“Why don’t you pick a wine, too?” he asks over his shoulder, nodding at the cellar door. When we moved in, Tino had set us up with the beginning of what Finch called a very passable wine collection.
“Look, I know what you’re trying to do,” I begin.
“Just get the wine,” he says. “Hurry up. Pasta’s just about done.”
I have no idea what to pick from the scores of bottles in the small cellar, except that it should probably be a red. Red wine with red sauce…right? Now I’m even questioning that. I grab the first red wine I see and by the time I come back up, Finch has served dinner. He pulls off the apron and throws it on the counter before sitting down at the table.
“Why are you naked?” I ask, sliding into my own seat.
“Because it’s the only way I can keep your attention. Here, pass it over.” I hand him the bottle and he opens it expertly, then pours a splash of wine into my glass. “Taste.”
This is beginning to get very irritating. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Open your mouth, take a sip.”
Perhaps he’s become bored. He’s bored, and he’s trying to provoke an argument just for something to do. I drink the mouthful, shrug, and put my glass out for more. “Tastes like wine to me,” I say, when it becomes obvious he’s waiting for something. “Can we get on with this?”
If possible, Finch’s face gets even stonier. “Sure. I don’t want to keep you from your oh-so-important business.”
I sit back with a sigh. “What do you want from me, Finch? I have to make sure we’re safe. That’s what I’m doing.”
He stabs his fork into the pasta. “Eat,” he mutters.
For an Irish kid, his pasta puttanesca is actually pretty good, but he just grunts when I tell him that. The table is covering his nudity but it’s hard not to stare at his pretty pink nipples.
Maybe he’s right, even if I hate to admit it. I do pay more attention to him when he’s naked. I try to focus on the food, but the heavy atmosphere gets to me in the end. “If you don’t want me in your bed, you only have to say so.”
His head whips up and he points his noodle-laden fork at me. “That right there. That’s the fucking problem. It’s not my bed. It’s our bed. Why have you been such an epic douchebag since we moved in here? And don’t feed me any more bullshit, I can’t take it,” he spits, as I start to speak. “Just tell me what the hell your problem is.”
Frank was right. I had no idea what marriage was going to be like. I consider lying, but why should I? If Finch wants to know, I’ll tell him. “Alright. You make me stupid. Being around you, I can’t concentrate on anything.”
He stares. “Welcome to the honeymoon phase of a marriage, you moron. It’s supposed to be that way.”
I don’t bring up the fact that we’ve hardly had a traditional courtship so far. Instead, I put aside my emotions and lay it out plain. “If my mind is on you, it’s not on business. If my mind’s not on business, something will get by me. If something gets by me, you’re dead.” I eat a few more mouthfuls while I let that reality settle in Finch’s brain.
He stares at his food for a while before he resumes eating, and finally I seem to have said something right, because he begins to thaw. “I went to a brunch with the Wives the other day,” he says at last, conversationally, like we’re any normal married couple catching up about what we’ve been doing.
“It’s nice that you’re making friends in the Family,” I say politely.
“Shut up and listen,” he replies, and I’m so taken aback that I actually do.
Chapter Thirty-One
FINCH
After I’ve spilled everything I learned from one little brunch with the Wives, I sit back and finish my glass of wine. I’d never tell Luca this, but the Zinfandel he picked from the cellar is actually a pretty good match for the food. I’m sure it was entirely accidental, though.
Luca is thinking. At first he was amused, even dismissive, but by the end of my story he was listening carefully, eyelids flickering like he was making computations behind his eyes.
At last, he lets out a long breath. “I never knew any of this.”
I wait for it.
“Thank you,” he says after a while. “This is…useful information.” At my look, he adds, “And I would never have heard any of it without you.”
“There we go,” I say. “You’re starting to get it. Now, why don’t you clear the table and I’ll serve up dessert?”
He does as he’s asked, taking the dishes to the sink while I rummage in the fridge. I turn back to him with a can of whipped cream and watch him try to keep his eyes above waist level.
“You’re going to sleep in our bed from now on,” I say, like I’m a hypnotist giving him orders.
“Am I?” But he smiles as he says it.
“Yes, you are. And you’re going to come home for dinner every night. If you wanna go out committing crimes after dinner, that’s fine. But you’ll be here every evening for a sit-down meal with me.” I walk up to him and press the can into his hand. “Understand?”
He presses his lips together.
“Especially this Friday night,” I go on. “Because we have guests coming over.”
“I didn’t tell you to invite anyone over for dinner,” he says, frowning even harder.
“I thought that’s what you wanted me to do. Look pretty, make friends, entertain, just like all the other wives. Right?”
“I don’t want to waste a night making small talk, Finch. Not to mention the fucking logistical nightmare it’d be to make sure they’re not wearing wires or carrying weapons or anything like that…No. Call it off.”
“Hm.
