I Paid for the Mafia House,He Made Me a Guest in It

Now he was using the word "take."

I opened the title of blood and ownership.

Holder of record: Adriana Falcone.

Debtor of record: Adriana Falcone.

The transfer records of the down payment sat saved in my private cloud, where no Marchetti hand could reach. The renovation pact was there too, every line clean.

Lorenzo saw the screen, and his face changed.

"What are you digging up all this for?"

I locked the screen.

"Can't sleep."

He dropped his voice low, the way a made man does when he wants a thing buried.

"Don't wake Bianca up."

I glanced at the door of the master bedroom.

That door had someone else's mark hanging on it.

That bed had someone else's throw lying on it.

That room held someone else's pills.

I picked up my phone and messaged Gianna, my fixer.

"This estate. Can you move it fast, and quiet?"

Gianna replied quickly.

"You're sure you can let it go?"

I replied:

"I can."

The white noise behind the master bedroom door paused for a moment.

Lorenzo spun around at once and knocked, soft as a man at a confessional.

"Bianca? Are you awake?"

I set my phone face-down on the table.

If the master bedroom of this estate didn't belong to me, then there was no need for this estate to belong to us.

The next morning, I opened the fridge.

My coffee beans were gone.

The yogurt was gone too.

Where the hot sauce used to sit, there was a row of low-sugar oat milk.

A note was stuck to the door.

Bianca can't have caffeine, can't have cold drinks, can't have high sugar.

The hand was Lorenzo's.

He came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of porridge.

"Eat light for a while. Bianca can't stand strong smells."

I looked at that bowl of porridge.

Last night my stomach hurt, doubled me over on the couch, and he never asked whether I could even eat.

Now he remembered that Bianca couldn't stand smells.

I picked up my bag.

"I'm not eating."

Lorenzo frowned.

"Acting up again? You're going to put on a face over one breakfast?"

I changed into my shoes.

"Save it for coaxing her."

His voice sank.

"Adriana, don't talk so ugly."

I went to the walk-in closet.

The main rack held Bianca's beige coat, her nightgown, her shawl, hung like the wardrobe of a woman who already owned the place. My garment bag had been shoved out to the balcony, the bottom of it dusted with grime.

I picked up my gown, the one meant for the alliance ceremony.

Lorenzo followed me in.

"She gets anxious when her things are left outside. Don't read into it."

"And my gowns on the balcony, that doesn't make anyone anxious?"

He pressed his lips together.

"You really have to compete with a sick person?"

My phone buzzed.

A message dropped into the Marchetti family council.

Carmela Marchetti had sent a voice note.

"Lorenzo, how did Bianca sleep last night? Don't let Adriana go into the master bedroom and bother her. A sick person can't take that kind of trouble."

Lorenzo replied:

"Don't worry, I've got it handled."

Carmela sent another:

"Adriana's capable. A few days of swallowing it won't hurt her. After the union we'll all be one famiglia."

No one asked where I'd slept last night.

No one asked whether my stomach had stopped hurting.

I screenshotted the council messages, building the ledger of debts paid.

Lorenzo saw it, and his expression soured.

"What are you screenshotting for?"

"A keepsake."

He reached out for my phone.

I stepped back half a pace.

"Don't touch it."

His hand stopped in midair, and his thumb pressed against the bare base of his ring finger, feeling for an authority that wasn't there.

"Adriana, why are you so prickly these days?"

I put the gown back into its bag.

"Your famiglia talks far pricklier. I'm a slow learner."

That morning, I sent word I'd be gone half a day.

I exported the down payment records.

I exported the monthly debt-claim deductions.

I exported the renovation invoices.

I exported the estate fees, the appliance orders, the furnishings list.

In the spreadsheet, Lorenzo had only wired a few scattered payments against the debt. Among the furniture, only the television and the dining table had passed through his card.

I messaged Francesca Lombardi, my Consigliere.

"Help me look at a pre-union property settlement."

She said:

"You finally woke up?"

I turned the thin gold ring on my right hand a half-rotation with my thumb, and replied:

"Cut the chatter. Run the numbers."