Page 73 of The Viper's Wife

I slide under the sheets, and when he comes to bed, just in his boxers, and pulls me against his chest, I lay my cheek over his heart and fall asleep.

14

NICO

Valeria looks sopeaceful when she sleeps. Eyebrows relaxed, mouth slack, a smudge of black lipstick on the pillow.

She’s not angry or annoyed.

She’s not telling me she hates me.

I stroke through her dark hair as she rests on my chest.

I get why she’s fighting this so hard—she thinks that if I don’t marry her, she’s scot-free. She can live her life how she chooses, without the dark shadow of the mob hanging over her head.

But I know better.

Her fate was sealed when her dad planned to kill my brother—earlier maybe, her role in the Family a malignant cluster of cells lurking in her blood, waiting for the right conditions to multiply.

I know better than anyone—she’s not getting out. She needs protection.

She needs me.

She just needs to accept it.

Leaving her alone on the bed, curled into a lonely ball,gives me the strangest sensation of leaving a limb behind. I click the door shut and stretch my fingers long.

In the kitchen, I prepare coffee. I’m going to need it to deal with whatever she plans on throwing at me today.

Outside my windows, the city’s waking up too, cars scurrying from one street to the next in an infinite maze, the sun slicing through the grey fog to melt the ice on the rooftops.

I wonder if Valeria’s ever left Chicago. She doesn’t seem like someone who’s travelled—not that I subscribe to any bullshit about needing to leave your hometown to find culture.

She just seems like someone who’s had their nose to the grindstone for so long that they don’t know any other way of living.

If she let me, I could unwind her. Uncoil her like a spring and let her relax and enjoy life’s simple pleasures. I could make her happy.

I’m starting to think she could make me happy too—which is fucking great, considering all she does is tell me she hates me and wants to leave.

She’s unexpected, and of course I like that. We have off-the-charts sexual chemistry. But I also like her cutting little remarks, her composure, and her values, which I know run deeper than she lets on.

How could she think I could replace her so easily?

I pour myself a cup of coffee and cast a critical eye around my place.

It looks like shit. When I moved in, I thought it would just be me—or that I’d be annoying some pain-in-the-ass fiancée by taking her here.

Instead, I have a woman, who I actually want to stick around, and the place looks like a jail cell.

At least the food is better.

I turn toward the kitchen counter and wipe it down, before grabbing a bag of flour from the pantry and throwing a handful on top.

I make a well in the center and crack two eggs inside.

Mamma, for all her flaws, made sure we could cook for ourselves.

As the water is boiling and I’m rolling out fresh dough, Valeria shuffles into the kitchen, looking very sleepy and extremely fucked, muttering into a phone against her cheek. Her bangs stick out in wild directions, makeup smudged down her face like a raccoon, and she’s dressed in loose, black sweatpants and a hoodie. My heart skips a beat.