It could work.
Mac passed the dank space another look. His girl could and would do whatever she put her pretty, sharp mind to. He wasn’t the least bit concerned about that at all. Melina would likely have the joint looking classy and beautiful while throwing back mentions to a time long past, if her plans were followed through to the letter.
He knew they would be.
No, it wasn’t Melina’s plans at all that had Mac worried.
Well, not entirely.
Women working in business alongside men never really sat well with Cosa Nostra—never mind made men in general. The Playpen was intended to be a place Mac was expected to pay tribute to the boss from the profits made. That meant the boss, and others, would be watching the business.
There would be no hiding Melina’s involvement.
Someone would have an opinion.
They always did.
Mac wasn’t sure how he was going to handle all of that backlash when it eventually came his and Melina’s way.
Because it would come.
That was a given.
He could hear the bullshit that would be spewed already.
No respectable made man …
No respectable wife …
Rules.
Mostly unspoken ones.
Their whole fucking lives were smothered in those fucking rules.
Melina, however, had no time for the mafia’s rules or politics, and especially not for their expectations of wives. She hadn’t been brought up in Mac’s world, having constant demands and constraints thrown at her.
No, his wife had been given an entirely different set of roadblocks to conquer. Ones that certainly weren’t any easier than his had been.
So maybe he understood why she would scoff and toss a middle finger up high when told she couldn’t do something because men wouldn’t approve.
Melina was far too independent and stubborn to let any man—regardless of his status in la famiglia—tell her what she could or couldn’t do.
It was one of the many things he loved about his crazy wife.
And he would not be one of the fools who told his wife no, or God forbid, said she couldn’t do something because she was a woman.
Yet, Mac was a little concerned that this whole thing might not be as well-received as Melina wanted it to be. But what could he say?
“It would be cheaper—and easier—option to just go with refurbishing the old bar.”
The contractor’s statement brought Mac from his thoughts into reality once more. He found his wife staring at the contractor like the guy was the dumbest thing to have ever graced her presence.
And shit, maybe he was.
Not many people made an effort to argue with Melina Morgan—Maccari, now—once they got to know her.
“If I wanted cheap or easy,” Melina drawled with a sardonic smile, “I’d have made a run to Ikea. You can either do the job the way I want it done, or I can find another contractor who won’t work my nerves at every goddamn turn. Which would you like to go with, huh?”
Wives of made men were expected to be a list of many things.
Quiet mannered.
Polite.
Able to turn cheek when needed.
Respectable at every turn.
Compliant to men …
Melina didn’t give an honest shit if she was any of those things.
The contractor passed Mac a look that silently pleaded for any sort of help. Mac simply shrugged and offered nothing in response.
He’d tell this fool the same thing he would tell any made man that had a problem with Melina’s plans.
She’s not like every other woman.
She’s a hellion, through and through.
A good ol’ gangster’s moll.
And she didn’t have to be what they wanted her to be.
She just had to be his.
“Three months, four at the most, and we’ll have the place opened for business,” Melina told Mac as they exited the old building.
Wrapping an arm around his wife’s side, he drew her in close to his side and kissed her temple. Melina smiled up at him with a softness in her gaze she rarely showed to anyone else, and almost always reserved solely for him.
“I have all the faith you will get The Playpen up and running again in no time at all,” Mac said.
Melina made a sound under her breath, the disgust ringing out as clear as day.
“What?” Mac dared to ask.
“That name,” she muttered, her nose scrunching up. “It’s the first damn thing to go.”
“I don’t think the name was meant to really hide the kind of business that was going on inside, sweetheart.”
Melina smirked. “Well, it certainly succeeded in not doing that. It screams ‘whorehouse.’ Just saying.”
Directing his wife toward her car that was parked just one spot ahead of his Challenger, Mac scanned the neighborhood. It wasn’t exactly a shoddy part of town, but it wasn’t the high-class kind of place, either. But it was a good location for the kind of club-slash-entertainment that Melina wanted to bring forth.
A discreet location.
Little noise.
No outside markings on the building.
People kept quiet about the goings-on.