THE CONTRACT
3517 Words
BRIAN
City hall is depressing as f**k. Fluorescent lights. Plastic chairs. Couples filling out paperwork with bored expressions. This is where people come when they don’t have money for a real wedding. Or when they’re doing it for convenience. Green cards. Insurance. Tax breaks.
Or revenge.
Maria’s quiet. She’s been quiet since we left her apartment. Sitting in the back of my car, staring out the window, fingers absently touching the marks on her throat.
Vincent’s marks.
I’m going to kill him. I decided that the moment Marco sent me the security alert. The moment I saw Vincent entering her building. I just need to figure out how. Make it look like an accident. Or a rival family. Something that won’t blow back on me.
Because Vincent’s right about one thing—family’s everything in this world. You betray family, you’re done. Finished. Every crew in New York will turn on you.
But Maria’s family now. Or will be in about an hour. And family protects family.
Even if it means destroying your own brother.
“Brian?” Maria’s voice pulls me back. “We’re here.”
Right. City hall. Marriage. The beginning of my extremely f****d-up plan.
We walk inside. Marco stays with the car. Security. Just in case Vincent decides to make another move.
The clerk looks bored. “Names?”
“Brian Valente. Maria Santos.”
She types. “IDs?”
We hand them over. She checks. Types more. “Witnesses?”
Fuck. I forgot about witnesses.
“We don’t have—”
“I’ll do it.” An older woman in the waiting area stands up. “I love weddings. Even these sad city hall ones.”
Her husband sighs. “Diane, leave them alone.”
“Oh hush. They need witnesses.” She comes over. Smiles at Maria. “Congratulations, honey. You look terrified. That’s normal. I was terrified when I married George. Forty years ago.” She leans closer. Whispers, “He’s an asshole but the s*x is great.”
Maria almost smiles. Almost.
“Thanks,” she says.
We wait. The clerk processes paperwork with all the enthusiasm of someone processing parking tickets. Finally, she looks up.
“Judge Bradley’s ready. Follow me.”
The ceremony room is small. Beige walls. American flag in the corner. Judge Bradley’s an older Black man with kind eyes and a patient expression. He’s probably seen thousands of these. Pregnant teenagers. Green card marriages. People running from something.
People like us.
“Brian Valente?” He shakes my hand. “Maria Santos?” Shakes hers. “Welcome. I understand you’re here without family or friends. That’s fine. Mrs. Patterson and Mr. Patterson will serve as witnesses.” He opens his book. “This will be quick and simple. Any questions before we start?”
“No,” I say.
Maria doesn’t say anything.
“Alright then.” He begins. “We’re gathered here today to witness the marriage of Brian Valente and Maria Santos…”
The words wash over me. Standard vows. Do you take. For better or worse. Till death do you part.
Such bullshit. Marriage isn’t forever. It’s a contract. A transaction. A means to an end.
Except when I look at Maria, something in my chest tightens.
She’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt. No makeup. Hair pulled back. She looks young. Scared. Beautiful.
And I’m marrying her.
Making her mine.
Putting her in danger.
“Brian?” The judge is waiting. “Do you take Maria to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
“And Maria? Do you take Brian to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Silence. She’s staring at me. Those dark eyes seeing too much.
Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.
“Maria?” the judge prompts gently.
“I do.”
Relief floods through me. “Thank fuck.”
The judge raises an eyebrow. “That’s not typical wedding commentary, but alright.” He closes the book. “By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I pull Maria close. She’s stiff in my arms. Resistant.
“Relax,” I whisper. “We’re married now. You’re safe.”
“Am I?”
I kiss her before she can second-guess. Before she can pull away. Before I can think too hard about what I’ve just done.
Her lips are soft. Hesitant at first. Then she kisses me back and it’s—
Different. Not like the frantic f*****g in my apartment. Not like the angry s*x against windows and on desks. This is slower. Softer. Almost tender.
I don’t do tender. Don’t know how. But with Maria, I want to try.
We break apart. The Pattersons are clapping. The judge is smiling.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re officially married. The certificate will be mailed in seven to ten business days.”
That’s it. Done. Married.
I just married a woman I’ve known for three months. A woman who was planning to destroy me. A woman I’m now legally responsible for protecting.
A woman I might be falling for.
We sign papers. Mrs. Patterson cries. Mr. Patterson rolls his eyes but shakes my hand and wishes us luck.
Outside, the sun’s setting. Manhattan’s rush hour traffic is a symphony of horns and frustration.
“We need to get you packed,” I say. “You’re moving in tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“The sooner the better. Vincent knows where you live. It’s not safe.”
“My roommate—”
“I’ll pay her rent through the end of the year. She’ll be fine.”
Maria’s quiet. Processing. “This is real.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re actually married.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t even know your middle name.”
“Michael.” I open the car door for her. “Brian Michael Valente. My mother’s father’s name.”
She gets in. I slide in beside her. Marco pulls away from the curb.
“What’s yours?” I ask.
“Maria Angela Santos. After my grandmother.”
“Pretty.”
“Thanks.” She’s looking out the window again. “So what happens now?”
“Now we go to my place. You move in. Tomorrow we tell the family. And then—” I take her hand. She doesn’t pull away. “Then we start planning Vincent’s downfall.”
“Together.”
“Together.” I bring her hand to my lips. Kiss her knuckles. She shivers. “You’re mine now, Maria. Legally. Officially. And I protect what’s mine.”
“Even from your own family?”
“Especially from my own family.”
We drive in silence. Manhattan becomes the Upper East Side. Luxury high-rises. Doormen. Old money and new crime mixing seamlessly.
My building’s one of the nicest. Twenty-four-hour security. Private elevators. The kind of place that asks questions without asking questions.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Valente,” the doorman says when we walk in.
Maria flinches at the name. But she doesn’t correct him.
In the elevator, she’s tense. Quiet. I pull her close.
“Talk to me,” I say.
“What do you want me to say?”
“What you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking I just married a mobster in city hall with strangers as witnesses and now I’m moving into his penthouse and tomorrow I have to pretend to be in love with him in front of his family who might kill me if they find out the truth.” She looks at me. “How’s that?”
“Honest.”
“You asked.”
The elevator opens. My floor. She walks in ahead of me. Looks around like she’s seeing it for the first time.
Which, I guess, she is. As my wife.
“The guest room’s made up,” I say. “You can take that. Or—”
“Or?”
“Or you can stay in mine. With me.”
She turns. Studies my face. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I sleep better when you’re there. Because the bed’s big enough for both of us. Because—” I step closer. “Because I want you to.”
“Want and need are different things.”
“I know.” I cup her face. “I want you, Maria. Have since the first night. Every night. And now you’re my wife. My actual f*****g wife. So yeah. I want you in my bed.”
“What if I don’t want—”
I kiss her. She melts into me immediately. Proof that she’s lying. Proof that she wants this too, even if she won’t admit it.
When we break apart, she’s breathing hard.
“Okay,” she whispers.
“Okay?”
“I’ll stay in your room. But—” She presses her hand to my chest. “I need to shower. Change. Process. This has been the weirdest day of my life and I’m running on no sleep and—”
“Go.” I step back. “Take your time. I’ll order dinner.”
She disappears into the bedroom. I hear the shower start. Stand there in my living room—our living room now—and try to figure out what the f**k I’ve just done.
Married a civilian. A student. Someone with no ties to the life. Someone innocent.
Someone who’s going to get hurt because of me.
My phone buzzes. Text from Vincent:
Congratulations on your marriage. See you at family dinner tomorrow. Don’t be late.
Fuck.
He knows. Of course he knows. Has spies everywhere. Probably knew before I did.
I text back:
We’ll be there.
Then I call Marco.
“Yeah, boss?”
“I need you to run a full security sweep. Maria’s mom. Her friends. Anyone she cares about. Make sure they’re protected.”
“Already done. Got guys on her mom. Two watching Isabella Moretti. Her roommate too, just in case.”
“Good.” I pour myself scotch. Down it in one swallow. “What about Vincent?”
“He’s at the mansion. Having dinner with your father. Probably plotting your untimely death.”
“That’s comforting.”
“You want me there tomorrow? At family dinner?”
“No. I need you on Maria’s mom. If anything happens—”
“Nothing will happen. I got it covered.”
I hang up. Pour more scotch. Stare out at the city lights.
Somewhere out there, Vincent’s planning his next move. My father’s probably disowning me for marrying without permission. The whole family’s going to be furious.
But Maria’s safe. That’s what matters.
The shower turns off. A few minutes later, she emerges in one of my t-shirts and nothing else. Hair wet. Skin glowing. Looking like she belongs here.
Looking like mine.
“Feel better?” I ask.
“A little.” She walks over. Takes the scotch from my hand. Drinks. “This is expensive.”
“Everything I have is expensive.”
“Must be nice.”
“It’s lonely.” I pull her close. “Was lonely. Before you.”
“Don’t.” She puts her hand over my mouth. “Don’t say things like that. Don’t make this more than it is.”
I move her hand. “What is it, then?”
“A contract. A business arrangement. Revenge wrapped in a wedding ring.”
“You’re right.” I spin her around. Press her against the window. Her breath fogs the glass. “So let’s keep it business. Marriage isn’t real unless you consummate it, right?”
Her eyes widen. “We already—”
“That was before. This is after. This is official.” I slide my hand under the t-shirt. Find her bare. Ready. “This is me claiming my wife.”
“Brian—”
“Say no. Tell me to stop. Tell me you don’t want this.”
She can’t. Won’t. Doesn’t.
Instead she pushes back against me. Permission. Invitation.
I take her standing up. Rough at first, then slower. Making it last. Making her feel it. Every thrust is a promise. A claim. A brand.
You’re mine. Mine. Mine.
She comes first, gasping my name like a prayer. I follow seconds later, buried deep, marking her from the inside out.
After, we collapse onto the couch. Tangled together. Breathing hard.
“We should eat,” she says.
“Food can wait.”
“We should talk. About tomorrow. About the family.”
“Later.”
“Brian—”
“Maria.” I look at her. “Can we just… be? For five minutes? No planning. No plotting. Just this?”
She studies my face. Then nods. “Okay. Five minutes.”
We lie there. Her head on my chest. My hand in her hair. The city glowing outside.
Five minutes turns to ten. Then twenty. Then she falls asleep and I carry her to bed, tuck her in, lie beside her in the dark.
And for the first time in years, I sleep without nightmares.
Because she’s here. My wife. My partner. My Maria.
And tomorrow, when we face the family, when Vincent tries to tear us apart, when everything goes to hell.
We’ll face it together.
The way it’s supposed to be.
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