In 3.3 (Murder and Mozzarella) I found it hard to believe that Jack would have gotten that drunk with Concetta. Based on previous episodes involving Jack and excessive alcohol consumption (2.7, 3.1) I thought something like this is more likely to be how it played out.
...
He left Strano's as soon as he could without being rude, although upon reflection 'fled at the first possible opportunity' might have been a better description. Hardly the behaviour Concetta deserved, he knew, but he needed time and space to think, alone.
Well, he thought, as he watched sweet amber comfort flow into the glass, not quite alone. He hated himself for doing this, hated the weakness that sent him crawling into a bottle at times like these, but at the same time he craved the respite that alcohol offered from the onslaught of swirling thoughts and emotions that Concetta's proposal had unleashed. Women, he thought bitterly, were proving almost as bad for his equilibrium these days as his memories of the War.
First glass. He could not marry Concetta. The Camorra might not think wives were for talking to, but you didn't have to be spoken to directly in order to hear and see and know things that you weren't supposed to know. Concetta, he believed, was a good and honourable woman. Married to him, he had no doubt that in time she would come to see that the good and honourable thing to do would be to confide in her new husband all the secrets of the last, along with those of her father, brother, and all the rest of her male relatives. And, he thought, as he downed a second glass of whisky, the Camorra would not risk that happening. Had she even stopped to consider that, he wondered? There was only one way of leaving the Camorra: her family would likely see her – or him – dead before they would let her marry a policeman, even if that policeman was Johnny Robinson.
Which led him – another glass – to the other reason why he couldn't marry Concetta. To do so would mean marrying into an entire family of quick-tempered men, and women, who were far happier solving their problems with break-ins, vandalism and violence than through rational discussion or by handing matters over to the police. He downed another quick glass in an effort to drown out the thought of someone else whose problem-solving techniques were eerily similar to those of his potential in-laws. He could not live like that, he knew. Even if her family let them both live, unless they left Melbourne it would only be a matter of time before she, and inevitably he, were drawn back into that milieu. He shuddered at the thought. What would his superiors in the Force make of him choosing to marry into a family of known criminals?
Even so, he would have been a good husband, and she would have been a good wife. Dutiful. Thus she had been, by all accounts, to that pig Frabizi; how much more to a man who would actually treat her kindly? They would both have done their duty to one another. Put like that, it was a sound proposition. He had never wanted to be a bachelor. He had married Rosie when he was, perhaps, too young, and even though their relationship had become increasingly strained over the years he had enjoyed the small conveniences of married life right up until the day she had left him. Hot dinners. Mended shirts. A fire in the grate and a house that felt like a home. He missed all of those things almost as much as he missed having a wife to provide them.
The alcohol was taking effect, and one more glass was enough for him to begin to face the real reason why he could never marry Concetta. Concetta was not merely seeking a convenient arrangement that would prevent her father from continuing to use her as a bargaining chip. Concetta, he suspected – had, in fact, suspected for some time – was at least a little in love with him. And he had enjoyed it, he admitted. It was flattering to be the centre of a woman's attention, especially when that woman was beautiful, graceful, and intelligent. It was flattering to see her smile when she saw him, hurry to greet him, pour him the wine she knew he liked, listen as he talked, brush down his coat when he left. It was especially flattering to feel that he was the only man who was the recipient of those attentions. But it wasn't enough to make him love her in return.
It could have been, he thought bitterly, as he downed yet another glass, and dammit, it should have been. But it wasn't. It wasn't enough not because she wasn't eminently worthy of his love, but because he was already in love with someone else. Phryne Fisher. A woman who would never be a wife, dutiful or otherwise, because she was determined never to marry. A woman who would never love him, because, he suspected, she was determined never to actually love any man ever again. A woman he could not prevent himself from loving, even though he knew that he could never be with her. Almost anything he could say of Concetta – that she was beautiful, graceful, intelligent, exotic – was also true of Phryne, except that Phryne was also fierce, stubborn, selfish, and proud. Phryne, he thought with mingled affection and admiration, would not stand to be bartered off in marriage like the village cow, and it would likely not even occur to her to use marrying someone else as a means of escape. No, Phryne would fight. She would rage and throw things, possibly sharp, pointy things, and make it perfectly clear that she would not consent to any such arrangement. If that failed she would scheme, or flee, or resort to violence. She would not hold the secrets of the Camorra close out of fear of what they might do to her if she spoke out; she would find a way to leverage her knowledge to her advantage. She would do all of those things and remain free, or die trying.
Concetta could not compete with such a woman, and he would not ask her to try. Yes, it was tempting to be her rescuer, but there were other ways of resolving the situation. If all else failed, there were other men, good men, and Concetta could do better than someone whose heart was already taken.
No, he thought as he went to pour yet another glass and came up empty, he could not accept Concetta's proposal. And in a few hours time he would have to continue investigating her family for murder with the woman he loved – and could never have – by his side. Whisky and women, he thought ruefully, as he staggered alone to his cold, empty bed. Some day, they would be the ruin of him.