A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

15. Nate

15

NATE

I used to daydream about vacations like this. When I was in my second year of teaching and doing grad school in the evenings, I would get home from work and my classes, and then I had to work on my lesson plans, or my grading, or my own assignments. Then, as I collapsed into my mattress that was just on the floor (no headboard, no box spring), I would close my eyes and fall asleep imagining days where I had no responsibilities and no obligations.

In my fantasies, my perfect day looked like this: I had no alarm set on my phone—it was charging in the kitchen, not even on my nightstand—and I would wake slowly, after fourteen hours of sleep. I would make something simple but delicious for breakfast. I could try a new recipe; I had all the time in the world after all. I would eat and maybe shower and get into fresh sweatpants, and then I would plant myself on the couch for approximately eight hours to read or watch movies or catch up on the seasons of TV I’d missed with my busy schedule. Then maybe I would go on a walk if I felt so inclined. Pick up a chocolate croissant down the street, and maybe a pizza for dinner. (At this point of the fantasy, I would usually meet a beautiful woman at the pizza shop, our orders getting mixed up, and we would laugh about the coincidence of both of us asking for extra banana peppers and olives and that woman would eventually become my wife and Ranger would love her as much as me and our three children.) I could stay up as late as I wanted and could do it all again the next day because it was my vacation and I had nowhere to be.

This sounded like true bliss.

Now, I’ve been on a nothing-to-do staycation for nine days and I am beginning to feel like I was a fool to think I would love doing nothing for this long. Day one was nice. Vanessa’s mother Claire showed me around the garden and greenhouse and together we toiled at it for a few hours, a companionable work that reminded me of my dad. Delightful.

I met the house staff; a private chef who comes a few days a week as well as the weekly housekeepers. They came before lunch and stayed until dinner, which was as delicious as you’d expect a homemade meal by a private chef to taste. Then, I wrote in my journal, took a long shower, and climbed into the pillow-top bed with the 400 thread count sheets—it felt a bit like a night in a hotel.

Really, I’ve been relatively relaxed, despite the fact that I’m sheltering for my life in a mafia household with a family of well-dressed criminals.

But now a week has passed, and increasingly, I feel like my brain might explode out of my eyes from quietly relaxing in this massive house. The gardening has been great, but it’s my one activity. Vanessa is mostly gone, though she shows up for dinner, not a hair out of place, and we politely ignore each other. Claire and Leo talk to me, while Mary either pretends I do not exist or stares at me like she’s casting some sort of incineration spell on me from her mind. Leo is actually very cool, not at all as terrifying as his build and demeanor would give off.

The only time I’ve left the Morelli estate was on Monday when I was escorted by both Leo and Vanessa’s freaky sister Mary to clean out my classroom—it turned into a whole thing. Jenna was there and she ribbed me with questions about the house, Vanessa’s family, etc. She asked if I saw them doing crimes, like if they were dragging bodies into the living room every other night, and she seemed a little let down when the answer was no. She also couldn’t resist trying to flirt with Mary, who actually cracked a small smile at Jenna’s attempts. I didn’t know Mary’s mouth moved that way, it was a shock.

In true Jenna fashion, she’d only been answering about a third of my calls and texts, and now, she’s about to pack up for a two-month trip journeying alone around Spain and then Italy and Croatia, staying in hostels and working random jobs along the way. She’s been planning this for a year, and I am certain this means she’ll be even less accessible. And I will be here, in Vanessa Morelli’s house, cooped up and going absolutely out of my mind.

Ranger is having the time of his life, though. He gets to run outside as much as he wants and is completely tuckered out by day’s end. The cook loves dogs and has been meal prepping and feeding him these raw dinners that are absolutely ruining him for dry food for the rest of his life, so that’s great for me.

I’m especially angsty about it all tonight, tossing and turning in the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in on freshly laundered sheets. After a few hours of this, I push out of bed to investigate the leftovers situation in the fridge, which is when I find Vanessa lounging on the couch watching what I immediately recognize as the second Fast and Furious movie.

I love this movie, and I won’t pretend that I don’t, so I scrounge in the fridge for a leftover piece of homemade pizza and settle on the far end of the couch, as far away from her as I can be. She closes a folder full of papers she was looking at before turning to assess me with her face neutral. She’s not wearing any makeup and she has a light smattering of freckles on the tops of her cheeks and across her nose. Also, these freaking glasses I’ve never seen. Clear rounded frames that she takes off and sets on top of the file folder she was looking at.

Reading glasses? Vanessa Morelli doesn’t have perfect vision?

She wears a hoodie I see her in sometimes, oversized and faded with BOSTON across the chest, and the tiniest pair of shorts that I avoid looking at. Vanessa pulls a blanket across her bare legs.

“Do you like this movie?” She nods at the TV.

“Of course.” The second movie is not the best of the franchise by any means, but it might be in my top four. “It’s pure fun. We meet Roman and Tej who are basically unrecognizable from their characters by number seven.”

She looks me over like it’s a surprise to hear that a 30 year old man would be interested in the most iconic racing and action franchise of the last two decades. I was seven when the first one came out, it was like my bible.

“It is,” she says, and looks back at the TV.

We watch for a while, me chewing bites of my cold pizza and her resting her head on her propped-up fist. It’s something to do, and it makes me feel less lonely even if it’s Vanessa I’m sitting with.

“Have you been comfortable here?” Vanessa asks after another twenty minutes of the movie quietly playing from the screen. Her voice startles me from the warm quiet that enveloped us.

“I’ve been comfortable,” I say, then shrug.

“What is it?”

“No, I mean, I am comfortable. You have a wonderful home.” The nicest house I’ve ever seen in person, with collectibles displayed on shelves like I might display little Lego sets, and a staff . It’s not a house so much as it is an Architectural Digest home tour. The video would be called something like “Inside Vanessa Morelli’s Stunning Boston Estate” and Vanessa would lead the tour with aplomb and humble charisma.

“The bed is great,” I add.

Vanessa rolls her eyes. “But what?”

“But what, what? I said I like it.”

“No, you said you were comfortable. That’s not?—”

“I’m bored,” I say before she can pick apart my response more. Her pretty little mouth rounds into an O. “Out of my fucking mind bored. I haven’t chilled this much since middle school and even then, my mom had me in summer basketball leagues.”

“You want to play basketball?”

“Well, maybe,” I say. “I’ve just been sitting around. All day. I haunt your house, eat your food, and bother your mom?—”

“You’ve been helping her in the garden,” she corrects. “She loves it.”

“There’s only so much gardening to be done. It’s not a farm, Vanessa.”

Vanessa crosses her arms over her chest, a gesture that’s becoming a familiar sign of her thinking. “What then? Do you want an XBOX? What’s a hobby you’ve been dying to get into but felt like you never had time for or couldn’t afford? Just say?—”

“No, like I’m thinking about applying for a job.” Though the offer of getting into a hobby free of charge is tempting.

“Isn’t it your summer break? Why do you want to work during your break?”

“It is, but I usually travel a little and go down to Connecticut and help my dad with his bookkeeping for two months.”

“You want to do my books?”

This is very much not what I meant—for one, I don’t want to be culpable of any of her money laundering schemes or whatever it is she does. “No, that was just an example; I can do books.”

“I have a team of accountants on my payroll, salaried with benefits. Plus, lest you forget that one week ago you were calling me a rotten criminal so, no, I’m not letting you near my books.”

In a cartoonish display of frustration, I throw my hands up and let them fall back to my lap. “I didn’t say I want to get near your books. It was just an example,” I say again. “I can do many jobs. I am exceptionally capable.”

Vanessa has the gall to look wary of this.

“I’m thinking about applying for a remote customer service gig. Or maybe getting some new certifications.”

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 of The Vampire Diaries counts 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 with me .

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? Like The 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.

“What?” I ask, afraid of the thought that’s making her look like she’s on the brink of a scientific discovery.

Vanessa takes a deep inhale through her nose. “I will hire you to interview them.”

Oh.

She’s lost her mind .

“Vet them for me,” she says, rushed. “You were just saying you want a job and you’re right; I can’t take this massive project on alone. Too busy.”

“That is a ridiculous idea.”

“No, think about it, you’d be great! It would keep you busy. Leo will be your bodyguard.”

“What would I even ask them?”

“Up to you,” she shrugs. “That’s part of the job. I’ll pay you. Bunches.”

As compelling as being paid bunches sounds, Vanessa is most definitely not thinking clearly. If she was, she would just tell me to fuck off and stop complaining, or something. Not this.

“I’m not working for the mafia, Vanessa,” I insist.

“You wouldn’t be working for the mafia, you’d be working for me.”

“What’s the difference?”

Vanessa levels a wry glance my way. “I exist outside of my job.”

“How very humanist of you,” I snipe, but she waves me off.

“Whatever.” Vanessa stands up and stretches her arms over her head making her sweatshirt reveal a sliver of her stomach. “Do it, or don’t. I don’t care.”

The credits roll on the TV, the last of the movie having passed by without me realizing.

I’m inclined to believe that she’s joking, but really, how often does Vanessa Morelli joke?

I let myself imagine what this would look like, me vetting her list of criminals to find her perfect mafioso spouse so that she can make little mafia babies.

“It’s not safe,” I say, my voice quieter than I would like.

“You’d have Leo,” she points out. “He’s a good fighter. One of the best.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he is.” The man is absurdly massive, he would probably have a successful fighting career if he wasn’t into organized crime. “But the night of the wedding and then again in my apartment,” I trail off for a moment, remembering the blood, the three bodies drained of life in front of me. “I was useless.”

Vanessa presses her lips together into a tight line, but there’s something sympathetic in her dark brown eyes. I swallow the lump that’s found its way to my throat.

She’s hearing what I haven’t said. That I’m scared all the damn time, even in her fortress mansion, because someone could come for me at any time and no amount of beginner kickboxing classes at the Y would save me.

“Did you bring gym clothes?” Vanessa asks.

I blink at the question. “I brought some.” Or I think I did, at least.

“We’ll train you,” she says, like it’s simple. Decision made. Vanessa shuts off the TV and stands.

I stand, too. It’s still a shock looking down at her without her heels. “What?”

“You want to be safe? We’ll teach you.” Vanessa nods. “Meet in the basement at 5 PM tomorrow.”

“Oh, I—” My tongue is uselessly searching for syllables. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She pats my arm like she’s my coach and this was a good talk. “If you get bored, come up with a list of questions and have them on my desk by Friday. My family might have some ideas.”

Vanessa sidesteps me and begins walking out of the living room, clicking off lamps as she goes.

“I’ll think about it,” I say, still gaping at her like an idiot.

“Give me an answer sooner than later.” She smiles again. I hate how much I love to see it. “But at least take me up on the training. You can’t be bored if you’re physically exhausted.”