Page 15 of The Mafioso’s Bride

“I told you to buy whatever you wanted.”

“I did.”

I rub my forehead. “You arrived with one suitcase. I thought you’d buy clothes and shoes and, hell, I don’t know. ”

“I have clothes and shoes. They’re comfortable and I like them.”

Of course. Every answer is plain, with no performance behind it. I look at the box. “What’s that? One of the purchases?”

“All of the purchases.” She puts it on my desk and opens the flaps. A stuffed brown creature sits on top, round and wrinkled, with eight stubby legs. Giada takes it out with both hands.

“This is anatomically simplified,” she says. “A real tardigrade's legs are shorter relative to its body, and the claws are wrong. It has a nice face, though.”

“Charming,” I say.

“Yes.” She sets it beside my keyboard, then removes a black mug covered in the same creatures and two folded shirts. “The blue one shows a tardigrade in a tun. The green one has six legs instead of eight, so I'm returning it.”

She reaches into the box again and closes her fingers around something small. “This is yours.”

I hold out my palm. A tiny silver pin no larger than my thumbnail drops into it.

“You bought me a gift?”

“I thought you might want one.” Her thumb rubs the seam of the box. “Since you listen and don’t tell me to shut up when I talk.”

I look closer at the pin. It’s the same thing—one of those water bears she’s obsessed with. A tardigrade.

“What is it about tardigrades?” I ask.

Her brows draw together. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you so fascinated by them?”

“Because they’re fascinating.” She says it as though the answer should be obvious. “They can survive extreme temperatures, radiation, dehydration, pressure, even the vacuum of space.”

“They are fascinating,” I agree. “But you seem more than fascinated. You seem obsessed.”

Her smile disappears. She looks down at the box and rubs her thumb over one of the folded flaps.

“Giada?”

“You’re annoyed because I talk about them too much. I understand.”

“No! I’m just curious…” Shit. She looks hurt. “Honestly. I’m not annoyed.”

She studies me for a long moment and then says quietly, “I may have a condition called monotropism.”

“Monotropism. What does that mean?”

“My attention becomes hyperfocused. I can think about one subject for hours, but changing my attention can be difficult.”

“Is this something you’ve been diagnosed with?”

“No. I researched it myself.” Her fingers keep tightening around the cardboard and loosening again. “My parents would never have allowed a diagnosis. They said I was flawed and stupid and weird. To them, giving it a name would only provide me with an excuse.”

A searing rage burns through me.

Rafinelli called his daughter cruel taunting names because he couldn’t be bothered to understand her. He let her believe that the way her mind works makes her defective.