He doesn’t even try to pull his wrist out of my grip, just opens his eyes wide like he’s totally innocent. “I would never, Luca. Only I thought maybe you should know…”
I wait, but he says nothing. “What is it?” I demand impatiently. I need sleep. He’s acting out, so I decide then and there I won’t visit him tonight. He needs to learn to stay out of my business.
“Vince Catalano and Sam Fuscone share a mistress.”
Shit. I understand the implications immediately, but... “How the hell would you know that? If you’re just making shit up—”
“I’m not making it up.” He does pull his wrist away then. “I’ve been trying to tell you, husband: maybe I don’t know anything about the Donovan family business, but I can be useful to you in other ways. When I went to brunch the other day with the Family Wives, I learned a lot. Including that tidbit I just shared.” He turns and saunters down the hallway, and I can’t take my eyes off his ass. “Maybe if you had dinner with me tomorrow, I could let you in on a few more secrets.”
Before I can go after him, make him tell me what he knows, he’s reached the master suite. And after he closes the door I hear for the first time the key turning in the lock, the bolt sliding home, a wordless rejection.
I hear my brother laughing in my head, his words coming back to me.
You got no idea, little bro, how hard your life’s gonna get now you have someone waiting for you at home.
I leave as early as usual the next morning, and it’s my firm intention to avoid Finch as much as possible, just like I’ve been doing lately—successfully, up until last night. But his words ring in my head as much as Frank’s laughter did when I was lying there trying to sleep. What else has he found out from these women?
One thing’s for sure, Vince Catalano is out of the question for my crew. I can’t chance him spilling secrets during pillow talk that might wind their way back to Fuscone. I text him and tell him I’ve had to reconsider percentages; it’s an easy way to get him to decline rather than having to get rid of him.
When the dinner hour rolls around, after I’ve met again with my crew to hear how thing are going, I decline the general call for after-work beers.
“I want to get back home,” I tell Frank quietly.
He waggles his eyebrows at me.
“What do I keep saying about respect?” I sigh, but there’s no heat behind it. He drives me home before heading back to the bar. “Make sure those morons don’t get too drunk, okay?” I remind him before I get out of the car.
“Sure thing, little bro.”
The night guards are there as usual, and I make sure to say hello and ask how they are before I go in. They chat back willingly enough.
See? I can be a fucking people person, I think as I hang up my jacket in the hallway. Marco is sitting in the living room, staring resolutely at a Yankees replay. When he sees me, he leaps up.
“Okay from here, boss?” he asks eagerly.
I wonder if Finch has been too much for him today. I’ve never seen Marco so happy to leave. “Finch been giving you problems?” I ask.
I’ve never seen Marco smirk before, and I won’t be in a hurry to see it again. “Not me, boss, no. Good luck.” He gives me a wave and bolts before I can ask him what he means, and I lock the door behind him.
“I’m in here, husband,” Finch shouts, and I follow his voice and my nose into the kitchen. Something smells good.
Something also looks good. I’m greeted by Finch’s bare ass as he stands at the stove, stirring sauce in a pot.
He turns and assesses me coolly. There’s a small part of me that’s thankful his junk is covered by the apron tied around his waist. A larger part of me wants to rip it off, push him over the counter and make him squirm for me.
The rest of me is just curious. “You always cook naked?”
“Not always. Just for Marco.”
I make an involuntary movement, and Finch catches it, raises an eyebrow.
“I’m kidding, husband,” he says, but his tone is still distant. “Still, he could’ve stayed. There’s enough here to feed an army.” He turns back to the stove and dumps pasta into another pot of boiling water.
I come around the kitchen island and look over his shoulder at the sauce.
“Puttanesca,” he says. “Since you’re treating me like your puttana every night.” He turns to grab some chopped herbs and adds them to the dish. “Get it?”
Treating him like my whore?
My first instinct is to deny it, but I pause, reflecting. “What do you mean?” I ask carefully.
He whirls around on me, his jaw tight with anger. “What the fuck do you think I mean?”
He’s pissing me off now. “I keep telling you, I’m working. So I’m sorry if I can’t play house with you, baby bird, but it really shouldn’t come as a surprise.”
He gives a furious chuckle. “Oh, believe me, you’ve lost any capacity you had to surprise me.”
I bite my tongue. I’m not going to get into an argument with him. “I’m here, aren’t I?” I say mildly. “Can I do anything?”
“Sure. Set the fucking table, if you can figure out the silverware.”
I grab out a handful of cutlery from the drawer and throw it on the small kitchen table, but then I catch myself. I’m not going to give into this petty bullshit. So I do what he
