It’s Angelo De Maggio’s world; we’re all just living in it.
When the car pulls up outside the church, with a sign posted out front—“Feed the Homeless”—I’m almost certain I’m dreaming. This is the sort of corny ploy one of Zora’s blind date setups would pull.
But Angelo doesn’t have to play those games anymore, surely? I walk into the church and look around, wondering what the punchline is, but there’s no punchline. I spot Angelo standing in the far corner, leaning against the wall as he talks to two homeless men. All three of them are laughing. Angelo sees me watching, and then gestures at me to come over. We meet in the middle of the room, embracing like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it is. It feels like we couldn’t do anything else.
“Think you’re a bit overdressed?” I tease, since he’s wearing a steel-grey suit, even here.
“Sempre,” someone says, stepping up behind Angelo. He’s a thin man with a wispy black mustache. He offers me his hand. “Levi Mancini. It is an absolute pleasure to meet you. My condolences, too.”
“Condolences?” I ask in confusion, shaking his hand.
“Being married to this man can’t be an easy burden to bear.”
I laugh. “That’s an understatement, but I appreciate your concern.”
Angelo grins tightly, and then says something quick in Italian, which I don’t catch. Levi grins. Seeing my quizzical look, he tells me. “My friend here is concerned about the fuss my mother is going to make over you,” he says. “She can be a bit—ah, let’s say overbearing.”
“Ah, speak of the devil,” Angelo says.
“I am sure you mean the angel!” the elderly lady cries as she strides towards us with so much enthusiasm she almost vibrates. “Ah, let me look at you! You must be Dani, yes? Bellissima! You are a picture, my dear! But you must talk sense to this one.” She wags her finger at Angelo, leaning on her silver-pommeled cane with her free hand. “Having a skulking, secret wedding without telling his family—tch! You will have to renew your vows so we can celebrate you properly.”
Angelo says nothing, leaving me hanging out to dry, like he’s enjoying watching me be at a loss for words. Finally, I mumble, “That’s not such a terrible idea.”
I see Angelo flinch. Uh-oh. Weakness spotted. Time to sink his battleship. Is the cocky playboy a little wary of familial attention?
“A large ceremony,” I continue, grinning innocently at Angelo as he flinches again. “All the friends and family, I’d say. Plus the out-of-towners. What do you think, mio marito?”
“And she speaks Italian!” Madolina beams. “Ah, Angelo, you have outdone yourself.”
“Sounds wonderful,” he says drily. I can feel his eyes skewering into me. I feel like giggling.
Biting my lip to stop from making a scene, I turn to Madolina. “Please, don’t let me be useless. How can I help?”
Madolina drags me over to the serving station, talking all the while. Most of what she says is just small talk—the weather, how the cold is hurting her hip—but then she says, “And that Angelo, oh, you’ve done well there. Such a good boy. He and Levi have been friends forever, you know. Angelo, he pays for all my diabetes treatments, all my medicine, all my hospital visits. We tell him, No, no, Angelo, we can do it. Let us pay! But will he? Ha! Stubborn is he, stubborn as a mule.”
As I take my place near the big metal vat of soup, I look at Angelo leaning down over a disabled homeless woman, sharing a smile. This man has so many sides to him, he’s like a Rubik’s Cube. Just when I think I’ve got all the pieces in place, he shifts on me.
“Madolina,” I say.
“Yes, dear?”
“What about the other side of Angelo’s business? Not the clubs.” I lower my voice, speaking as though I know everything, whatever there is to know. “You know, the other side? How do you feel about it?”
She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes widening. That’s when I know I’m not clutching at straws. But then she shakes her head. “I’m sorry, dear. My hearing isn’t what it used to be. It’s so loud in here! What did you say?”
For a second, I almost laugh in her face. Because she’s obviously playing me for a fool. We both know she heard exactly what I said. We both know this is some sort of silent plea to stop asking uncomfortable questions. Which just makes me even more suspicious.
But then … what if she really didn’t hear me? So I repeat the question loudly, watching her carefully.
This time, she just shakes her head shortly. “Oh, I don’t know, I have no idea,” she says vaguely. “I’m sorry, dear, would you mind dishing up some of that lovely pea soup for this gentleman here?”
“Of course,” I say. A dark, uneasy feeling takes up residence in my stomach.
As I work the serving station, I replay the non-conversation with Madolina over and over. It’s another little weight on the side of the balance that says Angelo does some very shady things. There’s this, the parking lot stare-down, the time he came back home with blood on his knuckles. And that weird shipment with King Kong written on the front.
But I made a deal: pretend to be his fake wife until—
Until whatever happens next.
“Um, sorry,” the next man in line says as he comes up to fill his plate. “This might sound weird, miss, but do you recognize me?”
I smile. “Of course I do. You live in my neighborhood.”
He nods, letting out a sigh of relief. He’s about forty but looks older, his hair dirty with hard living. But his eyes are bright and his smile is open and genuine. “You never know, do you? Some folks, they just see a bunch of dirty clothes and that’s it. I just wanted to say congratulations on the marriage. Angelo De Maggio, well, people might say some things about him, but all I know is a lot of us would go hungry if it weren’t for him.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my confusion levels getting even higher.
“This is his soup kitchen,” he explains simply.
Of course it is. I smile like I already know, and then excuse myself and go to the bathroom. I lock the door and sit on the toilet seat. It’s a surprisingly nice bathroom: ultra-clean with lots of space to walk around.
Some people might say some things about him. Like what? Like he’s a drug dealer?
Here’s a fact: I really, really like being with Angelo. Here’s another: I need him to make sure Wyatt can stay out of trouble long enough to graduate. One more: I agreed to this deal.
And, last but not least: I’m scared that I might’ve gotten fake-hitched to a high-powered criminal of some sort, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.
Knock-knock. “Dani?” Angelo says. “You in there?”
“No,” I say, trying for a laugh. It comes off sounding fake and pathetic.
He chuckles. “You’ve been gone for twenty minutes,” he says. “If it’s something—ah—indiscreet, then tell me and I’ll go. Just wanted to check that you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I just needed time.”
“For what?” he prompts. “If you’re not—you know—can you open the door?”