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It’s not often that we’re home alone, and I get to do this. Actually, I can’t remember ever doing this. Well, not since my parents died. That was another thing we did, but I don’t tell Viviana that. Some things are better kept to oneself.
Some things make you weak.
I can’t ever show weakness.
I’ve made an exception for Viviana not just because she’s my wife but because I need her to let me in. The plan might have changed. I might not kill her in the end. Since she showed me her loyalty, she can stay untouched, unharmed, safe, and protected, but that doesn’t change the fact I still need her.
This way, though, she will know what she’s getting into, and in order for her to agree to my plan, I need to humanize myself to her. It might sound cold and calculated, but it’s the only way to get what I want.
Maybe she would readily agree without any provocation. But this way is easier. If she considers me to be softer than I am, if she feels a sense of loyalty to me that she doesn’t feel for her father, she should be more apt to do what is necessary to bring him down.
That might make me sound like a coldhearted snake, but in my world, there are two types. There’s a mouse in the fields, and then there is the serpent that eats it.
That is the only way.
26
Viviana
* * *
We spend dinner in companionable silence. The food is so good I don’t mind the silence, even if it means my thoughts are loud and clear and sometimes overwhelming. The truth is, as much time as we’ve recently been spending together, it’s still odd. We’re barely more than strangers, but now we are married, intimate, and getting to know each other. We are doing everything backward.
When I take my last bite, I place my fork down.
“That was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Matteo places his silverware down on the plate and then turns his head to look at me. He seems happy with my assessment. It’s not a large smile that lines his face, but it’s a genuine one. It’s funny. I haven’t known him long, but I can recognize his gestures now. His different smiles. His body language. I’ve been watching him and studying him, and he has small tells. I don’t think he realizes he does. Occasionally, he drums his fingers on the table. He does that when he’s uncomfortable or when he wants to talk about something else. Then there is the way he silently clenches his fist on his lap. That’s when he's angry. I noticed it the first time before we were married, and then I noticed it during the carriage ride. I’m still trying to figure out if he lies, is there a tell for that? He claims he doesn’t, and that there is no need, and a part of me thinks he might be telling the truth about it. Why would a man in his position ever need to lie?
There’s no need. If he doesn’t like something, he kills it. If you want something, he takes it.
Look at me, case in point.
I’m not stupid. I know why this marriage happened, but I still want to get to know him. I’m not sure what the future will bring. I’m not sure if I could ever give my heart fully to him. I know for a fact he’ll never give his heart to me. He says he’s not capable, but I listen to the way he talks about his parents. Matteo is capable of love. I just don’t think he’s capable of allowing himself to love.
He sees it as a weakness.
Which is ridiculous; it’s a strength.
“What’s going through that pretty head of yours?” he asks, cutting through my inner rambling.
“Just how good this tastes.”
“Well, I’m happy you are so impressed because I have other tricks up my sleeve.”
I know he’s talking about food, but for some reason, it sounds like there’s a sexual innuendo wrapped up in that comment. I playfully narrow my eyes at him.
He laughs, then holds up his hands in surrender. “I was talking about dessert.”
That makes me give him another playful look. This one includes an eye roll, telling him I’m not buying what he’s selling.
“Okay, I’ll bite . . .” Now it’s my turn to be playful. “What’s dessert?” I place my index finger on my lower lip and seductively trace the fleshy skin.
Matteo’s pupils dilate, and I know I’m about to win this game.
His gaze traces my movement, and I’m sure he’s about to strike. Instead, he stands from the chair.
I’m about to ask where he’s going, but he turns to face me.
There is no hiding the desire swimming in his eyes.
His hand is on his gray sweats.
Those damn gray sweats that if I don’t throw out will end up being the death of me.
