But, of course, Dani isn’t put off that easily. Instead of waiting in the lobby, she follows me to the parking lot. I give her a look, wondering if I should ask her to leave. She is my wife now, ostensibly, yes. But how close is too close? How much can she know? How much should she know?
I don’t have the answers to that yet. Certainly not in my current state. When we get to my car, though, I discover that it won’t matter anyways.
Something’s wrong.
The tires have been slashed and there’s a smear of crimson across the hood. I look down to see a valet lying on the ground, blood matting his hair from where he presumably fell against the car.
“Shit,” Dani gasps. She hurries over to the man. “Sir? Sir? Can you hear me?”
“Fuckin’ bitch,” someone else growls, sliding out of the shadows.
I must be drunker than I thought. I didn’t even spot them: four men, waiting at the edge of the parking lot. Their knives are glinting in the moonlight.
“Where are the keys, rich boy?” their ringleader snarls. He’s looks bedraggled, maybe even homeless. The blade he carries is rusted and dull, but still capable of doing the job he intends to do with it if I don’t comply. He takes a step forward as his friends close in around us. “A lot of fancy gadgets in that car. Don’t make me ask you for those keys again. Thought that prick would’ve had ’em.”
He didn’t. I always instruct valets to return my keys to me. Some might say that makes me paranoid. They don’t know what it’s like to be a man who lives a life where death by car-sabotage is a real possibility.
“Look at this little slut,” another snarls, nodding his greasy-haired head at Dani. “Wouldn’t mind a couple of minutes on her.”
Whatever they might’ve been expecting me to do, my next move catches these street rats by surprise. I walk right over to them, putting myself between Dani and them. She’s still knelt over, tending to the valet.
I walk even closer, so close now that he could easily lunge at me with the knife. I want him to. I want to snap his wrist and turn that rusty knife around to plunge deep into his own throat. I’m outnumbered, unarmed, but I still have every advantage at my disposal.
I am Angelo De Maggio.
These morons just need to be reminded of that.
“What’s the plan?” I ask coolly.
“The plan?” He’s looking at me oddly. Clearly, he thought I’d be scared of him. “Plan is to take that fancy gold watch and the keys to that trust-fund mobile. That’s the fucking plan.”
He waves the knife around. I just stare at him.
“Are you going to use that thing?” I ask politely.
“Angelo,” Dani whispers from behind me. “What are you doing?”
I growl wordlessly, ignoring her. I stare right into his eyes. That’s how you know what a man is really made of, what he’s capable of. This man, I see, is capable of severe violence, but only against the weak, the scared.
I am neither.
“Do something,” I taunt. “You’ve got the numbers. You’ve got the weapons. Fucking do something. Go on, ratto. Attack Angelo De Maggio and see where it gets you.”
I want to fight. I want to bleed. I want to feel the skin on my knuckles tearing and bloodying as I break this man’s face the way he deserves. But as soon as I drop my last name, a tremor moves through all the men.
“You’re …” He licks his lips. “Fuck off. You are not Angelo De Maggio.”
His friends are already backing off, leaving their strung-out ringleader standing there alone.
“Just go,” I sigh. “Before I do something I won’t even fucking regret in the slightest. Vigliacchi. Bulli.” Cowards. Bullies. “Go!”
They all scamper away. I watch them go, clenching my fists hard, knowing in some distant part of my mind that that was a stupid thing to do in front of Dani. But mostly I’m just annoyed at myself for dropping my name as a threat. I had to; if I didn’t, it would’ve descended into violence. Was that worth it? Was there another way? A better way?
I don’t know. Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe there was a better way for all of this to happen. Me, Dani, my father—all of us have sinned in our ways. I wonder how much is too much.
I turn to find Dani looking at the valet sprawled on the ground. “He needs help, Angelo,” she whispers.
She won’t look me in the eye.
After getting the valet the appropriate care and giving our statements to the police, we drive home in a Family car. Dani hardly says anything to me. But when I told the police that the goons ran away when they heard a car pulling in, Dani didn’t contradict me. So I’m guessing on some level, she isn’t completely freaked out, or at least not so much that she can’t keep her wits about her.
At the penthouse, we ride the elevator upstairs, again in silence. It’s only once we’re through the door that she spins on me.
“Who the fuck are you?” she snaps. “Hotshot playboy, rich guy—I get that. But who just ends a mugging by dropping their name?”
“Not the time, Dani,” I sigh, rubbing my temples.
“Is it ever the time?” she says, but her voice is softening, and when I grab us both a drink, she takes it with a silent nod. “Those men looked terrified, Angelo. How did they even know who you are? You said you’re a club owner.”
“I am a club owner,” I say.
“What else?”
I place my beer on the bar and walk around to her, standing close, feeling the heat of her. She bites her lip as she looks up at me. I can sense the lust in her, burning. It’s the same lust in me: alcohol, chemistry, the ache of near-violence.
“I am your husband,” I say. I reach out and stroke her hip. It’s a stupid, drunken answer, obvious for what it is—a deflection. She doesn’t take the bait.
“What sort of answer is that?” she snaps as she grabs my wrist and plucks it off of her. I think she’s going to push me away, but she doesn’t.
I look her dead in the eyes. “It is a lie, yes. But it is also as honest an answer as you are going to get tonight, Dani. Do not press farther.” I feel her grip on my wrist hesitate, then soften, and suddenly, I am running my fingertips underneath the hem of her skirt.
“You’re a liar, Angelo,” she whispers as I find the cleft of her hip and push aside her lacy underwear. “Don’t think this gets you off the hook.”
She presses her body against me, burying her face in my chest as she moans again. I know what that means: she wants to hide her face because then she doesn’t have to think about how she’s not confronting me, how she’s letting our lust take over. Like she’s not ashamed, but annoyed with herself. I lightly grab her hair, pull it, willing her to look at me.
She stares up with wide, gorgeous eyes. “Are you going to spank me again, playboy?” she whispers.
“No,” I growl. “Not tonight. I want to watch you ride me. I want to grab your tight hips and throw you up and down until we’re both coming so hard we bring this whole fucking building down with our moaning.”
She makes a whimpering noise. “Then you better get to the couch.”
I laugh quietly, despite my better instincts.