The Mafia King's Bride

4 | Red

Dominic

I won't bore you, reader, with the tedious details of my life for the past few hours. I wear many hats—I am a mobster, a Don, an entrepreneur, a merchant, a tycoon, a criminal, a killer, an impresario, and so forth. This is not information I share arrogantly or boastfully. I share it like this because it is not the important part of the story, but does contribute to the plot, setting, and characterization: the main story, the one worth telling, is the one between myself and Eloise where I am a husband. You will learn more about me and what I do throughout the story—most of which will probably be revealed to you through Eloise.

What does matter is that I come home with no blood on my hands today. The living room curtains are closed, which I am relieved about since if I cannot see what Eloise is up to inside then neither can anyone else, so I debate on honking the horn to alert her I am outside. Instead I see a light upstairs get turned off, followed by the living room light behind the curtains. There is no further signs of life until Eloise comes around the corner, head bowed, choosing to walk around the back of the vehicle rather than taking a shortcut through the headlights. She is wearing the red dress I commented on earlier.

I smirk to myself. The word submissive seems a touch too strong for her but acquiescent suits her well. She does not ring as particularly passive—the fact that she takes antidepressants actually makes me think of her as someone who engages with the world a little too actively. She doesn't project herself as meek or obedient because while she accepts things without protest, she does not accept things without resentment.

Eloise climbs into the passenger seat elegantly, a small smile on her face, a fresh spritz of her floral perfume tickling my nose like the tail of a cat. I notice the differences from earlier—her lips are painted the same color of red wine as her dress, her hair is curled at the ends and the front pieces are pulled away from her face, held in place with a white bow the same shade as her wrap-coat. For a second my breath catches in my throat.

"Sorry," I shake my head when I realize her seatbelt is on and she has been staring at me. "You look...extraordinary."

The smile on her face is genuine and I return it for a second—a second she doesn't notice.

"You look nice as well," she returns politely. I know she finds me attractive but her compliment feels insincere. I know better than to hold it against her. "Thank you for taking me out tonight. I think it was a good idea."

Leaning over, appreciating the way Eloise's eyes widen when I thumb her bottom lip, I say: "I think it was a good idea, too. I'm taking you to one of my restaurants. It will not be the first time my work life and personal life have collided, but it's the first time I'm excited about it."

✿✿✿

We sit in a rounded booth, half-moon shape, in a moderately quiet corner of the busy restaurant. I have opened many new businesses, but I take the most pride in this one: it was opened by my great grandparents when they immigrated here from Italy and it has been in the family since. Every generation has kept it alive, breathed more energy into it, ensured its vitality. At this rate the restaurant will outlive the family name.

The hanging light above the table is forest-green stained glass with glass oranges, apples, grapes, and bananas connected with vines. I have kept the wholesome, vintage, cozy, romantic feel that was present in the first model of the restaurant: the lighting is warm when shining of the faces of a happy family, but sensual when reflecting off the glowing cheek of a lover.

The booths are striped forest-green, gold, and that horrible 70s blood-red color, but they compliment each other flatteringly. The table has a square vase with fake white flowers and a tealight candle in the center, the water glasses are shaped like teardrops, and the cutlery is so polished you can see your convex image clearly in the prongs. Eloise takes it all in, sniffing the air, observing other tables, unaware of the patrons that observe her once she turns away.

I order a seafood platter and shareable lasagna for the both of us when the waiter comes by, and a glass of Pinot Noir for myself. Eloise, much to my surprise, orders a glass of Pinot Grigio. When the waiter walks away I ask her if she's allowed to drink with her medication and she waves her hand at me almost dismissively but I sense the embarrassment. It wasn't my intention to embarrass her.

"A glass of wine won't kill me. I'll only have one," she says evenly.

We say nothing until the wine comes. Once we have each taken our first sips the waiter retreats. Now Eloise is ready to get comfortable, taking her jacket off, exposing her slender arms to me. She crosses them, gripping onto her elbows, and finally meets my eyes. Her pupils are dilated. I can't help but bring up her medication again. I can't believe I give a single f**k about what she is putting into her body. Wife is just a title, a position, that is encoded in the fine print of a legal document—companionship is a choice. For some reason I keep getting the lines blurred; Eloise doesn't seem to be captivated by the same confusion.

"Have you taken your medication yet?" I ask.

Eloise's brows furrow and I can tell that she is braced for pretty much all sorts of questions aside from those regarding her mental health. How could a man like him possibly have any sort of compassion towards, or reverence for, medication? Aren't pharmaceuticals one giant conspiracy against humanity? Does he think it makes me weak? What's his angle? All the subsequent questions that she thinks are implied extensions of my single inquiry expose themselves through her expression.

"No," her jaw clenches. "Why do you ask?"

"For none of the reasons you are thinking, Eloise, so I am going to stop your thoughts right there," I say, holding up a hand. She takes a sip of wine, raising a brow defiantly. There is something sexy about the way she does it; about the way it departs from her otherwise perfect, innocent demeanor. "I don't know anything about depression. About antidepressants. About how antidepressants are supposed to treat depression. I don't know anything about you, Eloise, but you are my wife and that means something to me even if it holds no meaning for you yet. I want to make sure you are okay."

"Because you want to make sure I'm okay, or because you want to make sure I don't interfere with your work?"

The question catches me off guard and I can tell by the way Eloise has asked it that she has no ill intent—it is asked from a hidden place of bravery, so on those grounds I respect her accusation. Her blush creeps above the halter neckline of her dress into her cheeks. I forget the conversation for a moment, struck by her muted beauty, but return to earth when I realize that the mood of the rest of dinner is contingent on what I say next.

"Both because if one part of my life is unwell then that sickness spills into the other parts of my life. If you are unwell, and that starts to show itself to those who do not deserve to see it, then our lives will inevitably be much harder...I don't think I have to explain to you how taboo mental illness is in the world of organized crime. It might as well not exist—be a myth. You are fortunate I don't regard mental illness that way. Despite how I might regard it, however, it is a weakness in this world. There are vultures everywhere."

"Why don't you regard mental illness that way?" she asks, intrigued.

"My mom killed herself when I was young. Bipolar disorder. She was diagnosed, too late, after she had me and my brother. Ultimately, the disorder won."

"It's not a matter of winning or losing. It's a matter of life or death. It's a matter of biological and social interactions. It's a matter of facts," she takes a calming breath. "I am terribly sorry about her, though."

Our food is brought. Eloise takes another sip of wine and denies a second glass. The waiter tells us to enjoy the meal, but I suspect I will enjoy the following tête-à-tête a bit more.