The Mafia King's Bride

8 | Rumours

Eloise

We hold each other in the grayness of the living room. Outside the thunderstorm has picked up and I shift to get more comfortable. The earth shakes at least twice a minute, lightning flashes across the room in such quick succession it is like a disco ball is spinning on the ceiling, and the rain pelts the roof with the ferocity of a military shelling. My arms are crossed on Dominic's thigh, my head laid atop, his fingers trailing through my hair. It surprises me how natural it feels to be like this—to act like this. To act like we really are husband and wife.

"I feel like I can trust you," Dominic says suddenly, quietly. "I trust you enough that I don't regret admitting it to you out loud. At least, I don't feel like I should."

"You can trust me," I say honestly, turning to look up at him. I don't trust him back so I won't start off betraying his trust by lying to him. "Why do you feel like you can trust me?"

"I can tell you take this marriage seriously in your own way. You scrutinize your every action, your eyes read my every move, and you have divulged vulnerable things to me for the sake of being upfront. You've put yourself out in the open, and I gladly receive you."

I say nothing but smile shyly, staring out the window again. Dominic's fingers resume brushing through my hair. Every time I inhale I smell his cologne, I hear his breaths over the falling rain. All of my senses are heightened and activated. Closing my eyes, I allow myself to relax even though it feels like the last thing I should allow myself to do.

Dominic's thigh buzzes, vibrates, then starts playing music. Scared into awareness, I jolt up like a weed and put two and two together: his phone is ringing. Cursing under his breath, retrieving his phone from his back pocket, he checks the caller ID and curses under his breath again. Guess it's not a spam call.

"I have to take this," he grumbles, pressing a kiss to my lips before leaving the room.

Dominic goes into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. I hear nothing that takes place during the conversation, not even muffles, all sound completely drowned out by what must be soundproof walls. Pursing my lips, scouring the room, I wonder what to do—I wonder who Dominic is talking to. I already know I lack the courage to ask so I will have to rely on his willingness to divulge the identity of the caller unprompted.

Standing up, I make the smart decision of standing in front of the living room window rather than eavesdropping in on Dominic's conversation. I stand in front of the window for long enough to realize that the lightning has ceased and the thunder has allayed; the rain, however, has remained steady. By the time I am ready to sit down again, Dominic is just leaving his room. I remain where I am.

My skin gets dusted with goosebumps as Dominic's footsteps come up behind me. He first puts his hand on my shoulder, tracing his finger along the side of the neck, and eventually wraps both of his arms around me and holds me tight to him. Something is bothering him. Gripping onto him with my hands, I summon the courage not to ask him who called but rather:

"is everything okay?"

"Maybe," he says ambiguously, breathing into me. "We should do something. Right now. I know a spot. Can you be the driver tonight?"

My comprehension traverses across each sentence fragment, lagging at the question, and I sputter out my answer mindlessly: "yes. I can drive."

"By the time we get to where I want to take you, the sky should be dark. In all fairness it probably isn't something you've never seen before, but it will be our first time seeing it together, so I think that should account for something."

Amused by the situational irony, I say: "I think it should account for something, too."

He starts swaying back and forth like a rocking chair. I close my eyes, smiling to myself, suspicious of the fact that marriage to Dominic so far seems too good to be true—I should be enjoying the fact that he seems to be genuinely invested in this union and interested in me, but I can't help but wonder to myself: for how long? I shouldn't think in such a way. Why pluck the flower before it has time to bloom...but what if the beautiful flower is actually a sinister, invasive weed?

"Is everything okay with you?" Dominic asks me abruptly.

"Yes," I spin to face him, boldly setting my hands on his ribs. Once I realize the brazenness of my actions, I pull away and clear my throat. "I'm just...worried about you."

"I want to first enjoy a drive in silence with you—well, silence in the sense of not talking, but not silence in the sense that I don't want background noise. I would like you to play some of your favorite music for me. I think the music one listens to says a lot about them," he indicates his head to the front door. I follow him. "When we get to where I want to go, that is when I will tell you. Fair?"

"Fair," I nod, even though he doesn't see it.

✿✿✿

The roads are surprisingly busy for this time in the evening; driving from the gravel road onto the highway then into the city then across the bridge was supposed to be a covert, painless ordeal, but alas we are only one little vehicle in a moving metal mob of mayhem. I choose Fleetwood Mac for Dominic because Fleetwood Mac is my favorite band and I never miss an opportunity to play my CD. The Rumours album plays almost front to back by the time we arrive at our destination. About halfway through the album Dominic puts his hand on my thigh, claiming it. I feel the territoriality of the action and chills run up my spine.

We are parked in a gravel parking lot on the side of a hill, which may not even be a parking lot because when I asked Dominic if he was sure this was a parking lot he responded with an unconvincing yes and a small laugh, that is enshrouded in big leafy trees. The trees are still completely green, unlike the trees in the countryside that are frosted bright yellow and pale orange. Their wet plumage reflects the gold and silver lights from the distant city. It is true that I have seen the city at night from a distance before, but it feels different now...more mesmerizing.

"Do you mind the rain?" Dominic asks.

"Not at all."

He smiles, leans over and kisses me, and unbuckles his seatbelt before exiting my car. He is so big in comparison to my humble beetle that it's comedic. Taking the hint, I turn off my car and step outside into the cool nighttime air. It is surprisingly tolerable given the ferocity of the rain—the earlier breeze has died down. Dominic stands just before the treeline then walks into it. Eyes widening, I realize I am somewhere that is sentimental to him and therefore witnessing what are otherwise private reminisces for him. I am reluctant to follow him because, well, the woods at night are a scary place...but I don't want to disappoint him. I jog and catch up to him, slinking between the trunks and low-hanging branches of the trees.

Dominic is sitting on top of his jacket, which he has used as a blanket, on a bench. It looks like a painting: the silhouettes of the trees are black—a perfect frame for the bright city lights—and the haze of humidity congeals into a thick fog that dances across the surface of the river separating our piece of developing land from the concrete jungle across from us. I suddenly feel like I understand impressionism: it is not the impression you have while you are looking at something, it is the impression you have been left with after you walk away.

"Please sit next to me," Dominic's voice pierces the cushion of falling rain. "I can't stand the feeling of you hovering behind me right now."

Shuddering, registering the intensity of the request, I slowly walk towards him, muffling the jingle of my keys by placing them in my jacket pocket. Before I can sit down he has his arm wrapped around my waist and is lowering me onto his lap. He buries his face in my damp hair. I can feel his warm exhales weaving through my strands, penetrating my skull, heating my cheeks from the inside. Outside I am cool but internally I am beginning to burn up.

Touching my fingers to Dominic's cheek, I lean back and force him to look at me. My heart is racing and I feel like I am about to throw up. Swallowing nervously, taking a deep breath, I remove my fingers from his cheek and squish my hands between my thighs. I have to look away from him in order to ask my question. Being a wife is frightening when you've had no practice being a fiancée or even a girlfriend.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

His jaw clenches and I can tell the last thing he wants to do is tell me what's wrong, even though that is most of the reason we have come out here, but the alternative is to keep me in the shadows and deal with whatever it is he's dealing with by himself—an asinine decision, I gather, since I believe that whatever he is dealing with affects me somehow. My gatherings are stunningly accurate, too.

"My brother will be home from Italy tomorrow afternoon. He is on the plane right now."

"Okay..." I furrow my brows, tilting my head to the side.

"His house is under renovation for another month. He will be staying with me—us—until it's finished."

Ah. So that's the catch.