“You wanted a plain fucking hot dog with ketchup?” “Yes,” I answered primly. He slowly shook his head. “I’m not sure I can allow that, tesoro. I’m pretty sure it’s the law that hot dogs must be served with mustard and relish.” My heart skipped a beat. My husband, the Mafia Don, had just cracked a joke. “Good thing my husband isn’t committed to following the law.” I kept my face serious, but I felt like singing, dancing, pumping my fist in the air, especially when the corner of Matteo’s mouth twitched. “Fine,” he huffed.
