Page 138 of Cara & Gian: The Guzzi Duet

He’d never hit a woman.

Never had the urge to hurt one.

Until this goddamn moment.

Gian shoved his clenched fists into his pockets, determined to stay on the other side of the room from his wife. Elena was good at these games—too good, really. She was known for her manipulations, something she had picked up from her bastard of a father, and she used them on Gian without blinking a lash about it. He had no doubt that was exactly what she was trying to do here. If she pissed him off enough to react, then it would be to her favor, and not his, when someone came to ask for his behavior toward his wife, and he would need to answer appropriately.

“You say that,” Gian murmured, “like you’ve known for a while that I’ve been seeing someone on more than a casual basis, Elena.”

He saw the tightening of her jaw.

It was her one tell for when she lied.

“And?” she asked.

“If you had such a problem with it, why not call me, or send someone over, write a fucking email, or whatever. Why today, of all days, is it that you have the problem with this? We’re not together, we don’t even fuck when we do have to pretend for an evening, and I am more than happy with letting you drain my bank accounts, as long as you’re content on your side of the city. Why call me and demand answers from me now?”

Elena tipped her chin up, looking away again. “You made me look like a fool, Gian.”

“Excuse me?”

“You had her all over the city, taking her out, dressing her up, and playing pretend with your people and even some of your family. You made me look like a goddamn fool. Does she know about me, when I didn’t even know about her?”

“Now she does,” Gian said, offering little else in that regard.

He would deal with Cara when she arrived that afternoon.

It was none of Elena’s damned business.

“The least you could have done was give me the benefit of knowing,” Elena spat at him, that fire returning to her gaze before she had even blinked. “You couldn’t even do that. My mother called, which means my father knows, too.”

“I had no reason to tell you. Beyond the fact we’re not even together, we haven’t spoken in ten months, and the last time we did talk, it was for you to tell me to get your fucking credit card fixed because it expired and the new card didn’t come to your address. I know you were asked to the funeral for my grandfather, and you didn’t even show face for that, as a wife should do. I didn’t care. I have never cared. We’re not together. We haven’t been together in—”

“Then fucking give me a divorce!”

Gian stilled on the spot, letting each one of those words stab into his skin like little daggers, tearing him apart, piece by piece.

How simple her demand was.

How much he wanted to agree.

He should.

He needed to.

They would both be happier, they could both put the years of shit behind them to rest, and move on to better things—better people.

It wasn’t that easy.

“I can’t,” Gian said quietly.

Dio, he wished that didn’t have to be his answer.

Elena let out a sound that came off broken and frustrated, all at the same time. She threw her hands high, and glared at him as she said, “I don’t want to hear that anymore, not now!”

“You come from the same world as I do. You know there’s no other acceptable answer. Divorce doesn’t exist to made men, or their wives. It never has, it never will, and we won’t be the exception. I won’t give up my life as a sacrifice, simply because three years ago, you tricked me into marrying you.”

“I didn’t trick you.”