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Salvatore isn’t back yet when I walk into the villa. Someone has been by to clean, and it smells of lemon spray and clean floors, everything neat and polished. I set my things down in the bedroom, stripping off my clothes and going to take a long shower, washing the salt and sand off. I linger until I hear the faint sound of the door shutting from the front room of the villa, before I finally get out and braid my wet hair again, slipping into a different sundress.
“Gia?” I hear Salvatore call my name from the bedroom. “They’ll be serving dinner soon.”
“I’ll be right out!” My stomach knots at the thought of sitting down at the table with him for dinner after last night. I can’t tell from his tone how he’s feeling—if he’s still angry, or if he’s planning on pretending as if none of it ever happened—and it makes me anxious.
This doesn’t feel like a honeymoon. But then again, I’m not sure why I expected that it would.
When I emerge out onto the deck, Salvatore is sitting at the table already, wearing what I’ve come to think of as his vacation uniform—chinos rolled at the ankles and a linen shirt with the first few buttons open. There’s a similar setup to last night waiting for me—a bottle of wine with a glass already poured for me, a platter of baked oysters, and a plate of sashimi, along with a clear soup. I sit down, smoothing my napkin over my lap, and glance up at him as I put some of the sashimi on my plate.
“How was your day?” I ask neutrally, not sure if I really want to know, but asking all the same. It’s the only topic of conversation I can think of that doesn’t lead us back to the same old argument.
“I was about to ask you the same.” Salvatore takes a sip of his wine, reaching for one of the oysters. “Vince tells me that there were no issues.”
Oh, thank fuck. I’d been a little afraid that Vince might tattle on me, that he might tell Salvatore about my excursion to the bar and what he saw—or what he thought he saw. Although I suppose if he had, Salvatore wouldn’t have been nearly so calm when I came out to dinner.
“It was fine.” I shrug, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. As if today hadn’t been one of the best days of my life. I don’t want to give Salvatore a chance to give himself the credit for it, to pat himself on the back and say that he’s the reason because he brought me here, and allowed me the freedom to explore. That he’s doing a fine job as a husband because of it. “I went to the market and did a little shopping, and went to the beach. I had lunch and came back home. It was a beautiful day out. I think I might go back to the beach tomorrow morning, if you’re planning on being occupied with work again.” I watch his face cautiously for some sign that he might object, but he just nods.
“That sounds acceptable, so long as you don’t try to evade your security.”
“I didn’t try today,” I mutter irritably, reaching for another piece of fish. “I’m not a child, Salvatore. I understand that they’re there to keep me safe.” I might not like it, but I do understand. Here, the danger of something happening to Salvatore or me is low, but it still exists. It’s possible that someone could figure out who we are, or that we could have been followed by someone who wishes us harm. Not even just the supposed threat of the Bratva. A man like Salvatore has other enemies, and by extension, they’re my enemies, too.
“All the same, Gia, it bears reminding.” He scoops another of the oysters out of its shell, looking out over the water as he reaches for his wine glass. “You’re reasonably safe here, but it’s still my job to make sure you stay that way.”
“Of course.” I give him a faux-sweet smile, reaching for my wine. “You’ll protect me physically, just not my emotions.”
Salvatore gives me a warning look. “I tried to speak with Igor today. I wanted to find some way to come to terms with him, something he would accept as a different means of brokering peace. As I think you can expect, he wasn’t overly receptive. I didn’t actually manage to speak with him, only one of his brigadiers.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I wait for his answer, as the first course of our dinner is taken away and replaced with a spread of fish tacos and various accoutrements to sprinkle over them. “It’s not as if you want my opinion on any of it.”
Salvatore sighs. “I thought it might help you to understand that Igor is angry. You’re not safe at home, and it was a good idea to bring you here. It’s also worth noting that they’re not without the resources to find where we’ve gone, although I don’t think we’ll be followed.”
“Of course, he’s angry. You stole his son’s wife.” I reach for one of the thin corn tortillas, beginning to pile flaky fish, pico, a lime crema, and crumbly cheese onto it. “He’s not going to say thank you.”
“We’re not going to debate the semantics of that again.” Salvatore begins to fix a taco of his own, but I can’t help but notice that there isn’t all that much enthusiasm to it. He barely touched the first course, either. He doesn’t seem to have much appetite—almost as if he’s preoccupied or worried.
Why do I care? I’m preoccupied and upset, too, and he seems determined to avoid any discussion of my emotions tonight. I look down at my food, frustrated at him dismissing me so easily.
“Are you going to be gone every day of our honeymoon?” I ask innocently, leaning down to take a bite of my taco.
Salvatore raises an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d be glad to not have to deal with my company. I don’t seem to improve your mood.”
There’s a hint of something in his voice that stops me for a moment. It’s similar to the moment on the jet when it seemed as if it had hurt his feelings to realize that I was excited about our destination, not about spending time with him. As if a part of him wants me to want him around.
I can’t resist poking at him. “There are things we could do that I’m sure would improve my mood.”
Salvatore narrows his eyes at me. “We’ve been over this, Gia. It’s entirely possible that you’re already pregnant from last night, and if so?—”
“What if I’m not?” I interrupt him. That sharp, hot resentment rises up in me again, bitterness that he’s intent on depriving me of an essential part of our marriage, that he finds it so repugnant.
“Then we’ll try again next month.” He says it with a finality that feels like a slap.
I sit back, slowly absorbing that. His intent is only to sleep with me once a month? I’m well aware that he’s always framed it as a chore, but that feels somehow even worse. I can see him timing it to when I might be most likely to get pregnant, perfunctorily fucking me, and then leaving me cold for the other twenty-nine days. It’s so clinical that it makes me feel physically ill.
“You can’t be serious.”
Salvatore blinks slowly, as if reining in his own impatience with me. “I’m entirely serious, Gia. And I have no intention of last night happening again, while on this vacation. You convinced me of the need for an heir. So we’ve started that process.”
I stare at him. “You make it sound like a—like a fucking passport application or something! For fuck’s sake, you know it probably takes more than once, right?” I can feel my cheeks heating. “This is ridiculous?—”
