Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)

I could have done more, but I didn’t have the budget. At least now instead of looking like the sketchy kind of place the health department is always one stop from shutting down, it looks like a charming pizza place run by a hapless old man who can make a pizza that tastes so good you want to cry when it’s gone—which is exactly what it is. And really, once you taste the pizza, you’re sold anyway. Getting people in the door was the problem.

Anyway, Rafe doesn’t know any of that. Sin must not have mentioned it even after last night. I consider telling Rafe he’s the one who paid for the improvements, but just in case he’d get mad at Sin for letting me be productive instead of wasting everyone’s time with undue violence, I keep my mouth shut and shuffle forward as the customer in front of us retrieves his pizza and makes his way out the door.

Giordano’s leathery face softens with a smile and his brown eyes twinkle at the sight of me. “Virginia! Eccolo qua, il mio tesorino.”

I grin and meet him halfway around the counter for a hug. He pats my back heartily, and I tell him in Italian how good it is to see him.

When I pull back, Rafe is scowling. I suppose it’s probably because Giordano is calling me endearments and he has no idea why, but I don’t have time to explain.

The jovial expression drops off Giordano’s face when he meets Rafe’s gaze, but he nods once in stiff acknowledgement. I get the impression the older man would rather spit at his feet than offer even his grudging respect, but he knows better.

Turning his attention back to me, Giordano asks, “What brings you in, tesorino?”

I’m not immediately sure I want to say, but Rafe lifts my left hand, smiling mildly at the older man. “Wedded bliss.”

Giordano stares at the gold band on my finger, then looks back at my face, stunned. “You married him?”

In an attempt to make things look more amicable than they are, I free my left hand from Rafe’s and slide my arm around his waist. “I sure did. He’s paying tonight, so make sure you charge me extra,” I joke.

Neither man smiles. Tough room.

Slipping away from the awkward moment, I go over to the refrigerated cooler and grab myself and Rafe some beverages to go with our meal. When I get back to the register, Rafe is paying. He slides a glance my way as I put the drinks on the counter to make sure Giordano saw them and charged us. When I come in alone, he always feeds me for free since I helped him out, but he’s a small business owner and Rafe has more money than he’ll ever need, so I would tell Giordano to charge him for napkins if I could.

Hunched with his general aura of displeasure, Giordano makes his way to the back to start making our pizza. I look at the receipt and see Rafe ordered us salads to start. Since Giordano appears to be working alone tonight, I tell Rafe I’ll be back and head behind the counter. Back when I was helping him fix the place up, I occasionally volunteered my services and helped in the back on my night off from the restaurant each week, so he shouldn’t be too surprised to see me behind the counter, even though I’m a customer tonight.

Giordano is standing in front of a flour-covered table, tying his once-white apron when I get back there. I don

’t know whether he forgot about the salads, or he planned to make them after, but he seems distracted.

“Hey, do you mind if I make our salads while you make the pizza?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “Go ahead.” After a moment, he says, “Hey, come here.”

I put down the salad plates and approach him, thinking maybe he needs me to grab something for him.

Instead of asking for help with anything, he leans closer and asks me, “What’d you marry a shithead like him for, huh? Nice girl like you could do a lot better.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Giordano, that’s not nice.”

“He’s not nice,” he states unapologetically. “Testa di merda, that’s what he is.”

Leveling him a stern look, I tell him, “That’s my husband you’re talking about.”

Shaking his head with unwavering disapproval, he says, “Well, I hope that miserable thug makes you happy, tesorino.”

“Good lord,” I mutter to myself, going over to make the salads. Glancing back over my shoulder, I tell him, “You shouldn’t say things like that, Giordano. Not to me, and not to anyone else.”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” he insists. “You wanted an Italian man, I have a widowed son I could have set you up with. Much better than that one.”

I’m not sure if I’m more annoyed at myself for the protective instincts rearing up, urging me to defend Rafe, or Giordano for saying things that would bring Sin right back to his doorstep if Rafe overheard. I don’t even know what my responsibilities are anymore. As Rafe’s wife, I guess I should demand he be respected in my presence, but… well, he has been a bit of a shithead.

Either way, Giordano shouldn’t say so. I finish making the salads and head back out to the dining room, figuring Giordano’s bluster will blow over once the news isn’t so new anymore. Thankfully, Rafe is waiting at the table he picked out for us, not eavesdropping.

“What was that?” Rafe asks.

I freeze, thinking he means everything Giordano just said. “What?”

Eyebrows rising, he nods at the cash register. “I didn’t think Giordano liked anyone, but you two are thick as thieves.”