Chapter 11: Kira - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

Days slip by in no time at all, and the city changes around me. The trees have turned a burning orange and red, the air now carrying a crisp bite. I always pay attention to those little things so I can describe them to Mom when I visit her.

I take a picture of the trees next to the store I’m standing in front of. Said store is all glass and brass. Everything looks so expensive and slightly daunting.

“Hey,” Carly calls, snapping her fingers to get my attention. “Don’t look so spooked. It’s just a shop.”

I huff. “Just a shop? I’ve walked by this place before, Carly. Everything in there—”

She cuts me off by clicking her tongue in annoyance. “Nope, none of that. Domenico had the shop closed down for us, and made sure there are only women in there because he and Gio just have to control everything.”

“What’s your point?” I gulp.

“My point is that if we don’t go in there, it’s a waste of the money he’s already paid.” She grins wickedly at me. “And since your husband is in charge of mine, I’m not going to allow you to anger him.”

She’s joking, right? God, I hope she is.

Instead of arguing with her, I get out of the car when Vinny gives us both the go-ahead. Wasting no time, Carly marches up to the door and pushes it open with all the confidence of someone who’s used to shopping in a place like this.

Following her, I hold my worn handbag in both hands, the way a kid holds a lunch box on the first day of school. Vinny quietly slips in behind us. The man’s a master of being there without drawing attention to himself.

Inside, the boutique is all polished cream marble and wide-spaced racks. Silk dresses hang like ghosts, and there’s a single white orchid on every glass display case, their petals perfect and unnatural in a way that makes me wonder if they’re real.

“I’m here with Mrs. DeLuca,” Carly says to the woman behind the counter, and the name hits the room like a thrown rock.

Four women appear from nowhere. Two flank us immediately, their smiles practiced and warm. A third disappears through a door at the back, and the fourth materializes with a silver tray holding two flutes of something pale and bubbling.

“Champagne?” she offers.

I shake my head. “Just water, please.”

Carly takes a flute with a nod. She sips it while scanning the store, one hand on her hip, looking like she belongs here in a way I never will. She’s wearing a cream silk blouse tucked into slim black pants, and her blonde hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders.

I clutch my bag tighter and think about the black credit card Domenico handed me before we left. “Get whatever you want, Kira. There’s no limit.”

Domenico has mentioned a few times that I was going shopping, but I didn’t know it kept getting pushed back because Carly had gone home to Phoenix to look after her dad when he got sick.

According to her, he’s better now, and she definitely isn’t doing this out of obligation. Carly loves shopping.

The attendants have already started pulling things. But none of the items look like something I’d feel good wearing. At least not at a glance. Maybe I’ll change my mind when I try it on.

“That’s nice,” I say when one of the women holds up a yellow blazer. “I’ll try it.”

The attendant beams. She hands it to a colleague who adds it to the growing pile on the counter.

Another woman holds up a silk shell in pale blue. “This would work beautifully with your coloring.”

“Okay,” I agree.

“And these trousers…”

“Yes, those are nice,” I reply automatically.

Carly watches this while sipping her champagne, her eyes moving from me to the attendants and back again. Then she sets her glass down on a nearby shelf and walks over to the rack where one of the women has set aside a dove-gray sheath dress.

She holds it up, turns it so the light catches the fabric, and looks at me. “Do you actually like this,” she asks, her voice flat and direct, “or are you just being agreeable?”

The question lands like a slap. I open my mouth. Close it. The attendants have gone still, their smiles frozen in place.

“I don’t know,” I admit.

Carly hands the dress back to the nearest attendant without ceremony. “We’re starting over,” she announces. “Mrs. DeLuca picks first. You may suggest second.” She turns to me. “Go on. Pick something you want to try.”

I stare at her. “I don’t—”

“You don’t have to buy it. Just pick something you think is pretty.”

The rack stretches away from me, a wall of fabric in every color I’ve never worn. I move down it slowly, my fingers brushing the hangers. Wool, silk, cashmere. Things I’ve only seen through store windows.

My hand stops on a deep green blouse. The silk is heavy and cool against my skin, the color so rich it’s almost black in the folds. I hold it for a second too long, then let my fingers slide past it.

“That one,” Carly says. She reaches past me and pulls the green blouse off the rack. “You stopped.”

I take it from her. The weight of the silk feels different in my hands now that I’ve chosen it.

“I like green,” I say. It comes out quietly, like a confession.

“Good.” Carly smiles. It’s not the practiced beam the attendants are giving us. It’s real, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “What else?”

I move through the store again, slower this time. My shoulders feel different. Less hunched. When an attendant holds up an ivory blazer and tells me it would be perfect for evenings, I look at it for a long moment.

“No,” I say. My voice is firmer than I expect. “I don’t think so.” I take it from her and place it back on the rack myself, smoothing the sleeve as I let go.

The attendant blinks. “Of course, Mrs. DeLuca. Perhaps something in a darker shade?”

“Maybe.”

By the time we’re ready for the fitting room, I have a stack of clothes in my arms that I actually chose. Not all of them—Carly still pulled things, and the attendants made suggestions that were actually good—but enough that when I look down at the pile, I can imagine myself wearing the clothes.

The green blouse sits on top. I run my thumb along the collar as we follow the attendant to the back of the store, and something warm settles in my chest, small and unfamiliar. It’s the feeling of wanting something and taking it.

The fitting room is bigger than my old bedroom. Three mirrors curve around a plush velvet bench, and the hooks along the wall are already loaded with clothes the attendants pulled, each hanger spaced exactly two inches apart.

The curtain is heavy silk, not the thin polyester I’m used to, and it falls closed behind us with a sound like water. Carly sits on the bench and crosses her legs. She’s pulled out her phone, but she’s not looking at it. Her eyes are on me.

I start with the navy wrap dress. It’s the safest thing here—classic, well-cut, the kind of dress that says I belong without actually saying anything at all. I step into it, tie the belt at my waist, and turn to face the mirror.

It fits perfectly. The fabric drapes exactly where it’s supposed to, the color does something flattering to my skin.

“It fits,” I say. My voice comes out flat.

Carly tilts her head. “But do you feel anything in it?”

I look at myself for a beat longer. The woman in the mirror is polished and anonymous. I could be anyone.

I remove it from my body and hang the dress back up without another word.

Next are the charcoal trousers and the silk blouse I chose. The trousers are fitted through the hips and taper at the ankle, and the blouse is the same deep green I paused on earlier. I button it slowly, tuck it in, and smooth my hands down my hips.

In the mirror, my chin comes up slightly. Something in my posture has changed—my shoulders are back, my spine straighter. I look like myself, but a version of myself I’ve never met.

“There it is,” Carly says excitedly.

I almost smile, the corner of my mouth twitching before I can stop it. “I love it,” I say.

“Keep it.”

The third thing I try is the impulse grab—a deep plum wrap dress with a neckline that dips lower than anything I’ve ever owned and a back that stops just above my waist. I wasn’t sure about it when I pulled it off the rack. I’m not sure about it now, standing in the fitting room with the silk cool against my skin.

Carly whoops excitedly. “My God, Kira. You look drop-dead gorgeous,” she coos. “You’re getting that one whether you like it or not.” She nods as though her mind’s made up.

I turn to look at the back in the mirror. The fabric falls in a smooth line from my shoulders to the small of my back, leaving my skin bare. I run my thumb along the waistband, feeling the silk give under my finger.

“I’ll take it,” I say.

After that, things move faster. I ask for a blouse in a different size. Then a pair of boots with a heel low enough to walk in. Then a coat that falls to my knees and makes me feel like I could step into winter and not feel a thing.

By the time I’ve tried on and decided on everything in here, I’ve lost track of what I’m buying. There are dresses for work, dresses for going out, pants in every cut, blouses, sweaters, and probably a heap of other things I’ve already forgotten.

It’s not just a wardrobe. It’s a replacement for every single thing I owned before, and the scale of it should make me uncomfortable. It does, a little. But mostly it makes me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something new, and for once, I’m not holding myself back.

Domenico might have said there was no limit on the credit card, but I have a feeling I’m about to put that to the test.

“Only one thing left.” Carly bounces up and down with excitement.

“What’s that?” I scrunch my nose in confusion at the implication that there’s a part of the store we haven’t been through yet.

She drags me over to the lingerie section and immediately grabs a black lace bodysuit with a look that’s half challenge, half amusement. “This is what I call a practical necessity,” she says conspiratorially. “Every wife needs at least one.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “I’ll look myself,” I mumble.

I move through the racks, pushing aside pieces that make me immediately shake my head—too revealing, too stiff, too much like the black babydoll my dad forced me to take. Then I find a set in deep burgundy, the fabric so thin it’s almost sheer, with straps that cross in the back in a pattern that would leave my skin visible between the lines.

I imagine Domenico’s face if he saw me in it. The way his eyes would darken, the way his jaw would set, the way his hands would find my hips and pull me against him. The thought sends a pulse of heat between my legs so sharp I have to press my thighs together.

Before I return to the fitting room, I grab several other sets. Each one selected by me, which feels good to do.

I love every single set I try, but none as much as the burgundy—the last one. The fabric clings to every curve, the color rich against my skin, and instead of making me feel weak, or like a transaction, it makes me feel… powerful.

Carly’s eyebrows go up as I emerge from the fitting room with seven sets hung over my arm. “Well,” she says. “Someone’s feeling bold.”

“Do you think it’s too much?” I ask, immediately worrying that’s what she meant.

She just rolls her eyes. “Do you like it?” At my nod, she continues. “Then it’s not too much. It’s just right.”

By the time we reach the checkout counter, the staff has organized everything they have available in my size into bags and boxes that they’ve already started carrying to Vinny’s car.

“I’ll take these as well,” I say as I slide the lingerie onto the counter.

The woman behind the register quickly scans them and then turns the screen toward me. The total sits there in black digits—six of them, to be exact—and my hand goes still on the counter.

I’ve just spent more money than I can comprehend. This kind of money would go a long way toward my mom’s medical bills, or even at the church that’s always looking for donations.

And… I just spent a staggering amount on frivolous things instead of making a difference.

“Nope,” Carly says, startling me as she hip-bumps me. “We’re not doing that. I can see you spiraling, and I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” I laugh, hating how forced it sounds.

“Absolutely not,” she volleys. “Now hand over your credit card or I’ll call Domenico and tell on you.”

My hand shakes as I hand over the credit card to the woman who takes it without blinking. Vinny steps forward, his phone already out as he coordinates deliveries for the items they don’t have available in my size.

“These should be delivered to the penthouse,” he says, rattling off the address. “And Mr. DeLuca expects all the deliveries to be completed within two days.”

The woman behind the counter pales. “T-two days??” she gasps. “I’m not sure that’s possible—”

“If you can’t do it, Mrs. DeLuca won’t be back,” Vinny explains.

I look at Carly, who just shrugs and mouths, “What can you do?” or at least that’s what I think she’s conveying.

Feeling a little more confident, I square my shoulders and give the poor woman my number. “Call me directly if there’s a delay,” I say kindly. “I’m sure we can work it out.”

As soon as we’ve left the store, Carly turns toward me. “You handled that like a boss-lady. Watch out, Domenico. I believe he’s met his match,” she cackles.

“That was exhausting,” I say, changing the subject.

She laughs. “It gets easier. The first time Gio handed me a card and told me to go nuts, I bought a set of towels and came home.”

“Just towels?”

“Just towels. He looked at me like I’d lost my mind.” She hooks her arm through mine. “There’s a café two blocks from here. Let’s get lunch before I have to return you to your husband.”

We start walking. Vinny falls into step behind us, close enough to hear if I call for him, far enough that it doesn’t feel like he’s listening.

Café Luce smells like every good thing I’ve ever eaten—roast coffee and warm bread, and garlic from the kitchen where the door swings open every thirty seconds. White tile floors, small round tables that aren’t too close together.

As I look around, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever go places like this with Domenico. Somehow, I can’t imagine him as the casual lunch goer. I mean, that’s never been me before, though, admittedly, that’s because I’ve never had the money to do it.

If money’s no longer an object, I want it. And, I’d want to go with my husband. Maybe not to cafés if that’s not his style. But restaurants, the movies… things like that.

“Keep up,” Carly laughs, and I realize I’ve come to a complete stop.

Shaking my head, I follow her to the corner table by the window. Vinny sits near the door, his back to the wall, his eyes on the entrance.

As soon as we’re seated, I pull my phone out to text Domenico. I can’t help laughing when I see he has changed his name on my phone.

Me

Do you like cafés?

Daddy

Are you asking in general? Or are you wanting to know if Café Luce is any good?

By now, I know better than to be surprised he knows where I am.

Me

I meant in general, Daddy. *Winky face*

Daddy

I don’t mind cafés. Do you want us to go together?

I don’t know what to say, or type, so instead of answering, I ask another question that just came to mind.

Me

What am I called in your phone?

Daddy

My wife!

Even though that’s not funny at all, I laugh softly as I put my phone away. It’s rude to text when you’re with other people, and I’m just about to apologize to Carly when I see she’s texting as well while wearing a matching goofy grin.

We barely have our phones put down before a server appears at our table. Carly orders a glass of white wine and the burrata without looking at the menu. I stare at mine for too long before landing on lemonade and pasta with chicken and mushrooms.

Our drinks arrive in record time, and the woman assures us our food won’t be long.

Carly sips her wine and leans back in her chair. “The green blouse is going to look stupidly good on you. But the plum dress needs heels. Did you buy any?”

“Only kitten heels,” I reply. I still have trauma from wearing those high heels on my wedding day.

“We’ll get some next time.” She grins, setting her glass down. She studies me for a beat. “You look happier than the last time I saw you.”

I laugh loudly at that since the last time she saw me was when I was crying in the bathroom at the wedding reception. “I feel…” I trail off, searching for the word. “Less like I’m drowning.”

“Good.” She picks up her fork when the burrata arrives—creamy white cheese split open on a plate with tomatoes and basil. “Underwater is no way to live.”

I do the same when my plate of pasta is set in front of me. We eat for a while without talking much. The pasta is so good I half consider looking up a recipe online and asking our chef to make some.

Carly sets her fork down with a soft click against the plate. “Can I say something?”

I nod. My mouth is full, which is probably for the best.

“Every time you’ve mentioned Domenico today,” she says, her tone conversational, like she’s noting the weather, “you’ve described what he says, what he expects, or what you think he prefers.” She tilts her head. “You haven’t once said what you want from him.”

My fork pauses mid-air. A piece of pasta slides off and lands back on the plate with a quiet splat. Well, I can’t argue that. She’s completely right.

Carly doesn’t press. She takes another sip of wine and lets the observation sit between us like something alive. The couple at the next table has moved on to dessert.

“Gio and I didn’t start the way people think we did,” Carly says after a couple of minutes. “Our marriage was forced, just like yours. His family needed mine, and mine needed his. You know how it goes.”

I nod. I know exactly how it goes.

“The first year was shit,” she continues. “Gio cheated… well, I’m not sure I’d call it that. He was with other women, but we weren’t together, if you know what I mean. I didn’t want him, and I made that abundantly clear.” She smiles, but there’s something behind it that isn’t entirely happy. “He got his dick wet elsewhere, and I found rage. We circled each other like wounded animals for about eight months.”

The waiter refills our water glasses. Carly waits until he’s gone before she continues.

“It didn’t magically become what it is now. We built it. Brick by fucking brick. And now?” She laughs softly. “I love that man more than life. I would chew through concrete for him. But it took time, and it took me deciding that while men like ours might be in charge everywhere else, that doesn’t mean they always get to be at home.”

“Do you mean sex?” I whisper, not sure I’m understanding her correctly.

“Not just sex,” Carly says, and I feel my cheeks warm. She grins. “Though that helps. I mean the day-to-day. The rules—our rules.”

“What rules?”

She counts them off on her fingers. “We have date night every Friday unless a job physically prevents it. If he’s going to be home after midnight, I want a phone call. Not a text. A call because I want to hear his voice so I know he’s okay. And the basic understanding that I am a person in this marriage, not furniture. Gio hardly ever misses a Friday now.”

I hold my glass in both hands, the condensation cool against my palms. “And he just accepted those rules?”

“Of course,” she replies. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t accept his. Tit for tat and all that.”

“What if I don’t know what I need?”

Carly shrugs. “Then start smaller. What would make next week better than this week?”

The question is so simple it catches me off guard. I stare at my pasta, which is mostly gone now, and try to think about next week.

“I want him to tell me if he won’t be home for dinner,” I say slowly. The words feel strange in my mouth, like a language I’m learning. “So I’m not sitting around wondering whether to wait for him.”

Carly nods encouragingly.

“I want him to tell me when he’s leaving our bed in the middle of the night. Instead of waking up and finding him gone.”

That’s only happened once or twice, and he was always back in the morning. But, still. Those times were all it took for me to know I can’t live like that.

“Anything else?” Carly prompts.

Steeling myself, I drink some of my lemonade before putting the glass down. Then I tell her about Greg, what Domenico did, and how responsible I’ve felt.

“Let me stop you right there,” Carly cuts in. “Domenico might have been bad at explaining what he meant, but he didn’t just do that for you, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s expected of men like him and Gio,” she explains. “They can’t just let other men touch or intimidate their woman. It’s a whole thing, one you can’t argue with. It just is. So, he was right when he said Greg was alive because of you, because I’ve seen Gio kill a man for less.”

She says it so casually, as though it’s nothing. As though it’s fine. But it’s not fine, is it?

Greg scared me. Domenico hurting him made me feel safer. Somehow, both of those things are true, and I hate that they are.

“You’re Catholic, right?” Carly asks.

“Yes.”

“Does that make all of this harder?”

I stare down at the condensation running along my glass. “Sometimes. I believe taking a life is wrong. I know Father Joseph would never tell me otherwise.” I rub my thumb through the moisture. “But if Greg had actually tried to hurt me, I would’ve wanted Domenico to stop him. I just…” I shake my head. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Carly is quiet for a moment. “Maybe nothing.”

I look up.

“I don’t believe in God, and I still don’t like killing,” she says. “But being married to Gio taught me I don’t have to approve of everything he does to understand why he does it. Sometimes I hate what he’s capable of. Sometimes I’m grateful he’s capable of it.” She shrugs. “Both can be true.”

I sit with that for a moment because, annoyingly, it makes more sense than I want it to. As I think about it, I realize I have one more rule.

“After Greg,” I continue, my voice dropping, “I want a warning if unfamiliar men are going to be in the penthouse. I don’t want to walk into a room and find strangers there.”

“That’s reasonable.”

It’s not necessarily my rule, though. Not when Domenico already made changes so only the relevant people have access. But the more I think about it, it’s not the access that grinds on me. It’s that I had no warning to what I walked in on. Greg all bloodied. I don’t want to see that ever again.

As I think longer, the café noise fades around me—the clatter of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, Vinny shifting in his chair by the door.

“I think I want us to have dinner together as often as possible,” I say. It’s such a small thing, but I enjoy talking to Domenico.

Carly reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Write those down,” she says. “When you get home. Because none of those things change who Domenico is.” She squeezes my hand again. “They just make room for you, too.”

This is the first time I’ve ever named things I want purely for myself. Not for Mom. Not because Dad demanded something. Not because I was trying to survive.

Just because they would make my life better.

The check comes. Carly pays before I can reach for my bag, waving away my protest with a flick of her wrist.

“Next time,” she says. “When you’re rich and bored and looking for ways to spend your husband’s money.”

We step outside into the afternoon, Vinny falling into step behind us, and we walk back toward where the car is parked. For the first time since my wedding, I know what I want.

Now I just have to figure out how to ask for it.