Page 13 of The Viper's Wife

The server comes.

Stefano’s leg shakes beneath the table like he’s holding in a piss. Dad bows over his drink, already on his third cup. If he keeps this up, Stefano might have to carry him back to the car.

I hate that Mom left, but even I can admit she made the right call. It’s not like Elisa Aceto was ever going to win anyMom-of-the-Year awards anyway. Whenever she and Dad had big blowout fights, her go-to was to ditch the family for a trip to Europe or a spa to “find her peace”.

I spread my fingers over my lap. Tonight is a tiny hiccup. Eventually Stefano will give up on a Prince Charming lifting our family out of hell and let us go home. And tomorrow, I’ll tour a few apartments over the weekend and move out. Just like Mom.

“The kitchen will close in fifteen minutes,” the server says. He doesn’t bother smiling. “Are you ready to order?”

Stefano has never done well on an empty stomach. He drums against the table. “Let’s order the New York?—”

Dad slams the table with his single fist, and we all startle. “No,” he forces the words out around his missing tongue, his first words that I’ve heard him speak in a month. “Wait.”

The server pales. “I’ll just leave you to...”

“He’s not coming,” Stefano snaps.

Dad shakes his head roughly, the old anger he used to drag with him lighting up his pallid face. He tries a word, but it doesn’t seem to come out how he wants, and he grunts in frustration.

“They forgot us,” Stefano says.

“No,” Dad says darkly. He waves off the server, who slinks away.

Dad and Stefano stew in angry silence while I huddle in my seat and try not to draw attention to myself. Stefano is right. Nico forgot about us or never meant to come. In either case, I only need to get through the next few hours. My heart lifts a little.

Relief slowly trickles into me with each passing minute.

Until I hear footsteps.

The server rushes up the stairs to us, wearing a broad, false smile to make up for the way his shoulders are set instiff annoyance. “The kitchen and restaurant are now closed. However, I’ve been told your guest is on the way, so my manager and I will stay to serve you until he arrives.”

A bag of stones drops into my stomach.

“Good,” Stefano says. He shuffles in his seat and drums on the table. “That’s good.”

We wait for two more hours, the kitchen staff distantly and good-naturedly cursing at each other, and my belly tightening and twisting on air.

Until finally, a man appears at the top of the stairs.

Dad stands.

Blood roars in my ears. Next to me, Stefano rises.

I can’t move. I’m frozen to my seat as the man casts his eye over us.

He’s dressed in a fitted, all-black suit. His hair is dark and shorn close to his skull. Tattoos peek out from under his sleeves and collar.

A snake tattoo coils over his neck.

His gaze touches mine. Just like at the party, I’m caught. A bug in a sticky web. Except this time, he’s not shrouded in darkness with a white sheet pooled at his hips. He’s in full color now, and the same honey-colored, amber eyes—identical to Don Salvatore’s—are watching me now.

My gaze snaps from his and fixes to the single candle on the table. It was dark at the party. I didn’t know. I didn’t look that closely.

You knew he was Italian. You knew he was bad.

I fucked everything up.

Regret surges in my throat. I fucked him. I made it good for him, and now he wants more. Stefano grabs my arm and slings me to my feet.