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“Do you really want some of the stuff in here?” Matteo sighs. “We can just get everything new?—”
“Screw you.” I scramble off the bed to salvage what I can from home. One thing I’ve learned is that playing along gets me further in this game than anything else ever has. I grab a sports bag from the bottom of my closet and shove things in, random things that I used to love. Evidence of a prior life, now just a vague memory.
Matteo stands back, giving me space in my fury. There is something calming in the systematic process of packing, but my head is running through every option I have. Bottom line: I’m going to walk out of here, willingly, but I’ll never let this man touch me again. I will not be the wife he signed up for. I will defy him every step of the way. There will be no children born into this hellscape of a family. None.
Matteo said he wasn’t ready for children, but we’ve been having sex without protection. Everything constricts, the tense twist in my stomach wringing tighter. It’s too early for signs of a pregnancy. I still have time to deal with one.
Maybe he’ll even give me a divorce. Wow. Not even two days married, and this is what I want. When I’m done, I pick up the bag and walk out of the room, not even looking to see if he follows me. I head down the stairs and straight out of the front door.
I might never see Dad again, but right now, I can’t face him either. He’s in denial about Mom’s and Kevin’s deaths. Matteo has admitted it was Il Consiglio’s doing, as I suspected. Dad’s playing dumb and that’s one thing I can’t stomach, because indirectly it implies that he thinks I’m too dumb to see the truth. His truth.
Why do I suspect I haven’t even scratched the surface on that one?
57
MATTEO
Tasha has pushed herself into the corner of the passenger seat, as far away from me as possible, staring out of the window. At least she’s no longer crying because that shit shreds a man. It’s one thing to swoop in, yank the carpet right out from underneath her with everything that happened in Sicily and Cannes. It’s another thing altogether to bring her home, only to watch her look on as her world disintegrates, knowing you can do nothing to ease the pain.
If only I could hold her, soothe her, things would seem better, but she’s turned cold and stoic. I don’t blame her, but the truth is out now. I no longer have to hold my breath, wondering when she’s going to realize how closely connected we are. I’m in for a ride which I refuse to get of from, whatever comes my way. I will bend her to my will. She will learn to love me. She will stay mine. That’s the only way I can protect her. It’s the only way I can have her.
When we drive into the apartment’s underground parking, I pull up to the security booth. “Mrs. Scalera doesn’t leave the premises again. Not without a security detail, understood?”
The man nods as he peers into the Maserati, straight to where Tasha can’t be bothered to look in our direction.
“Understood, Mr. Scalera.”
With an inner sigh I drive deeper into the building, allowing the two security SUVs to pass and get to the parking area ahead of us. Just in case.
It’s only once we’re in the elevator to the penthouse that I finally relax. As long as Tasha stays put in the apartment, she’ll be safe. As long as she doesn’t escape… well, she’s a cat with nine lives.
I have her bag in my one hand and my laptop bag over my shoulder as we walk into the apartment. Rosalia won’t be here at this time of day and it’s for the better. The rest of the world will be having dinner soon, while I will be having a staring contest with my wife.
“Kitten.”
She turns to me, arms folded over her chest, protective. She’s wearing one of those damn dresses. One of the rippers, like the pink one she wore in Sicily and which I shredded on our arrival there. This one is a bright yellow which makes her look like sunshine. Those legs would look stunning in a pair of heels, but she wasn’t allowed any. Nothing like a spike in the temple to cut life short, and she’ll know exactly where to hammer it in.
“Husband.” The way she says it mocks me.
Oh boy. Discipline. “That was your one sass for the day, kitten, done.” Her lips twitch, but not in a way that makes me think she finds anything funny. “Go unpack your things. Rosalia made room for you in the master bedroom’s closet. I’ll get dinner ready.”
I hold out her bag for her. She really didn’t pack a lot. I’ll make sure someone goes and fetches everything else for her at some point. She takes the bag and heads for the stairs. I go to the fridge to see what options we have. Everything in doubles. Nice. Rosalia doesn’t need instructions, unlike my wife. I heat up the meals and wait.
And wait.
My patience is running thin as it is. Fuck it. I scale the stairs two at a time, even though I know she can’t escape from the second floor. When I walk into the bedroom, she’s on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“You’re wearing that?” I say. “In our bed?”
“You have a problem?”
She looks like a fucking middle schooler in red and grey plaid pajama pants and a grey sweatshirt straight from thrift store hell. In summer.
“I don’t give a fuck what you’re wearing, kitten, because you won’t have it on for long.” Her eyes widen. “I’m more concerned about how the clothes you’re wearing make you feel.” And I bet that mess makes her feel like shit, compounding her shitty day.
“If you think you’re ever going to touch me again,” she spits out, “I have some news for you.”
“Is that so?” Challenge accepted.
