Chapter 4 - The Rogers Park Reality Check
Twenty-four hours after the wedding, the illusion of glamour evaporated the moment I unlocked the front door of my third-floor apartment in Rogers Park and inhaled the familiar, comforting scent of microwaved macaroni and cheap vanilla detergent.
"Mommy!"
A blur of pink pajamas and wild brown curls launched itself across the linoleum floor, colliding straight into my shins with the force of a small, ecstatic missile.
I dropped my purse and knelt down, wrapping my arms around my five-year-old daughter and burying my face in her hair. "Hey, peanut. Did you miss me?"
"A million percent!" Nora pulled back, her big brown eyes—so much like Connor's it used to hurt, though now I refused to let it—scanning my face with critical evaluation. "Did you bring me cake? Aunt Claire promised there would be cake."
"Aunt Claire had a lot of cake, but I forgot to grab a piece. I'm sorry, baby." I kissed the top of her head, standing up and closing the door behind me.
My best friend Priya emerged from the tiny kitchen holding a mug of decaf tea, her dark hair pulled up into a messy bun. She took one look at my face—and then down at my left hand, which I had forgotten to hide—and froze in the doorway.
"Okay," Priya said slowly, leaning against the doorframe. "Before you say a single word about how the wedding went, explain the chandelier strapped to your left ring finger."
I groaned, tossing my keys onto the chipped laminate kitchen counter and sinking into one of the mismatched wooden chairs at our tiny kitchen table. "It's a long story. A very long, completely insane, potentially life-ruining story."
Priya set her mug down with a sharp clack and rushed across the room, grabbing my left hand and holding it up to the overhead fluorescent light. The massive oval diamond caught the harsh light and threw rainbows across our peeling wallpaper.
"Maren Elise," Priya breathed, her eyes wide as saucers. "Is this real? Did Connor suddenly win the lottery and develop a conscience?"
"No. Connor is currently on his honeymoon in Cabo with Paige, probably complaining about how much the resort costs."
"Then whose—" Priya stopped, her jaw dropping. "Wait. Did you rob a jeweler on the way home? Did you mug an heiress?"
"I met a man."
"A man," Priya repeated flatly. "A man who casually handed you a ring that looks like it belongs on the cover of Town & Country?"
"His name is Matteo Salvano," I whispered, glancing automatically toward the hallway to make sure Nora was still distracted by her coloring books in the living room. "And... technically speaking... I might be married to him."
Priya pulled out the chair opposite me, sat down very deliberately, and stared at me for ten full seconds. "Define technically."
For the next twenty minutes, I poured out the entire disastrous, surreal sequence of events: Connor’s parting condescension, the strange stranger by the bar, the fake elopement, the terrified blonde named Evelyn, and finally, Matteo’s proposition to extend the charade for six months in exchange for total social immunity and protection from my mother’s relentless nagging.
When I finished, Priya was staring at me with a mixture of profound awe and sheer terror.
"You married a mob boss," she said.
"I didn't marry him! It's a fake marriage! A business arrangement!"
"Maren, people in fake marriages don't usually walk away with five-carat blood diamonds! Do you know who Matteo Salvano is?"
I hesitated. "He... he mentioned his uncle has business associates?"
"His uncle is Donato Salvano," Priya hissed, leaning across the table. "He runs half the import-export docks on the South Side and owns half the real estate downtown. People don't just chat with Matteo Salvano at weddings, Maren. They cross the street when they see him coming."
A cold knot formed in my stomach. "He didn't seem like a monster. He was... calm. He was the only person in that entire room who didn't look at me like I was a broken toy."
Priya softened instantly, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "I know, sweetie. Your family has been brutal to you since Connor left. I don't blame you for wanting to stick it to them. But getting tangled up with the Chicago underworld? That’s not a fairy tale. That’s a thriller novel waiting to go off."
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed loudly on the table.
It was an unknown number, displaying a local Chicago area code.
My heart did a strange, erratic flip against my ribs. I picked it up, staring at the screen for three seconds before swiping to answer and putting it on speaker.
"Hello?"
"Did you make it home safe, Mrs. Salvano?"
Matteo’s deep, gravelly voice filled the quiet kitchen, instantly crowding out the hum of our sputtering refrigerator.
Priya made a strangled sound of panic and slapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes darting between me and the phone.
"I'm home, Mr. Salvano," I said, trying and failing to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "And my phone number is private. How did you get it?"
"I'm a resourceful man," he replied, sounding entirely unbothered. "More importantly, your mother has already called three separate family members this morning trying to verify the name of the downtown chapel where we supposedly tied the knot at 8:00 a.m. yesterday."
My blood ran cold. "She's investigating us?"
"She's suspicious because you didn't invite her to pick out flowers," Matteo corrected dryly. "Which means we need to establish a public footprint. There's a charity gala at the Drake Hotel this Friday night. My car will pick you and Nora up at six."
"Wait—Nora? You want me to bring my five-year-old daughter to a mafia charity gala at the Drake?!"
"She likes Italian pastries, doesn't she?" Matteo asked smoothly. "The chef at the Drake makes cannoli that will change her life. Wear something blue. I'll see you Friday, Maren."
The line went dead with a soft click.
I lowered the phone slowly, staring at the screen in stunned silence.
May you like
Priya dropped her hands, her expression a mix of absolute horror and reluctant fascination. "Okay," she whispered. "The cannoli line? Kind of iconic."
"Priya, I'm losing my mind," I groaned, dropping my head straight down onto the wooden table with a soft thud.
