I could do what Cammi suggested a while back. It’d be easy to get a DNA sample from any of my brothers and find out if the shit my father spewed at me for all those years has any truth to it.

The only reason I haven’t done that is the what ifs. If that test confirms I’m not a De Bellis, where the fuck does that leave me? Who the fuck am I if not a De Bellis brother?

The name is both a blessing and a curse. Being a De Bellis opens doors that otherwise would not open for me. There’s money, power, and fear behind the name. All of which I happen to fucking love. There’s also the downside. The fact that every man and his dog thinks they can just come along and take what’s ours—what generations have built—puts a target on all of our backs. And my wife’s. And I have a huge fucking problem with that.

I move onto the balcony and sit down on the loveseat Cammi insisted we needed out here. She likes looking up at the stars on clear nights. I open the metal tin, the same one I’ve carried around for years. It belonged to her. My mother. The reason my head is fucked up and I can’t sleep.

I pull out a pre-rolled joint, press the end between my lips, and light it up. Taking a deep inhale and letting it fill my lungs before I release it. Smoke clouds the night air. It’s cold out here. Probably doesn’t help that I’m only wearing a pair of sweats. I didn’t want to chance waking Cammi up while searching for something to put on.

I don’t smoke as much these days. I know she worries about me. About my smoking. She doesn’t tell me not to do it, though. That’s the thing about my wife, her unwavering ability to overlook all my faults. She really is my own personal saint.

The glass door behind me slides open. Stubbing out the joint, I turn around to find Cammi stepping outside. “Did I wake you?” I ask her.

“No, the empty bed did,” she says. She sits next to me, her legs folded underneath her, and leans against my side, resting her head on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”

My arm wraps around her. I’m getting better at being able to touch her without needing her to ask me first. Hugs here and there. Holding her hand. I still need her verbal consent for sex, though. I don’t think that’s something I’ll ever be able to do without her telling me she wants it.

“Couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to wake you.”

Cammi’s fingers trace along my ink, up and down the Eiffel Tower tattoo. “You know I shouldn’t say this, but I hate her.”