I tell him. “And I can’t afford NoHo. Not yet, anyway.” One day.
“Sure, but I can afford it,” he says belligerently.
I chuckle at that, but it’s out of pity. He really doesn’t get it yet. “No, angel, you can’t. Not anymore. Anything your daddy used to give you will go straight to Fuscone now, and it’s that cash that’s keeping you alive and Fuscone off our backs. For now. Not forever, but for now. So no more fancy living, angel. I’ll have to move up in the world first.”
“I won’t fucking live here,” he says darkly. “I’d rather die. Shit, Luca. I gave up the drugs, my friends, my whole fucking life, and now I have to live in a rat-infested shithole as well? Nuh-uh.”
Here’s the thing.
Tino offered to arrange a townhouse by the Park for the two of us as a wedding gift, but there’s no way in hell I’m living in a place financed by him. I respect my Boss, but I don’t trust him fully. Maybe the yacht was clear, but there’d be wires and cameras all over the townhouse. I gave Tino my thanks and I kissed his hand when he made the offer, that morning we left for the honeymoon, but I told him I’d have to think about it.
Besides, if I give in to Finch now, he’ll know he can wind me round his little finger whenever he wants.
“You can put up some chintz curtains,” I tell him, standing aside to wave down the hallway. “Make it homey.”
I realize I’ve gone too far when his gold-green eyes fill with tears. I figure at first it’s a tantrum: the rich bitch wants his own way, and he’ll cry and scream till he gets it. But Finch just grabs his suitcase and mutters, “Whatever,” before stalking down to the bedroom.
I hesitate, wondering how to handle this situation, and that’s not like me, not like the old Luca D’Amato. Usually I know my own mind. But this is tricky. I ponder another moment or two, and then I follow him.
The bedroom door is closed, and when I open it, Finch is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, his suitcase unopened on the floor next to him.
“Angel, I tried to tell you,” I sigh. “This marriage is not supposed to be fun. It’s supposed to be a punishment.”
He doesn’t look up; he just slumps over onto the bed—which Frank, I presume, has made up with sheets—and closes his eyes. It’s not late, but it’s not early, either, so I leave him there and hope he’ll get some sleep.
I don’t dare touch him, try to comfort him. It’ll only cloud my mind.
I set myself up in the living room on the couch with no springs in it, and I’m drowsing in front of late-night TV when I’m woken by something.
It’s a metal rattling getting louder and louder, and now free-wheeling curse words carry through the apartment. My husband has a mouth on him. I go through to the bedroom to see what the commotion is.
Just like I thought, Finch is standing at the window, shaking the bars. “Why the fuck are bars even on windows this high?” he hollers at me.
“I asked Frank to put them on.”
“Why?”
I lean against the door jamb, rubbing sleep out of my eye. “Because I know you, angel, just like you think you know me. Oh, I know all about you. Your depressive episodes, the PTSD, the suicide attempts—you think I’d leave you an easy option out the window? No way. You’re stuck with me till you get old and gray. But on the plus side, I’m sworn to protect you. That life with me? I guarantee it’ll be a long one.”
Finch just lays himself out on the bed again and goes back to sleep. I spend the whole night on the sofa. If he wants to try the front door, he’ll have to go past me, and I’m a light sleeper.
But nothing disturbs me in the night, and the next day I tell him Celia’s coming around to see him. He seems to like her, at least, and it does seem to lift the deep black mood to dark gray. “You’ll also meet your new bodyguard,” I throw out casually. But he doesn’t seem to care. I have work to get back to, thanks
