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Sliding my hand over to his side of the bed just to make sure, I find it as cold as his heart and pull my hand back immediately. I should be thankful for his absence. I can’t embarrass myself any more than I already have with his avoidance. However, the frigid reality of my future only magnifies. This is how my life will move forward,alone. Dwarfed by a king-size bed and a husband repulsed at the thought of touching me.
It had to be my kiss. A fumbling attempt to make him want me as much as I wanted him.
I didn’t kiss you, dolcezza, because I wasn’t certain I’d be able to stop.
His words play over in my mind. He wanted me until we kissed, then he made certain to cut me down and shame me for my inexperience.
I don’t fuck scared little girls.
I’m so humiliated, and I hate him for making me feel that way. Moreover, I hate myself for giving him the power to do so.
I stare up at the ceiling, annoyed at the silk touch of his sheets against my skin. I blow out a long breath.
“Unsatisfying sleep?”
I roll my eyes at the lazy drawl in his tone.
I don’t bother to sit up, choosing to ignore him completely.
“I have some things I need to attend to today.”
I huff.Things.
“Be sure to head to confession afterward to cleanse your soul.”
“Who said I had a soul?”
My jaw sets tight at the derisive lilt in the timbre of his voice.
Sitting up, I turn to slide my legs off the bed and tuck my feet into the slippers I’d left by my side of the bed the night before. Standing, I retrieve my robe and glide it over my shoulders, securing the silk around my waist before looking at him.
“No one,” I say. “No one has ever considered you to have a soul, Vincent.”
Dark bruises lay heavily along his eye sockets, and I take joy in the fact that he’s deprived of sleep.
“You look terrible. You should fix yourself up. You don’t want to actually look like death while killing people.”
I walk from the room without a backward glance, holding my shoulders higher than the reality of my confidence.
Coffee in hand half an hour later, I stare out the window, watching people rush about their morning with determination. What it would be like to feel that, to feel as though you had a purpose. Taking care of Caterina gave me that. Not that she was neglected or uncared for. She was just never supposed to be born into our family. Her heart is too sweet, her mind too trusting, her spirit too fragile.
“The housekeeper comes four days a week.”
I turn slowly, hoping like hell my face shows a bored indifference. My heart almost leaped from my chest when he spoke, his ability to appear without noise as disconcerting as it is frightening.
Freshly showered, Vincent looks like a magazine spread’s wet dream come to life. Dark hair combed back, a wet lock has fallen out of place, brushing along his forehead. Focusing on his cuff links, I watch his thick fingers thread them dexterously through the double-cuff of his shirt. His shirt is black today, a coordination of attire with the shadowed shade of his heart. The three-piece suit he’s dressed in has been tailor-made to fit his body, and he looks every bit of the mafioso he is.
“Something wrong?” He pauses, fingers at the button of his jacket, ready to secure it in place.
I’m just wondering how the blackest of souls can be wrapped in the prettiest of packages.“No,” I answer quickly.
“Heather will prepare meals when she is here. If you hold no objections, I would ask that we dine together on those four evenings.”
“And on the other three?”
His forehead creases, pulling his eyebrows low over his eyes. “I have prior engagements.”
My top lip curls involuntarily. “Women?” I ask before I can stop myself.
