Page 16 of Wicked Sinner
"I should introduce you to some of the others," she says eventually, glancing back toward the party. "It wouldn't be fair to monopolize your time."
“Fair enough.” Suddenly, I’m ready to put distance between myself and Catherine, no matter how pleasant she is.
We rejoin the party, and I spend the next hour making the rounds. There's Maria Acosta, whose family controls a network of restaurants throughout Little Havana. She's vivacious and warm, with an infectious laugh and a genuine interest in cooking that goes beyond mere social accomplishment. When she talks about her family's recipes, passed down through generations, there's real passion in her voice. I can tell she knows nothing about what her family really does, that she believes she’s here because her father is a wealthy restaurateur, not because he also launders drug money through those same restaurants, or that he also has a pornography business that he uses for a similar reason.
"Food is about more than nutrition," she explains as we sample hors d’oeuvres from the buffet. "It's about culture, about bringing people together. My grandmother used to say that you can tell everything about a family by the way they share a meal."
"What would your grandmother say about this meal?" I ask, gesturing to the elaborate spread of gourmet appetizers.
"She'd say it's beautiful but cold," Maria replies without hesitation. "Too much presentation, not enough heart. She'd want to know who cooked it, whether they put love into it, whether the people eating it are truly enjoying each other's company."
"And are they?"
"Are they what?"
"Enjoying each other's company?"
She looks around the room, taking in the carefully orchestrated conversations, the calculated glances, the subtle positioning for advantage. "I think they're performing for each other," she says finally. "Which isn't the same thing."
Our conversation continues a little longer, but I already know she’s not my choice. Too sweet, too genuine, too naive. The kind of woman who, under other circumstances, I might have wantedto spend more time with. But I’m not about to drag her deeper into a life that I know would break her heart if she knew the truth of it, or spend my life lying to my wife.
I excuse myself from Maria and continue my rounds. There's Elisa Romero, whose father does his business behind the guise of a large construction firm. She's intelligent and aware, with an impressive knowledge of local politics and a network of connections that would be invaluable to any aspiring don. When she talks about infrastructure projects and zoning laws, I can see the calculating mind that could be a powerful asset.
"The key is understanding leverage," she explains as we discuss a recent development deal. "Everyone wants something. The trick is figuring out what they want and how badly they want it."
"And what do you want?" I ask.
"Security," she says without hesitation. "Stability. A partner who understands that marriage is a partnership, not a dictatorship."
"You've given this a lot of thought."
"Haven't you?" She tilts her head, studying me with those calculating eyes. "Or are you one of those men who thinks he can figure it out as he goes along?"
“I’ve only recently been told that this was necessary,” I tell her, amused. “I thought I’d get more say in the matter.”
Elisa snorts. “Welcome to my world.”
By the time I've spoken with all the major candidates, I'm exhausted. They're all impressive in their own ways—intelligent, beautiful, well-connected. Any one of them would make a perfectly acceptable wife, the kind of woman who could navigate the social and political complexities of being married to a don.
But not one of them has made me feel anything approaching desire. Not one of them has made me want to pull her into a dark corner and lose myself in her body. Not one of them has mademe forget, even for a moment, about honey-blonde hair and hazel eyes and the way it felt to be completely, utterly consumed by want.
Even Catherine and Elisa, who impressed me with their potential to be smart, capable partners, made me feel nothing like that. Talking to them felt like considering a business contract—which is, I suppose, what this marriage will be—not like seduction.
It’s fucking depressing.
"Well?" Konstantin appears at my elbow as the evening begins to wind down. "Any impressions?"
"They're all remarkable women," I say diplomatically. "Very impressive."
"But you have preferences?"
I consider the question. Catherine is probably the most intellectually stimulating. Elisa would be the most politically advantageous. Isabella is certainly the most conventionally beautiful.
"I need more time to think," I say finally.
"Time is a luxury we don't have," he replies, his voice carrying a note of warning. "The other families are getting restless. They need to see stability, commitment. Your father’s business deals, the money he moved, the contracts he had—all halted, for the most part. They want to see the Genovese spoke of the wheel start to turn again, Caesar. They need to see that you're serious about this."
My jaw tightens. "I am serious."
