nineteen
1570 Words
Marco
IT APPEARS I AM GOING TO HAVE TO f**k MY WIFE. She has a very bad attitude, and it has been two weeks since our wedding night.
Two weeks of glaring, and the silent treatment, oh, and don't forget her sarcastic remarks, or how she conveniently forgets to text me when she's staying out late, or going to a bar with her co-workers.
This s**t is going to end. Now. I don't have patience for a twenty five year old woman to be throwing a f*****g temper tantrum, because I didn't f**k her.
Fine.
I'll give her what she wants, but she is going to learn not to play jealousy because it will not end well. For anyone.
Right now, I'm watching her talk to the bartender at an event one of my associates threw. Instead of doing what I came here to do, I am watching my devil of a wife flirt with a man she doesn't even know.
She doesn't care to know, it's not about him, it is about showing me that she gets what she wants one way or another.
Two weeks. Two f*****g weeks, of f*****g hell, all because I didn't give her my c**k on demand.
Some woman opened her mouth, probably to say something flirty but ditzy.
I just held up my left hand. “Married.”
“I'm sure—”
She is still here?
“I am sure I am married, therefore, I am sure you should move on. My wife is a crazy—” I look up the scared woman with a sigh.
“Just go.” She scurries away like a bat out of hell.
Not too far from the truth...
My patience snaps when I see her accept his number. Slamming down my whiskey, I get up, because now that I have a wife, I have to baby sit.
Coming behind her, I snatch the napkin from her hands, shake it at him, make sure he sees it, take out my lighter and reduce it to ashes.
“This is no more. She is married and I am her husband.” I glare down at her.
Turning back to the suddenly pale man, I smile which I'm sure comes out manic.
“Now get out of my sight before I lodge a bullet in your heart.”
My smile widens, making him shift. “I promise I'll get away with it.”
He disappeared.
“Let's go home, devil wife of mine.” Looking at her bag I snort. “Well, what do you know. The devil really does wear Prada. Move faster.”
My hand grips her hip tightly. We walk into the cold November air, making me shed my suit jacket draping it over her shoulders while we wait for the valet.
“Don't look so grateful. I am only doing it so you can't use pneumonia to get out of the two weeks of hell that await you.”
“Oh, look, there's the car!”
She's fidgety, playing with her hands, bouncing her leg. Unfortunately for her, it is far too late to be nervous now. She should've been nervous when she was flashing her cleavage with my ring on her finger.
Being that she wasn't I figure she can handle anything.
Angel doesn't understand how well that went. How grateful she should be that I'm not in Cosa Nostra. That could've easily ending far worse.
Instead of warning him, I would've just shot him, and depending on the member we are talking about, her too.
“So, I'm—”
“Shut up.”
That ends her nervous apology speech.
The car rolls up to the house, and I thank Sergio, getting out of the car, dragging my reluctant wife out of the car.
What, did she think, Sergio would protect her?
I like the guy, but I will kill him. Push comes the shove, I will kill him.
“Stop dragging your feet,” I grit, having to practically carry her to the front door.
“Do not make me have to carry you, Angel.”
Especially since everytime I see that dress I get pissed all over. It plunges all the way down to her stomach just about, barely hiding anything.
It's an infernal contraption, too short, too tight and far too revealing.
We finally get to the door, quickly getting into the house.
“Signorina Faustina, I am home!” There's some footsteps and then here she is, with an aged but joyful smile, holding sleepy Sera.
Angel stands there, unsure what to do.
“Let me see her before her mother puts her to bed.”
Ms. Faustina puts Sera in my arms, who yawns cutely, rubbing her eyes, and blinking.
“Hello Principessa,” I nuzzle her nose with mine. “Did you stay awake so Mama and Dada can put you to sleep?”
She babbles slowly and tiredly, the words Mama and Dada thrown in there somewhere.
I kiss her goodnight, then tell her good night in Italian and English, before handing her to her mother.
Angel looks at Sera as if she were part of a conspiracy theory.
“It is your turn to put her to bed, remember?”
Eyeing me suspiciously, she nods slowly before marching to the baby's room, cooing and kissing her face.
Her face is just so kissable. She's cutest little thing ever, in the world, and Dada tells her so all time.
Perhaps I shouldn't do that. Don't want her to be conceited.
Nonna peeps around the corner, standing behind me judgementally. She was here for a few days to tend to some things in the house. But that's not what she was doing.
“Non mi piace quella ragazza. Avresti dovuto sposare una donna italiana.”
(I don't like that girl. You should've married an Italian woman.)
I sigh. Not this again.
Ever since the wedding, which she was at, my Grandmother has been grumbling and complaining about Angel.
“Nonna, per favore. Non ancora questo. Lei è mia moglie. Devi rispettarla.”
(Nonna, please. Not this again. She is my wife. You must respect her.)
“No, non lo faccio. Che tipo di moglie indossa quel tipo di abito di puttana? Sicuramente non un italiano—”
(No I don't. What kind of wife wears that type of w***e dress? Surely not an Italian—)
“Basta! Enough. Non è italiana. Il reclamo non lo farà italiano, e non mi farà sostituirla. Mi farà arrabbiare, però.
(She is not Italian. Complaining will not make her Italian, and it will not make me replace her. It will make me angry, though.)
“Very well, Marco.”
She looks down making me feel guilty.
“Nonna—”
“I understand.”
“Why is it every time a woman says that she doesn't understand?” I grumble under my breath a bit bitterly.
I kiss her cheek, which takes some stooping, and give her a hug.
“Ti amo, Nonna. But you must respect my wife. Even if you don't like her, sì?”
(I love you, grandma.)
“Sì.”
And that was that... For then.
I ENTER HER ROOM, finding her in her underwear and bra. She looks up at me with a shriek.
“What are you—”
“Come,” I interrupted her, holding out my hand.
After staring at it for several minutes, she finally takes it.
I pull her with me into my bedroom.
“What are we doing here?”
Ignoring her question. I grab her hips pull her closer to me.
“Undress me, Angel.”
She blinks at me.
“Quickly, per favore.”
That kick starts her, her hands fumbling with my tie, then my dress shirt.
Meanwhile, my hands rest on her hips, as I watch her. One would think she is the perfect little wife.
One would be wrong.
“What was the bartender's name?” That makes her fumble, hands tripping over themselves.
“Oh! No lo sè, I-I don't know.”
Her breathing changes.
“Veramente?” I murmur, my grip on her hips tightening.
“You seemed very interested in him little wife, I'd think you knew his name.”
(Really?)
“No. I don't. I'm done, so I'm gonna—”
“Stay here? Yes, that is what is you are going to do.”
Her eyes flit about, her hands wringing nervously.
“Why would you leave? Two weeks you have drove me pazzo, because I didn't f**k you. So now I will.”
(Crazy)
“I don't want to make you do something you don't want to do.”
Lame ass excuse.
“The hell you say. It had nothing to do with me not wanting you, and if you had listened to me, you would know that.”
Wearing nothing but boxers, I sit on the edge of my bed.
“Now come here, and sit on my lap little wife.”
Hesitant, she steps towards me in a snail pace.
When she is in front of me, I give no options, yanking her on my lap, so she straddles me.
“Kiss me, moglie. I am your husband. You know my name. You just need to scream it a few times before you get it in your head correctly.”
Grabbing the back of her head, I bring her lips to mine.
- Writer
