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“Yours. Never hers. Yours.”
The truth of it is easier than any lie I told at that table. The truth is, I was never Allegra’s, not even when I was. She’s cruel in ways I hate. Her darkness intrigued me for longer than I care to admit, but that’s all it ever was. For me, anyway. But while I was intrigued, I was devoted. We did… terrible things together.
Allegra mistook my devotion for love, and she’s wanted it back ever since.
Veda licks up my throat, bringing me back to the present, and I’m so damn grateful, I nearly lose it right then. But she’s pulsing on my shaft, and I won’t disappoint her now. I grab her ass and grind her against me, and I watch as she breaks apart on top of me with my name in her teeth. It’s art. Pure art. I follow her over hard enough to see stars.
Somewhere north of the city, she starts laughing into my ruined collar. “We’re insane.”
“Certifiably. There’s a doctor in the car who’d confirm it.”
She swats me without lifting her head. Her breathing evens out by degrees against my chest, and she cleans up with some of the napkins from the wet bar. One of her hands finds my ruined bow tie in the dark and keeps it. A small theft she’ll deny by morning.
Allegra tested every seam of the marriage and left disappointed. What she couldn’t see is that the seam is inside me, not our fake marriage.
I like this woman more than the arrangement allows.
The gates open for us at two in the morning. I follow her up the drive, and her silk-covered ass shines in the moonlight as her steps sway. She looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Staring at my ass? You’re as bad as the deputy minister.”
“Oh, I’m much worse than him.”
She laughs once, throwing her head back, before she enters the house.
I don’t get to keep her, but I will keep that memory for the rest of my life. It’ll have to be enough.
11
VEDA
Sunday in this house starts with garlic. By eight, it reaches the second floor, slips under the bedroom door, and lets me know that whatever occurred in the back of a car on Friday night, the moment has passed, and I should be downstairs.
I scrape myself out of bed, wash, and dress. When I brush my hair, I see the love bite Lupo left on the base of my neck Friday. The love bite we haven’t talked about. We’ve orbited each other for two days, polite and combustible beneath the surface. The car sits in the middle of every room we share. At breakfast yesterday, he buttered my toast without asking, added a pinch of salt, and I ate it without commenting.
That was the entire conversation on the subject, and all I could think was, “Why does he know how I like my toast buttered?”
Doesn’t matter. It cannot matter. I’m out of here soon.
While I pour my coffee, Diana stiffly says, “You will learn the sauce. Wash your hands and take off the ring.”
Am I getting it back? It would seem so, if she wants to teach me her sauce. Still, I’ve grown accustomed to the ring.
Nope. Doesn’t matter. Not mine anyway.
The kitchen is her stage. Jazz on the turntable, tomatoes in a crate from a vendor she bullies, beef and pork on the board ready to be chopped into bits. She hands me an ancient lacy apron with no ceremony and stations me at the onions.
“Small,” she instructs. “Very small.”
“You know I do sutures for a living, right?”
“Onions are easier than skin.”
I don’t think I want to know why she knows that.
Diana watches my knife work for a moment, and one eyebrow lifts as if impressed, then whips out two cleavers to destroy the meat. Old-fashioned grinding method? Not sure.
The sauce is assembled in layers, each with specific rules. Meat is browned in batches, never overcrowded. Wine is added only when she indicates, not earlier. Tomatoes are crushed by hand—an unbreakable rule that can ruin a manicure—and she watches my technique, then declares it, “Very good.”
Progress.
