"Honey, I'm home!" I yell before climbing downstairs.

As January came and went, our life settled into a routine that mocks the fifties.

I go to the office. Naz stays home except for trips to the storage unit to swap her wardrobe—despite my protests that I won't throw a fit if I see my wife in the same dress for two days running.

"We must maintain appearances," she tells me.

"Appearances or morale?" I ask every time. She leaves this one without a reply.

She hounds her brother with daily calls that go unanswered.

Eventually, I give up commenting on every girly thing that overtakes every nook and cranny of my floating bachelor pad. I just document it shouldering aside my stuff and marvel at the battalion of shoes that lines up on top of my sneakers. Her favorite exotic scent permeates my shirts. I can't say I mind that one. It's kind of nice.

Anyway, it's just until we get Luca. And if we don't, some deep, soft part of me believes that should Naz and I live in harmony to old age that would be vengeance enough.

Enough for me at least. Naz wants more. She tirelessly hacks Luca's itineraries, correspondence and accounts.

"Have patience," she tells me every night, pinning another printout to the wall of the stateroom already covered with printouts. "Nobody left for Russia yet. The right time to strike will present itself."

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night to the clicking of the keyboard. Then I lay quietly and stare at her profile illuminated by the eerie light of the laptop screen. She has an honest-to-God degree in programming, plus the knowledge not covered by any syllabus.

"Why on Earth aren't you a tech-wiz in some corporate tower?" I exclaim when she takes a break from hounding Luca to unearth a document that a certain client of mine wants faster than can be obtained through FOIP-ing a certain government department.

"Google wasn't hiring," she quips.

Of course. She never complained about our tight living quarters, but she craves a different lifestyle. That's why she's wearing her heavy diamond ring, not a wedding band I bought her. The stupid rock gets in the way of her typing or cooking, but she's a stubborn one.

And, yes, she cooks. Go figure... I'm reminded of it every time I come home, open the fridge and find a glass container ready for the microwave. Somehow, Naz always makes time to cook. Stress-relief, I guess?

Today is no exception. I investigate the fridge, find the container, a fresh bottle of kefir and some oranges. The plastic lid pops, revealing ham with bell peppers in sweet-and-sour sauce inside my lunch. Into the microwave with you!

I wait for the cycle to finish, but as the food rotates, anxiety builds in me.

Usually, Naz calls back with, "Hello, darling!" or some other nonsense, even though we're not sleeping together. Or, more precisely, we're not making love, because we share bed every single night. That's where I deviate from the bucolic image of the fifties' husband, who gleefully plowed his missus to beget five children.

Anyway, she didn't respond tonight.

The chilly fingers of premonition walk up my spine. She is what she is, so what if someone visited in my absence, to abduct or kill my trophy wife?

I listened more intently, over the whirring of the microwave.

No clickety-click of the keys.

"Naz?! Are you there?"

I lose the Sig from its holster, point it up, and hug the wall on my way down. I open the door to the stateroom, gun at the ready. "Naz?"

She rotates in the office chair by the tiny desk, presses the phone to her shoulder with her chin and waves at me.

I make a silent prayer of gratitude for not coming in like the Tasmanian Devil and tuck the gun away.

She presses the index finger to her carmine lips. The triumphant glow in her eyes tells me that she is on the verge of the breakthrough we'd been waiting for. Her brother must have cracked, just as she predicted he would.

I should be elated. Instead, my guts fill with lead. On wooden knees, I walk back to the galley, grab the box out of the microwave and swallow a bite of steaming peppers. It needs more chili sauce, but I drag it back into the stateroom to sit on the bed, chewing and waiting for Naz to get off the phone.

The crumpled spread barely covers the bed. The hamper has something caught between the fraying wicker edge and the lid. A money tree perches dangerously close to the desk's edge. Dammit, I forgot to buy a bigger pot for it... again. Just how many reminders do I need to set for it? Tomorrow, I swear.

Over our humble hearth reigns a girl in a blue dress with white stripes on the sleeves—a whimsical comment on the navy theme, I suspect—a blond braid thrown over her shoulder and a pigeon-egg sized diamond on her finger.

I lived with women before, if not for long, but I've never felt so married in my life.

Naz puts the phone on the speaker. Ilya Nazarevich's voice rambles on from the receiver.

"Mila, this is as much as I can do. Papa's perma-pissed. I don't want to imagine what he's going to do to you once he finds out you're moving against Luca."

"He'll huff, and he'll puff..." Naz silvery laughter is too tense.

Judging by Ilya's scoff, he reads her unease as well. "Fine, it's your neck. I found you the party that doesn't want the transaction to take place. I wash my hands off the rest."

"You're the best, Ilya."

Damn! I wish she smiled at me like that... then I remember she once fucked a guy who reminded her of her brother. My stomach turns. I know she didn't like it, but mentally I picture the blond giant with the deceptively slow manner on top of her—and I'm glad that their fast-paced conversation tears me away from this fucked-up image.

"Don't thank me yet. The suckers I'm putting you in touch with are flaky," Ilya warns.

"Who isn't?" Naz teases.

"Fuck it, Mila! Be serious. If salagas are happy to hit some serious motherfuckers with you, it's a bad sign."

I'm determined to not like Ilya, but his gravity is a sharp contrast with his sister's mercurial charm. They must complement one another when doing shit that I don't want to think about. Just like I don't want to think about the rando from the bar she'd mentioned, whoever he was.

Crap. Luca's enough to be jealous about. He's her real deal. His prick plowed her before mine. The only reason I've met her is because Luca stirs the passions that her pride won't let her quench. So, it twists them into something else, this hatred. We share the feeling, but I arrived there via the highway of pain, rather than love.

"All we need is a toehold and a bit of local support. We'll do the rest," Naz says blissfully to Ilya. "Right, darling?"

Her eyes smile at me, and I'll be damned! After years of everyone and their dog questioning my abilities, after being pushed aside as an inconvenient has-been, Naz smiles at me with appreciation. It's like I'm delivered from the fires of hell. Or plunged into them.

"Is Lee with you?" He can curdle milk with that tone of voice.

"Yes," I reply when Naz extends the phone to me. "I'm listening."

"Lee, don't outlive her. You'll regret it."

My jaw clenches. He can't pick the worst tack for his brotherly routine. His sister might stir conflicting emotions in me, but one thing should be made crystal-clear. His kind doesn't scare me. The mafia broke my family, left my career in shambles, but they do not scare me. What I have left isn't worth shaking over. Except for Naz, and Ilya wouldn't hurt Naz.

He also can't drag her away from me with a tank. A smile snakes on my lips with that thought.

"She's my wife, asshole." This explains everything, or it should if he has an ounce of a real man in him. Let him chew on that for a while. Figure out what I would or wouldn't do for his sister.

The pause lingers, filled only with Ilya's heavy breathing over the phone.

Naz lifts a questioning eyebrow.

I shrug and return the phone to her. I've said my piece. Let him pant.

"Ilya, don't go all morbid," Naz chimes in. "I can handle myself in a fight and Luca doesn't."

"Luca has better local contacts than you. It's practically a done deal," Ilya points out. "He's bringing Scali."

Naz scoffs. "No surprise there. Scali has been licking Paulie's boots ever since they let him into the family proper."

My face pinches in consternation at the mention of Scali. His wife's a decent woman and he fought for her tooth and nail. That's something to be respected. But if it comes to an old-school shoot-out, I want Luca against me. Hell, I hope it's Luca. Scali's a dangerous bastard. Cold. Cold and not much else, aside when it comes to his girlfriend.

"He'll be licking Luca's boots in the Caucasus."

"Then let's hope he quickly gets sick of the taste. Scali's proud and ambitious."

Her shoulders dip and rock a little. I love this sweet rocking. I've never seen anyone do it so seductively. Her breasts move under the blue chiffon... Right now would be a great time to get Ilya off the phone and work on our marriage. Fostering intimacy maybe. Or grinding out five kids like we're in the fifties.

"Stop worrying so much and send me the contacts, Ilya," Naz says. "I want to see what they have."

"Mila, if you can tear a strip out of Luca, fine, do that. Just don't start anything that'll bite us in the ass here. Because the last thing we need right now is a fuck-up with the Tangorellos."

"What happens in Sochi, stays in Sochi," she promises solemnly, but something flickers in her gray eyes. Something frigid. If Ilya saw it, I think he would have reconsidered. Yet he trusts the earnestness of her voice. Kinda like I do sometimes.

"Fine." He hangs up.

Naz tosses the receiver back on the desk phone. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, eager to open the coded message channel to receive Ilya's intel. I come around the desk to peer over her bent neck. The files are loading. The shit's getting real.

I pick up the fork and chew the last bit of ham thoughtfully, then set the dish on the floor and head over to brush my teeth. Efficiency is key in our situation without wearing thin the comic effect of bumping into one another continuously.

By the time I'm half-way done, Naz is making excited noises. Since it's not over my exceptional dental hygiene, I pop my head inside the stateroom. "Good stuff?"

"Golden!" she replies in a sing-song tone.

"Aha." I move back inside the bathroom, swish, then wipe my face. It takes thirty seconds at most, but when I'm out, Naz is practically bouncing in her chair... my chair. Our chair? Whatever, it's a piece of junk anyway.

"That good? Are we finally winning, Naz?"

"Yes!"

This one exclamation hides all the suppressed anxiety of the past few weeks. All the questions that must have assaulted her mind every time she checked her phone to see that Ilya ghosted her again.

Every negative result is also a result, platitude we exchanged whenever one of us pulled another blank. The polite, yet remote consideration we showed one another—all of this went into this one yes.

I want no more bellyaching. Tonight, we're winning. I want to celebrate.

"Oh, Ryan, darling, we must finally plan our honeymoon," Naz enthuses. "How does Sochi sound?"

"Terrific. I always dreamed of going to Sochi in February."

It's probably as dreary as any other seaside resort outside the tropics in the winter. Good thing that the glow in her eyes can melt snow and warm the sea in an instant. In her excitement, she swivels the chair and stretches toward me like a hungry baby-bird. My entire body lurches forward in response and the instinct that drives it isn't maternal.

"The Russians would want the exact dates of arrival and departure for the visas." Naz's eyes brighten with excitement beyond solving the bureaucratic puzzles.

My heart makes a slow flip in my chest, bringing time to a halt. If Naz wants to get out of that chair, by all means, let me help her. I lean forward and heave, lifting her up in my arms.

"Fuck them!" To hell with caution and consideration. We're winning! "And fuck the visas!"

Her feet dangle for a split-second, then she snuggles against my chest, hooking fingers into the collar of my shirt. To make my intentions crystal-clear, I stifle the further discussion of logistics with a kiss.

"Sochi could wait." My voice is hoarse after three weeks of taking therapeutic showers and beating around the bush. "I want you."

She brushes her lips over mine, ever so lightly. "What took you so long?"

"Moral quibbles."

"Curse those pesky, pesky things!"

Her voice drops to a purr as I carry her to the centerpiece of our stateroom, our one and only bed. That it takes two steps doesn't take away from the satisfaction of doing it. In transit, I barely let her lips leave mine, grabbing the next kiss just as the previous one ends. Let the worries take a time-out.

Her hands ruffle my hair and caress my cheeks. The long nails make the touch tentative, the fleeting strokes with just a bit of an edge.

"Sometimes I wonder if that night on the beach even happened or I dreamed it up," I whisper.

"It happened."

"Was it as good as it appears in my fantasies?"

"Better." She plucks the glasses off my face—women love doing it, I can't fathom why.

Each smile uses a lot of small muscles, but the effort softens my mouth. It finally relaxes the jaw I kept so tight while talking to Ilya. There is this expression, being sweet on someone, and that's exactly how this is.

The strawberries-and-cloves taste on my tongue from her cosmetics. Sweet tingling in my fingertips as they touch the flimsy skirt, rolling it above her knees. Inside-out the fabric is less glossy, but it ripples, settling around her waist. I peek at the gentle swell below her navel. Up and down, then up again. "Sweet."

She arches her back, adding more sweet curves. Sweet, sweet, sweet.

The state room encloses us and the bed into a cozy nook. The small space has its advantages. I need only to stretch my arm and palm the packets of condoms from the drawer. I hand one to Naz, and she deals with it in the same efficient manner she deals with everything in life. This frees me for the enviable task of removing the rest of her clothes.

Everything underneath the blouse is so much better than in my rogue dreams. I taste her neck and her shoulder, then her nipples as they emerge into my hands. I breathe in the perfume and soap. Sweet.

She slips the shirt down my shoulders, buttons already undone. Once her fingers release the zipper on my jeans, I grind into her hand, eyes fully closed, because the processing power of my brain shuts off from the sensory overload.

I was a fool to keep my distance... or maybe I wasn't. Maybe I needed these three weeks of rubbing shoulders with her and nothing else to have what I'm having today. There's only so much pleasure a soul can squeeze out of sex with a stranger, no matter how raw and ready the passion. Pleasure has layers. Sweet, sweaty layers.

The familiar mechanic ramps up.

My fingers part her skin to explore the ultimate shelter. Her ankles close around my waist as she leans back and back, inviting me to chase her if I still want her... Does she think I could have lost interest? Now?!

I give chase, my mouth searching down her neck. I've married her. This is my wife with me... I've never been so married in my life or wanted to be. I'm starved for warmth—and not only in the past weeks.

I've been starving for warmth since my life spiraled out of control and I became obsessed with burning Tangorello to the ground. The world looked black and white until I married Naz. Too stark and cold... She mixes in the shades of gray into my life so masterfully, much more of them than I ever thought possible. Gray is not a warm color, but here's to warmth!

The warmth of her body as I push inside it. Her skin closing around me, separated only by the thin film of rubber. Let's hear it for warmth!

This time, I want Naz climax before I do, so I play with everything I have, everything I can reach, looking for the right little thing.

Nonsensical words spill out of my mouth.You're mine, mine...it's for the best that my voice breaks, and that her moans cover it. I give up sentences, and just gasp to each of her moans; moan each time she gasps. The moments tick on, building up in intensity, until we are both sweaty and breathless.

I collapse, nuzzling blindly at her nipples. She carries me, hypnotically stroking my back, tracing an unknown rune, finding hairs to twirl. The hand is warm, except for the metal band: her wedding ring. Its chill sends a shiver up my spine.

The blanket, long kicked out of the way, reappears to drape my shoulders. Alas, to pick it up, she slips from under me, but then she pulls on the blanket's ends together to bag me. Which is almost as good as draping her and not nearly as good.

She pulls the blanket even tighter, bringing my lips to hers. "You're a spontaneous lover."

I drawl out a nasal, "So are you, Mila."

Naz. Mila. Naz.

In the postcoital fog, I struggle with the dilemma of her name. The men in her life all call her Mila. Luca calls her Mila.

Her hair tickles my throat when she shakes her head. "Am not!"

I wish she stopped there, but she lifts herself to one elbow and starts whispering about her past into my ear.

My spine goes rigid with resentment. The last thing I want under this blanket, from soft Naz, is the history of how she became Luca's girl. How she lain in bed with him like that too, her fingers combing the chair on his chest.

But I have asked for it on the beach, dammit! I started this horrid trend. It would be hypocritical of me to beg her, not now, please, not now!

Hence, I relax my back, vertebrae by vertebrae, instead of arching it like some old Tomcat. If today is the day she picked to trust me, I must listen. At some point, the tectonic plates in my chest had shifted. It's no longer enough for me to corner Luca. I want to dream a less desiccating dream than revenge. I want to steal his girl from him for real, even if our nature would eventually tear us apart. Until then, I want her to be mine, not just sojourning in my bed.

"Luca's obsession is to make every intercourse absolutely perfect," Naz says. I nod slowly. I hate that I have do it, but I must, so I'm listening.