Page 47 of Kept

I shrug and gesture across the table to suggest that the floor is all his.

He runs his hand through his hair and mutters something in Italian. “My former in-laws.”

“You were married?” I don’t know why it’s shocking, but somehow it is. “Where is she?”

His eyes have a solemn, haunted look. “She died.”

“I’m sorry. So did my mother.” I sniffle. “She was killed, actually. My father killed her. I saw it. I was hiding in the closet.”

Vincent grabs my hand, rubbing the back of it. “Is that why you’re claustrophobic?” he asks.

I nod. “It was a long time ago,” I tell him, wiping under my eyes.

“So was my wife. Loss is loss.”

“Why is her family trying to kill you?”

He pauses. Finally, he says softly, “She died because of me. The doctor said it was a pregnancy complication, that no one could have seen it coming.” After a beat he adds, “They both died.”

“You loved her,” I say.

He smiles. “Yes, but probably not the way you think. It was an arranged marriage. The agreement was made when we were children. Most mafia marriages are.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Both our fathers were dons of their families, and our marriage would have been a powerful alliance, our children a blood bond that could never be broken. We spent many summers together. We both knew what the arrangement was.” He refills both of our now empty glasses.

“But you still loved each other?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around it.

“Yes, in our own way.” He pauses for a second, watching the wine cling to the edges of the glass as it circles around. Finally, he says simply, “My wife was gay.”

“What?” I say, shocked.

“We were friends as children. When she told me, she was a teenager, full of rebellious spirit. She said if her family found out, her father and brother would kill her, or just marry her off to some old bastard that wouldn’t give a damn so long as he could fuck a pretty girl, whether she agreed or not. My father was a vicious man. He would have considered it an insult and cancelled the contract.” He pauses to sip his wine. “So we made a plan. We would be married and keep each other’s secrets, and try to live our lives the best we could.”

“The baby?”

He smiles. “With enough money, anything is possible. Including certain alternative means of conception. And silence from the OB-GYN and his nurse.”

“And they never found out?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“And now they blame you for her death? So they want to kill you? As revenge?”

Vincent nods.

Jesus. I sip on my wine.

“It was a long time ago,” he tells me.

“Loss is loss,” I remind him. “Have you told anyone else?”

“My brothers know. My mother probably knows. She always seemed to know everything anyway. You?”

I shake my head. “No. Though I have a feeling one of the other guys my dad worked with had a suspicion. Somehow I got sent to ballet boarding school instead of normal foster care.”

We sit for a minute, the silence comfortable rather than awkward.

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