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I nod and then follow him toward the hallway as he goes toward the bathroom. It amazes me how he can lie to my face and look at me like he’s an innocent child.
But I suppose…I’m doing the same thing, aren’t I? I’m going behind his back, deceiving him, just in a different way. I’ve convinced myself it’s a retaliation tactic, though. I was a good fucking wife to that man. I’ve never cheated, never lied—maybe silly white lies, but nothing serious. I’ve changed my entire life for him, and look where that’s got me.
“Why not just wait to shower until you get home, love?” I ask him, unable to curb my freaking mouth and my insatiable need to have the upper hand, even if he doesn’t know that I have it.
Enzo strops in his tracks and turns around, and I swear he looks just like one of those psychopaths on the murder shows. His blue eyes bore into me like he’s a ventriloquist dummy and I shouldn’t be asking questions.
“Gotta shower the day off, babe. I stink.” He closes the space between us and kisses me. It’s a quick peck filled with nothing. “Maybe we can watch some TV together tomorrow night. Veg out on the couch like old times, yeah?”
He smiles and continues on his way without me saying a word. I lean against the hallway wall, watching after him as he enters his bathroom and closes the door, whistling as he does so.
* * *
An hour later,the car I ordered is dropping me off at the storage unit. I yank the rolling door up and head to the one thing that rests inside.
My motorcycle.
The only baby I need in my life right now.
Of course, Enzo has no idea I kept it once we got together. It was one of the most off-putting things about me, he once said. How I was such an independent woman, a free spirit who enjoyed riding on my bike.
Motorcycles are forlesbians and men, he said.
I beg to differ.
Because it’s the only time I actually feel. And I refuse to strip myself of the last remaining pleasure I have aside from my store. I need the rush. The chill rolling over my spine as the Chicago air whips at me and reminds me that this could all be over in the blink of an eye.
I put the bag with my change of clothes in it down and head over to my bike, adjusting the short black wig on my head. I guess I won’t be feeling the wind in my hair tonight. After getting my helmet on and praying my wig doesn’t get ten shades of fucked up, I roll my bike out to the road and lock the unit behind me.
Thirty minutes later, I roll to a stop a few blocks away from The Vault, much to my complete and utter chagrin. After doing everything I can to tame this sad excuse for a wig, I head down the sidewalk, dodging people left and right. This part of the city is busy at this time of night. There are strip clubs and shady places galore.
At least I won’t be giving Niccolò an ego trip. My plan is to be as unrecognizable as I possibly can. I pull the door open and smile at the patrons as I pass and head to a dimly lit corner booth, keeping my head down. I’m hoping to deter anyone from talking to me. I glance down at my phone and note the time.
8:45 p.m.
I order a drink and wait for what Niccolò hinted to happen.
The place isn’t as dingy as I assumed it would be. I’ve heard stories about Amato’s territory and their less-than-ideal businesses. The Vault doesn’t seem so bad, though. They’ve got a large main stage lit up by bright-green fluorescent lighting with a bunch of circular tables and then what looks to be a couple of VIP square stages with chairs around them. Booths line the walls, a bit farther from the stages, and I’m thankful for the lack of lighting and attention on me.
A cocktail waitress dressed in black and white, barely there lingerie brings me my drink just as none other than Niccolò Amato strolls through the door.
And unfortunately for me, he looks somehow even sexier than earlier.
Fuck him.
Fuck him and his ability to see right through me. Tortured. He called metortured.
A few women flock to him before he barely even gets a few feet through the door, and I force down jealousy that I have no business feeling.
Not about to feel that emotion. No thank you.
I sip from my drink and look down at my phone that I’ve put a new case on. I’m covering all my bases. When I glance back up, Niccolò scans the crowd, and I look into my drink.
I have to keep forcing my attention away from him until he finally goes and takes a seat at one of the VIP tables as a naked woman seductively sways in front of him, bending down and snapping up and twisting around a silver pole like she was born to do so.
The next time I glance at the door, it’s him.
My husband.
