Undressed By The Mafia God

"No..." Val whispered.

Marco stepped closer. "Tell me what you want."

She shook her head, crying silently now. "I don’t know."

"Yes, you do. You do, Val. You’re just afraid to ask. What do you want to do?" he asked. "Ask me anything right now, Val and I will give it to you."

"Leave the famiglia," she said.

Marco stared at her, his face emptying. Leave the famiglia as if it were a house. A bad habit he could quit. He exhaled slowly. "I was afraid you would say that."

Valentina’s eyes shone. "You said you would do whatever I want."

His mouth curved sadly. "File for a divorce, Val."

Her breath stopped then he began to walk away. "What?!" she cried after him. "You won’t even try to save us?"

Marco stopped. His shoulders rose and fell once, as though he was trying to keep something violent inside his chest from becoming words. When he turned back, the man standing there was not only her husband. He was every street he had survived, every hand that had pulled him from nothing and made him dangerous enough to be loved.

"Darling," he said, "the man you see standing in front of you is because of the famiglia. The man you once thought adequate enough to fall in love with was made by the famiglia. I am a package deal. You asked for what you wanted. Now hear me when I tell you what that costs." His eyes were bright with offence.

"I owe them my life, however difficult and brutal it is. They saved me." He pointed a finger at himself with emphasis. "I would have been dead on the streets otherwise."

Valentina’s lips trembled. She knew that. She knew pieces of it, at least. The parts Marco had given her. She knew the famiglia had claimed him. Trained him. Made him family.

But knowing was different from understanding.

"You love me?" he asked.

Her answer came instantly. "Yes."

"Then love who I am. That is how this is supposed to work," he said. "You don’t get to pick me apart. You choose to stay with all of me...or you leave."

"Marco, you cannot mean that."

"I’m done pulling all the weight in this marriage." Marco’s voice lowered. "I have begged without begging. I have waited, stayed quiet and still, somehow, I am the one standing here being asked to cut off a part of myself."

Her tears slipped free. "Why are you doing this?"

"I am scared that you are already gone and just waiting for the courage to say it properly."

Valentina shook her head. "I’m not gone."

"You either leave the marriage or you put as much effort as I do into keeping us together. I cannot give you what you want. So I’m going to go up and get a few things," he said. "I’ll have someone over to get my stuff by morning."

"Marco..."

He walked up the stairs. Valentina remained in the entrance hall. All she could do was breathe. That was the only thing holding her together. Breathing alone kept her from folding onto the marble.

Was this it? Had she lost him? Was this the sacrifice she had to make? She heard the nursery door open.

Her heart lurched. She followed up the stairs, one hand on the rail, the other pressed against her chest.

Marco stood beside Matteo’s crib, looking down at their son. The anger had left his face. He reached into the crib with careful hands and lifted Matteo’s sleeping frame gently against him, kissing his head.

Val stood in the doorway, her eyes welling with tears. He rocked Matteo gently. Their son slept against his chest, his little cheek pressed to Marco’s shoulder. Marco closed his eyes and breathed him in.

Then he placed Matteo back in the crib. When he turned, Val was still there. He walked past her. She followed him into their bedroom.

Marco picked up a small bag and began taking clothes from the closet. Val watched him, breathing too hard, tears sliding down her cheeks. Something inside her panicked at the sight of him packing.

God, he meant it. A heavy sigh tore out of her. She turned, shut the bedroom door, and locked it. She would be damned if she let her husband walk out of their home with no intention of coming back.

"I’m not letting you leave," she said softly.

Marco laughed under his breath. "I’m waiting for the army that’s going to stop me." He folded another shirt into the bag, zipped it with a sharp pull, picked it up by the handle and walked towards her.

A locked door could not stop him, and she should have known that by now. Still, Valentina stepped in front of him.

She grabbed the bag. Marco looked down at her hand.

"Val."

"I’m not going to let you leave me."

His face tightened. "Let go."

"No."

"Val, let go."

"No!" She yanked the bag towards herself, gripping the handle with both hands now as if his entire body were attached to it.

Marco’s patience snapped another thread. "I don’t want to hurt you. Let go of the damned bag."

Val shook her head. She leaned all her weight backwards, pulling at the handle fighting physics, and her husband’s superior upper body strength at the same time.

Marco found the whole thing utterly ridiculous.

Childish.

Yes, perhaps he had signed up for a measure of chaos when he married a woman twenty years younger than him. He had expected dramatics.

This was not the time and yet, somehow, it was painfully Val.

His Val.

Stubborn, maddening, and apparently convinced a leather overnight bag was the hill on which their marriage would either live or die.

"Stop this," he said. "Valentina."

"I’ll do whatever you want, Marco." Her voice broke, the fight in it crumbling into pleading. "Just please..."

"I really should go," he said. "Clearly, you have a lot of things to figure out by yourself."