Page 44 of A Love Most Fatal
Vanessa rubs a spot on the middle of her forehead. “Are you trying to make me feel bad for providing a place that is too relaxing while you are hiding from potential scores of hitmen?”
“No! No, you—” I pause and let out a big huff. “You asked how I was liking your house. I was trying to be honest with you.”
“Well, when you decide you want to take up embroidery or something, let Leo know. He’ll order whatever you need.”
She sounds annoyed with me. Or maybe just annoyed at large. Frustrated?
“What’s got you all,” I gesture vaguely at her body, indicating the overall tense, tired, beleaguered essence of her.
She grabs the manilla folder that’s been resting precariously on the arm of the couch and drops it in my lap. I haven’t even opened it and I know it’s going to either be incriminating information about the Morellis or the most exciting thing I have seen all week. Well, probably the latter either way, I don’t know that three seasons ofThe Vampire Diariescounts as exceptionally exciting.
“I need a husband,” she says before I can look at the contents.
My brain short circuits at this. For a moment, I believe she’s proposing a reluctant marriage withme.
Marrying Vanessa would do the opposite of expediting my transition from her house and back into my own, and in fact would probably only serve to entangle us more—this time financially and legally.
Plus, if I’m going to have any sort of wedding, I’ll have to invite my parents and they’ll probably fall right in love with Vanessa themselves, which will incur the impossible task of telling them that she doesn’t love me, she only loves crime and money and legacy and maybe the members of her immediate family.
“Nate?”
“Hm?”
She nods at the folder, and I look down at it. Slowly, I pry the cover open and am met with a long list of names, some with little check marks next to them, some little exes, others violently crossed through. “I’ve been trying to find a husband.”
“Oh.”Oh. A husband who is, very reasonably, not me. Sure, sure. “Why?”
“There’s a delicate balance in my culture. . . certain traditions that need to be upheld,” Vanessa explains, and I wonder if she means as an Italian American or as a mob boss, but I figure now isn’t the right time to ask.
“You’re still young though, right? This isn’t like some old maid situation.”
“I’m twenty-eight,” Vanessa agrees. “I’ve practically aged out of eligibility in these circles, but it’s not my age that’s the issue. It’s my position.”
Ah, a mob boss issue then. Right.
“I need to marry someone who will benefit the family, and they need to be secure in the fact that I will always outrank them.But if I’m searching, everyone has a relative they want to be considered.”
I look back at the list, and flip through a few more pages. There are three pages alone of names. I count four Lorenzos as I skim.
“So, what, you have to consider all of them? LikeThe Bachelorette, or something?”
“Or something,” Vanessa says. “I need a system to go through all of these men, most of them just to say I considered the offer.”
“But you hope one of them will be good enough.” The marks next to the names take on new meaning, the checkmarks are few, but they look hopeful. The ones crossed through, now appear angry. “You want to marry one of these guys?”
“No,” Vanessa says, “but I think we’ve learned that I don’t get to make decisions based on what I like.”
I will not investigate the meaning of that remark, I will not let it endear her to me. She chooses to do the things she does, she’s not a criminal by accident.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I need to sleep.” Vanessa uncrosses her legs from beneath her and moves to stand up, but I’m back to looking at the list.
“Why don’t you put them in categories? Looks like you’ve already started doing that.” I scan over the ones that are only a little crossed out versus the ones that are violently slashed through. “Have the ones you really can’t stand fill out an online form or something.”
“Like an application?”
“Sure,” I say. I flip a page, then close the envelope. “Tell them it’s a screening, nothing personal. Thirty questions or so. You’re a busy woman. What do they expect, an in-depth interview for each of them?”
I offer her the Folder of Men, but she is looking at me like she’s just realized something. If humans had bulbs over their heads, hers might be lit up.