Levi strokes his mustache. “Nothing like that,” he says. “I was with those bottle girls we met the other night, and I got carried away. That’s all.”
“Okay,” I reply. I’m watching him closely, wondering if he’s lying to me. But Levi has never lied to me, nor I to him. We are brothers in all but blood. “Shall we get this fucking charade started, then?”
Levi narrows his eyes. “Charade?” he asks in surprise. “This was your idea.”
“If I recall correctly,” I say, “it was yours.”
“The fake marriage, yes. But this whole dog and-pony show—that was all you, brother.”
“Whatever. Let’s just get it over with.”
I sit back in the chair, tossing the opener from one hand to another. Abstract art hangs on the walls, not that I’ve ever really looked at any of it. I let the decorator do what she wanted: sleek bar, black leather couches, ceiling-high windows that look out onto the city and the clouds.
My only stipulation was this wooden desk, because I like playing five-finger fillet. It keeps me sharp.
The first woman who comes in is named Samantha. She crosses, uncrosses, and recrosses her legs in what I suppose is meant to be a seductive way. She talks for a long time about how caring she is, in a clearly prepared speech, and references her three dogs—Gucci, Poochie, and Smoochie—at least five times apiece.
“So, I know what it is like to take care of wild things.” She flutters her eyelashes. I wonder if a previous version of me would want to fuck her, because the current version of me sure as fuck does not. Her eyes flash to the opener, which I’m flipping absentmindedly around my fingers. “Whoa, so you’re good with your hands. Good to know. Really good.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, laying it aside. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Wait—we’re done?”
I nod. “We are done. Levi, please show her out.”
Levi does as I ask and then returns to me, looking at me in that suspicious way again, as his fingers twitch toward his pocket where I’m guessing his cigarettes are. “What was wrong with her?” he asks when she’s gone.
“She was …” I trail off. How can I explain it to him in a way that will make sense?
Then I realize there’s an intrinsic problem with that notion, because it does not even make sense to me.
They are not her.
Who is Dani? Nobody, absolutely fucking nobody. Worse, she is somebody I would not be able to control, whose fire would give me problems.
Levi tilts his head to the side. “Well?”
I smile coldly. “Gucci, Poochie, and fucking Smoochie. Need I say more, really?”
That gets a laugh out of him. He goes to get the next one, a leggy brunette with a surgically-enhanced rack.
But it soon becomes clear that all of them have the same problem.
They are not Dani.
They don’t have any fire in them. They talk to me how they think I want them to talk to me, all submissive and coy, but I can tell it’s an act.
Perhaps the problem is that everything they do is an act. They think I’m one of those rich, absent-minded men who will pretend not to know that his woman is only with him for the money.
I’m not some old billionaire who needs to buy a trophy wife. But these women are just—vanilla, I suppose. They’re bland. I’m sure they are pleasant people. I am sure they’re as kind and generous and empathetic as they want me to believe they are, and every bit as gymnastic in bed as they seem eager to convey.
Or maybe they’re not. Maybe they’re mean and spiteful and would try to take everything I’ve worked for even if they’re not part of the life. Maybe they prefer missionary under the covers with the lights off, strictly for the purpose of procreation.
But convincing Carlo De Maggio that they’re capable of being a mafioso’s queen? No, they’re not capable of that.
Not like she could do.
Soon, we’re done with the show. The table has deep gouges in it from stab after stab after stab of my letter opener into the wooden surface.
Levi drops down opposite me. “Sorry, Angelo, but can I smoke?”
I wave a hand. “Fine. But open the window.”
He lights up and shakes his head slowly. “You didn’t like a single one, did you?”
“No.”
“We’ll find more,” he says. “There are four million women in this city. How hard can it be?”
I just nod, saying nothing. It’s true. There are four million women, and yet only one who is of any interest to me. I don’t like feeling this way—not in control, like Dani has made a home in my mind against my wishes.
I shake my head and take out my cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” Levi asks.
“Are you my fucking babysitter now?” I growl. “Giuseppe.”
“Boss?” Giuseppe answers. His voice is choked.
“Something is wrong,” I mutter.
“The baby, boss, our son—he’s, he’s in critical condition and … I’m gonna make the collections. I know I’m a bit late. I know—”
“Quiet,” I say. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll have your collections handled. That’s not why I’m calling. I just … I just wanted to check how things were. Never mind that, though. Be with your wife. She needs you.”
“I’ll make this up to the Family,” Giuseppe says. “Thank you, Angelo.”
“My thoughts are with your son,” I tell him. I hang up, gritting my teeth in disgust.
I grab the letter opener and stab it into the table so hard it stays there, the handle wobbling. “I’m going to the club. I have work to do. Accounts and things.”
Levi frowns. “You hate doing that shit,” he notes.
It’s true. But I need a distraction. Something so mind-numbing that it will anesthetize me. “Are you coming?”
He drags once more on his cigarette and climbs to his feet with a wry grin. “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world, fratello.”
We spend the rest of the day at the club. Levi smokes an ungodly number of cigarettes and paces around in between working sessions. I can tell that something is bothering him, but every time I broach the subject, he changes it. I assume it has something to do with a woman and just leave it alone.
We actually do get a lot of work done, too, so much that when Father calls and asks if he needs to come down to the club, I can tell him no.
“Oh,” is all he says before hanging up.
I wonder again if Mother’s absence has taken something from him, if all he has now is work.
What else would the old man do? Fish?
But then, that’s not even a joke. Father loves to fish, and to sketch, and to go to the opera with my mother on his arm. He owns several legitimate charities and businesses which he could devote himself to. Father could have a very full life, if he chose it.
Yet he clings to this one and leaves me holding onto his coattails for dear fucking life.
We work right through dinner and then into the night. Soon, the club is full. Levi stands at the window—smoking such that the room reeks—looking down at the dance floor.
“You want to go down there,” I note.