Page 83 of The Wrong Man

I fail.

“So,” I hear myself say. “Ginni is very pretty.”

Dante keeps eating. Doesn’t even look up.

“Yes.”

One word. Flat and uninflected. Giving nothing away.

The ugly feeling in my stomach intensifies. I should drop it. I should absolutely drop it. This is none of my business, and pursuing it will only lead to awkwardness and possibly danger.

“Is he...” I swallow hard. “Is he your boy?”

Boy, not boyfriend, because dangerous men sometimes keep pretty boys for fun. No feelings involved. No sexuality questioned. A practice that’s frowned upon but tolerated in certain circles.

Dante chokes on his toast.

He actually chokes, coughing and sputtering, reaching for his coffee to wash down whatever went wrong. When he finally looks at me, his expression is caught somewhere between horrified and incredulous.

“Cristo!” He shakes his head vehemently. “Hell no! Ginni is a capo’s wife.”

I blink. Process. Blink again.

“Oh.” Relief floods through me, followed immediately by embarrassment. “Oh, Ginni is a girl? I’m so sorry, I just assumed from the... the general...”

Dante shakes his head again. “No, Ginni is a man. But he prefers to be called Carlo’s wife instead of husband.”

I stare at him.

There’s a lot to unpack here. A lot that doesn’t fit with my assumptions about how criminal organizations work. The crime family I was born into, the O’Sheas, with their rigid hierarchies and brutal enforcement of traditional values, would never have accepted something like this. A capo with a male wife? Using feminine terms by choice? Dressing like that? They would have... well. I don’t like to think about what they would have done.

But apparently this family is different. Apparently Dante’s employers are perfectly fine with gay marriage and unconventional gender identities.

Who knew the Italian mafia would be more progressive than the Irish one?

“That’s...” I search for the right word. “That’s surprisingly accepting.”

Dante shrugs. “Carlo is valuable. Ginni makes him happy. The family is practical about such things.”

Practical. Right. Because love is acceptable as long as it doesn’t interfere with business.

Still, it’s more than I expected. More than I grew up with. More than I ever thought I’d find in the criminal underworld. More grace than I was ever given.

And then a different thought pushes its way to the front of my mind, shoving aside all the sociological observations and old wounds.

“You agreed Ginni is pretty!”

The words burst out before I can stop them. Dante’s eyebrows rise.

“You said yes.” I can feel heat climbing up my cheeks, but I can’t seem to shut up. “When I said he was pretty, you agreed. Does that mean you... you’re attracted to men?”

The moment the question leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. Holy Mary, what am I doing? This family might be surprisingly lenient, but still, outright asking a mafia torturer about his sexuality is not generally conducive to continued good health. Men have died for less. Men have been beaten and broken and left in ditches for daring to suggest that someone like Dante might be anything other than rigidly, violently heterosexual.

But Dante doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look offended or threatening or any of the things I might have expected.

He just looks at me. Those dark eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

“Yes,” he says.