Page 156 of Wounded King

"Well, I don't know what to wear," I pout.

He walks into my closet; the space is big enough that he does not dwarf it, but his presence still makes it look smaller.

"This should work." He pulls out a pair of designer jeans and a sweater. "You need to do more shopping," he says, looking around the largely empty shelves and racks.

"You're the first man in history to encourage his wife to go shopping, and I love that about you," I laugh, but swat the jeans out of his hands. "Are you wearing this?"

I point at his usual three-piece suit. When he looks confused, I add, "I'm not wearing jeans if you're dressed like you're going to a board meeting."

"Trust me." He pushes the jeans back at me, but I shake my head and pull out a pair of brown slacks and a white gold blouse.

"Not happening." I shake my head, stepping into the slacks.

"Your funeral," he smirks.

I hate surprises. I hate having no idea what he's planning, and I hate his smirk right now even more. With a huff, I put the blouse on and grab a pair of brown heels. He takes them from me, still shaking his head. "Trust me."

He hands me brown flats. "Fine." I rip them out of his hands and use him to steady myself while I put them on my feet. "This better be good."

"Oh, it'll be good," his grin widens. A mischievous glint in his eyes turns my stomach all fluttery.

The elevator takes us to the roof, where the helicopter is waiting. "Where are we going?" I demand one more time.

Instead of answering me, he pushes me to help get me into the helicopter.

"Ass," I mumble.

He chuckles.

Champagne is waiting for us on the table, and Marcello fills two glasses. "It's not even nine in the morning yet," I object, but take the glass.

"I love you," he says, clinking our glasses.

Whatever he's planning, it really must be good, because he seems to be bursting out of the seams with happiness. I shake out my shoulders, roll my head over my neck to get the stiffness out of my body, and tell myself to relax and take this in stride. He deserves to be happy. We are not completely out of danger yet; Marcello and the others still need to deal with Edoardo and figure out who is behind this mysterious Omertà Infernale.

"I love you too." I clink the glass and take a deep sip, feeling naughty for having alcohol—even if it's champagne—so early in the morning.

The chopper takes us away from the city, over the Hudson, and after a few minutes, the landscape turns from city to rural. I stare out the window, enjoying the changing scenery.

The flight takes about thirty minutes. A lake comes into view, and the helicopter begins to lower. I look at Marcello. He only grins mysteriously and makes a zipping motion with his fingers over his lips again. I let out an irritated huff, but soon I'm engrossed in the villa that comes into view. It looks weather-beaten and beautiful. Immediately, my brain goes into HGTV mode, thinking about what would need to happen to bring this place back to its glory days.

The chopper dips lower, and wind from the rotors churns the treetops and sends ripples skimming across the water's glassy surface. I lean forward, forehead nearly pressed to the window. For a moment, I lose sight of the villa as the lake gleams like dark silk beneath us, hugged on all sides by dense woods. But a second later, rising like something torn from the pages of a crumbling fairy tale, the villa comes back into view. Three stories tall, with weathered stone. A crooked turret climbs above a tower, both softened by ivy and time. The slate roof is patched in places, faded to a stormy gray, and the narrow-arched windows catch the sun like fractured mirrors. It's breathtaking.

A narrow pier juts out from the shore, ending at a low boathouse with green-painted doors, flaked with time, but still standing. A path leads up to the house, surrounded by trees. The chopper sits down by a pool that has seen better days. The only water on the bottom is green and filled with algae. I wouldn't be surprised to see a frog or two.

"What is this?" I ask, staring at the back of the house, where a sweeping veranda is accessible over several steps leading up. The rocks that made up the stairs are broken in some parts and missing in others. The wooden railing around the wrap-around veranda is also missing slats, and the floor underneath my feet creaks.

Marcello pulls out a key and opens the patio door. Forgotten furniture and trash litter the floor here and there, and parts of the wall have been ripped out, exposing the house's wooden skeleton.

"The owner died five years ago, and the estate went to the state. It's been sitting here abandoned and forgotten since," Marcello fills me in.

A kitchen off to the left offers a large bay window sitting area, complete with an old, round table. I don't see the dust on the table, the chairs, the sill, or the grimy windows; what I see is a sunlit room, where people sit around a whitewashed table, sipping steaming coffee. The kitchen is old and small, but I wonder if the wall dividing it from a large dining area could be taken out to extend the kitchen area. My mind adds an island, topped with marble counters. A window over the sink is broken, but all I see is that it was pushed open, allowing a breeze in and making my imaginary curtains flutter.

This is a home renovator's wet dream.

"Do you like it?"

"It has a lot of potential," I nod, "someone could take out this wall and extend the kitchen." I walk over, moving my arms and hands to make it more visual for him. "Oh, and that fireplace," the formal dining area offers a large fireplace. "River rocks would look perfect on here," I exclaim enthusiastically, pointing at the mantle. "And here, a large wooden shelf."