Married to the Mobster

by Leighton Greene

  But there’s also the fact that he’s been sneaking into my bed at night like I’m his piece of ass on the side instead of his ball and chain. I’ve become accustomed to the nightly shift on the bed, Luca sliding under the covers and pressing up against me silently, his body begging for me.

  Some nights I wonder what he’d do if I stayed turned away, didn’t arch back into him or open my legs for his hand to slide up my thighs. But I’d just be spiting myself if I rejected him. I still want him, even when he puts his hand over my mouth or swallows up my questions with kisses. I don’t try to talk anymore. It’s like he wants plausible deniability or something, and hearing my voice would make it real…would break the spell.

  The sex we have in those darkest hours of night is like nothing I’ve experienced before. Sometimes he’s rough, sometimes he’s gentle, but there’s always something underneath it, something unspoken that he’s determined will remain unspoken.

  It’s only those unspoken words that are keeping me here. I could disappear in this City because I know it as well as I know him.

  But I still have faith in what we could build together. I still have patience.

  For now.

  And now here we are today, which is a red-letter day because there’s a real live function to take up the morning: the Morelli Family Wives have organized a welcome brunch for me.

  “Most of them see each other regularly, almost every day sometimes,” Celia tells me on the way. Marco’s driving us, and we’re in the back seat of his car. “They meet at the hairdresser or get mani-pedis, or have brunch, or throw parties for their kids. I’m so busy, though, I don’t always have time to catch up, and I’m kind of unpopular right now after I had to miss two kiddie birthdays in a row. I was…busy.” She looks away as she says it, and I wonder.

  I know Celia loves kids. She’s forever talking about her sister’s kids and even taking care of them sometimes. But she and Frank have none of their own.

  She turns back with a bright smile. “But every now and then they have something special, like today. They wanted to welcome you, honey. So gird your loins.”

  It feels less like a welcome and more like running a gauntlet once we arrive the house where it’s being held. Mimosas flow and the Wives give me the eye in little groups, faking smiles when I catch them looking, or when they have to come up and chat to me. But soon enough they forget about me and fall into the real business of the day: gossiping about their home lives, about each other, and—most of all—about the Mistresses.

  The Mistresses are the most regular and common topic of conversation at these gatherings, according to Celia, who keeps up a running commentary about everyone I meet. She finds the whole thing as ridiculous as I do, or almost. But then, Frank worships the ground she walks on, and everyone knows it, so she doesn’t have much to add when the talk turns vicious and Mistresses are slandered.

  See, in this Famiglia, cheating men are never to blame. They’ve been led astray by whores, bitches, sluts. Never by their own dicks, and when I suggested that maybe their men need to keep it in their pants to one little group of Wives, it went down like a lead balloon.

  “Angie is Joey’s wife,” Celia whispered to me after we moved on hurriedly, like that explained it. She shepherded me over to the snack table, which no one was near.

  “So?”

  Celia’s eyes went round. “Joey Fuscone is…uh, you know what? Maybe you should ask Luca about him. We shouldn’t talk about their business.”

  But she spills all about where Joey’s getting his dick wet, and then she dishes about Joey’s uncle, Sam Fuscone as well. Apparently he has a regular thing with a woman out in Queens called Loretta, and Loretta’s got a few other fish on her hook, too.

  Ah, Celia’s a font of information. Lucky, since I couldn’t ask my husband about any of this even if I wanted to, because I never see him. But of course, I do know the names. Joey Fuscone is the jerk who punched me when Luca’s men abducted me all those months back. And Sam Fuscone’s the one who wanted me dead in the first place and started all this shit.

  Changed my life completely in just a few short months.

  Any slight regrets at suggesting to Angie Fuscone that maybe, just maybe, Joey’s an asshole, have been extinguished.

  At first, the Wives don’t quite know what to make of me, especially after my first mini-altercation with Angela Fuscone. But Celia’s delight in me and the way she shows me off like I’m a fun new accessory soon buys me a pass with the rest of them. Even Marie Fuscone, whose house we’re in, tells me privately that she’s “just fine with queers getting married,” and that she keeps telling Sam to “stop being such an old stick-in-the-mud about it.”

  For all Marie’s talk, I didn’t see her at the wedding. I didn’t see any of these wives, except Celia. But no, that’s not quite true—I do remember seeing that beautiful girl who’s currently hovering around the back of the room, not talking to anyone, looking like a puppy on the verge of tears.

  “Who’s that?”

  Celia looks over where I’m subtly pointing and makes a sympathetic expression. “Oh, that’s Connie. She’s Tino’s, um…companion.”

  “You’re telling me a dreaded Mistress has infiltrated this gathering?” I hiss dramatically.

  Celia giggles, but she looks nervously around to make sure I haven’t been overheard. “No, silly,” she whispers. “Tino isn’t married. He says he’ll never get married, but he sure treats his ladies like he’s married to them.”

  “Until he gets tired of them and picks up a younger model?” I guess.

  Celia says nothing in reply, just changes the subject, but I can see I’ve guessed right. And I can see that Connie isn’t popular with the Wives, even if she’s supposed to be an honorary spouse. No, top dog here is Marie Fuscone; even the other Capos’ wives give way to her. She’s Head Bitch in Charge.

  And that’s a problem, because I assume it reflects Sam Fuscone’s status as well. Marie’s the one who calls the shots over each and every other wife in the place, and it’s obvious that Connie is the runt of the litter despite being tied to the Alpha Wolf, Tino Morelli.

  But Marie’s position stems from fear rather than love. There are dark glances cast her way when she’s not looking, and I hear snatches of bitter conversations that would make Marie’s hair curl even tighter if she ever heard what some of these women were saying about her.

  I make my way boldly over to Connie, Celia trailing along behind me nervously. Tino’s treasured companion looks incredible in her tight, deep-red dress that sets off her black hair and dark eyes, plus a square-cut neckline that makes the most of her sizeable assets. “Prada?” I ask, smiling.

  She jumps like she’s not used to being spoken to, her mineral water sloshing around in the glass. “Oh!” she squeaks. “Yeah.” And then she smiles, and her whole face lights up with warmth. “It’s lovely to meet you, Finch. Um, hi Celia. You look lovely today.”

  “Thanks,” Celia says with a tight smile. Apparently talking to Connie is not the Done Thing.

  But I like to do my own thing.

  After a few minutes of chitchat with Connie, I can see why Tino likes her. She’s gorgeous, but she’s more than that—kind, funny, not exactly clever, but canny in that street-smart way. I can see, too, why the Wives dislike her, try to keep her stamped down under their ugly shoes. Connie has Tino wrapped around her little finger.

  By the time Celia and I are driven back home, I feel like I’ve got a brand-new ace up my sleeve. Even my Pops, who doesn’t like me much, recognized the help I could be in feeding information back—not that I have, and I certainly don’t intend to. But Luca doesn’t see me as a potential source.

  There are a whole set of shadow politics and rivalries going on among the Wives that I bet my butt Luca has no idea about. And even if he did, he’d dismiss it; just women’s chatter, right?

  But he’d be wrong. There’s information I found out today about his men that could be useful to him…

&nbs
p; If I choose to share it.

  Chapter Thirty

  LUCA

  It’s been a difficult few weeks.

  Between getting up early, staying out late, creeping into Finch’s bed in the middle of the night and then back to my own…well, I haven’t been getting much sleep. Worse, my conversation with Tino about my crew a week ago didn’t run to plan. Oh, he gave me permission to choose whoever I wanted, but with one big, fat, unwelcome caveat: Joey Fuscone had to be one of them.

  It’s the closest I’ve ever come to disrespecting my Don, and only Angelo, hovering nearby with his holstered guns on display, allowed me to keep my cool.

  I took a deep breath and got as far as “Sir, I can’t—” before Tino waved his hand.

  “Do not fight me on this, Luciano. Samuel Fuscone asked it of me the day I made him Underboss, and I could not refuse him his one request. So: Joseph will be part of your crew; Samuel will be happy with his position; and you will run a tight ship with these men of yours. Yes?”

  I struggled to keep my thoughts private, but Tino guessed them all the same.

  “You think I am doing these things to make your life difficult, Luciano?”

  “Of course not, Don Morelli.”

  His face darkened. “I’ve given you so much over these last few months. You begged for the life of the Irish boy, and I let him live. You wanted to move up in the Family, and I made you Capo. Now you come to me so late to talk about your crew, you toss your head when I ask you to do me one small favor? You should have been able to tell me which men you wanted as soon as I made you Capo, and then we would not be where we are.” Tino slapped his hand down on his desk. “What are you doing with yourself, wasting time in bed with your new husband, eh? What’s happened to that brain of yours?”

  I hated to admit it, but the old man was right. I’ve been distracted by Finch, which is why I’ve been limiting my contact with him. I should have had a crew list ready to go, I should have been thinking about all these things. I contemplated that, staring at my shoes on the richly-woven rug in Tino’s study, and then I apologized unreservedly.

  He waved it off. “I don’t want your sorries, I want your actions. Don’t disappoint me, Luciano. I see potential in you, but you squander it by thinking only one move ahead. When you were a child I told you about our forebears, those great Roman generals, emperors, princes. They were men who planned three, five, ten moves ahead; they had contingencies for every occasion. I stocked your library with their books for a reason. Sharpen your mind again, run your crew, and—” He leaned forward in his chair. “Don’t slip up again, or I might be forced to review this arrangement we have with the Donovans. If that kid is making you stupid—”

  “Not at all, Don Morelli,” I said smoothly.

  But my heart was just about choking me.

  I told Finch he would stay alive until the Boss ordered otherwise, but I never really thought Tino would order him killed. Not after saving him once; not after Donovan started playing the game again.

  But Tino is right. I need to plan for every contingency.

  So after our meeting concluded I took a walk in Central Park and I asked myself: what would I do if Tino ordered me to kill Finch?

  I’ve taken Tino’s advice and read again about the Caesars, the military commanders, the strategists of ancient times. And then I’ve looked through a range of other books—how to succeed in business, how to influence, how to negotiate.

  Most importantly, I gathered my new crew together and we’ve run a few jobs. Nothing too challenging, just to make sure the wheels turn as they’re supposed to. Frank is my operational lead, and he’s happy with that. The men are working well together, all except for Joey Fuscone, who clearly hates me even more now.

  I can’t blame him. He was expecting to get moved up to Capo himself when Sam made Underboss. But Joey’s still a grunt, still doing as he’s told, and even worse for him, I’m his superior. I’ll be keeping a close eye on him, and I’ll assume he feeds everything back to his uncle. I’ll also instruct my brand new 2IC to keep Joey blind.

  In fact, I’m trying to persuade Vince Catalano from another Morelli crew to be my 2IC right now in my study.

  The good thing about living in this townhouse is that I can invite people over without being worried what they’ll think of my place. Before Finch, which seems a million years ago now, I had a tiny one-bedroom place in a shitty part of town, but close enough to Manhattan that I could get there fast when I needed to run a job for Fuscone. I never let anyone come over, and not just for security reasons. The railroad apartment I made Finch stay in those first days we got back from the honeymoon was actually a step up for me, apart from the décor.

  But now I can greet my men from behind my desk in my own study, just like Tino does. I can bask in the look on Catalano’s face when he walks in the door, shown up by one of the guards. I want to poach Catalano from another crew, and I can see he’s tempted, but something’s holding him back.

  “I know what the problem is,” I tell him bluntly. “You think working my crew puts a target on your back. You also think people are gonna call you queer, because you work for one.”

  He shrugs.

  “Let me explain this in terms you’ll understand.” As Capo, I get to allocate what split my crew get from our jobs. Fuscone always kept the lion’s share for himself, of course, but I want to make sure my men know I’m looking out for them. When Catalano hears my proposal for his split, he’s suddenly a lot more receptive to my ideas.

  “Think it over tonight,” I say, walking him down the stairs. I clap his back and see him out, and when I turn back around I see Finch leaning over the balustrade at the top of the stairs, watching. Listening.

  Naked.

  I knew I heard quick footsteps along the hallway just before Catalano and I left the study.

  “You should be in bed,” I say, turning off the light in the entrance. I walk up the stairs towards him, and he stares at me the whole way up to the landing, like he’s challenging me. I stop in front of him and close my hand on his wrist, gently but with meaning. “You don’t eavesdrop on business, angel,” I tell him softly. “You hear me?”

  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.