Raised by the Mafia

9. My Masculine Galatea (Mila)

I wanted to call the wedding off twenty times, while working tirelessly to make it into something worth having. Okay, maybe not twenty times, but at least a dozen. Ten? I don't know.

My mind loops like an overwhelmed computer. I trudge on, clearing out the snags. The biggest of them being my 'perfect man for the job'. He makes me wonder if Luca was right to dismiss him as broken beyond repair. A dog with its teeth pulled, so it can bark all it wants, for it can't bite.

Doubts about Luca also come and circle. Luca loves you, Papa had said. He will mend his ways once you are married.

Nobody shares the elevator ride to Plaza Hotel's lobby with me, so I heave as loud a sigh as I want to. I don't doubt the former, Papa. If only I could believe the latter! Maybe I'll be a happier woman then, for ignorance is bliss.

But bliss seems unattainable. For now, I enjoy a tiny happy jolt in my heart when Ryan shows up on time for our morning meeting. Punctuality is one of his assets, and thank goodness for that!

If I had to drag him out of bed by the ear like a teenager, I would have called the wedding off, I swear. And what? Went to the altar with Luca in February? The thought makes me want to cringe, but I pull a dazzling smile over my face. "Good morning, sunshine!"

A sullen smile is my response. No, not today you don't, Mister! Even though it suits his angular face, it's past time we get started on the happy couple's routine.

"Let's try it again, my darling husband-to-be. Good morning, my love, will be good."

Ryan pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up his forehead to pinch the bridge of his nose and ignores my simple request. "I was cross-referencing my notes on Tangorellos and lost track of time, pumpkin. Now I'm pooped."

"Did you just call me pumpkin?"

"You wanted it, Kamila Nazarevich."

"I did?"

"Yes. My love, pumpkin, sweetheart--it's the same shit."

I suppress a sigh, since we're in public. "Fine, you're right."

"Nice to know."

"You can take a catnap in the afternoon, before our..." I double-check my phone, "our 3:30 pm booking."

His shoulders droop. "What's that for?"

I lay my hand on his elbow, move chest to chest, almost stepping on his toes. He looks down at me, letting me gauge our height difference more precisely: the tip of his nose would touch my hair if he dips his head a little. The perfume should be tickling his nostrils now, erasing the personal space buffer. Good.

"Something to bring us closer together, Ryan, so you don't shy away from me."

He focuses on staying next to me, instead of waltzing away. His lips nearly touch my ear when he whispers. "Ballroom dancing, I suppose. I'll behave, my love." He makes the promise sound so sultry, it gives me a tiny shiver.

"Mmgh. I'm counting on it." This is as much as I'm willing to divulge about our afternoon appointment. Let him try to work it out with his famous deduction method if he can. And if he can't... that's better. Because, the less he knows, the less time he has to build up defenses. I don't need him to fight me on everything.

In the end, he'd agree with me anyway, but I need to stay razor-sharp to keep our enterprise from failure. I don't have the energy for petty squabbles, as enjoyable as— No, they are not enjoyable. I hate them, absolutely hate them. And I hate him too.

"We can't just show up at Papa's shindig together, Ryan. You understand that, right?"

"Uh-huh."

Good thing my breath didn't hitch in anticipation of his reply! "We must emanate happiness from every pore. Luca has to believe that you offer me something he couldn't."