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His wife doesn’t seem to have any friends or even acquaintances. Other than her mother, she never meets anyone. Shopping, spa treatments, lunches . . . she always goes alone or with her husband. Yesterday, I took her to a park where she spent three hours just walking around before I drove her home.
I don’t know why the fuck I can’t stop thinking about her. From the moment I set eyes on her, she’s been constantly popping into my head. I have no business having thoughts about Rocco Pisano’s wife other than deciding how I’m going to kill her, but the notions that flood my mind have nothing to do with her body covered in blood. Just the opposite.
I imagine my fingers in her hair after I pull it out of that damn bun. My hands on her milky white skin, exploring her sinful body while she moans under me. Trailing soft kisses along the line of her delicate neck where I had planned to slice it open. Just thinking about her makes me hard.
The logical part of me feels sick about that. I haven’t touched a woman for eight years because neither sex nor any other kind of physical indulgence have interested me in the least. Revenge was my only desire. I lived for it. Nothing else mattered. And now, I’m lusting after one of my targets. It’s like fate has decided to royally fuck with me.
Ravenna Pisano turns around and goes back inside, closing the balcony door in her wake. I stay hidden behind the tree for almost half an hour, trying to push away the images of her naked body under mine. And failing.
***
“I’m just going to grab some breakfast and then we can leave,” Mrs. Pisano says as she descends the grand staircase that bisects the house into the two wings, then crosses the foyer and heads toward the hallway leading to the east part of the main floor.
The enormous dining room is in the opposite part of the house, and it’s where she always has her meals, even when she eats alone. It’s rather idiotic, in my opinion, for her to sit by herself at a table long enough to seat twelve, but it seems that’s the way things work around here.
I follow her down the hallway which leads to the kitchen, using the opportunity to commit this part of the house to memory. Only the maids and the housekeeper have gone into this passage, so I’ve avoided it while Rocco has been home because I don’t want to raise suspicion. But he left early this morning, before my arrival.
“Could I get some ham and cheese, Abby?” Ravenna Pisano’s voice reaches me from the room further down the hall.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pisano,” the housekeeper’s clipped voice replies, “but the boss said only bread and water.”
I stop in my tracks a step away from the door leading to the kitchen.
“May I get milk instead of water?”
The satisfaction in the housekeeper’s tone of voice isn’t lost on me as she replies, “Mr. Pisano was very clear in his guidelines on the meals I’m to prepare for you. Should I call him and ask about your request?”
“No, of course, not. This is perfectly fine, Abby.”
I grit my teeth and step inside the kitchen. Ravenna Pisano is standing by the counter, holding a glass of water in one hand and a plate in the other. A plate with a single piece of bread on it.
“Get out,” I say.
Both women look at me with surprise and shock in their eyes. I meet the housekeeper’s gaze. “Now, Abby.”
She blinks at me in confusion and rushes across the kitchen toward the door. As she passes, I reach out and grab her upper arm.
“And keep your mouth shut, unless you want me to shut it for you.” I bend to whisper in her ear. “Permanently.”
Abby nods and dashes out of the kitchen. I close the door once she’s through and turn to face Mrs. Pisano, who stares at me with wide eyes.
I walk past her and pull out a chair from a small table next to her. “Sit.”
She regards the chair for a few moments, then places her glass and plate on the table and takes a seat.
I head to a big black fridge in the corner and open it, scanning the items within. I locate milk and cheese, but I don’t see ham anywhere. After I move some of the contents around, I find two packs of sliced ham behind a row of condiments. I slam the fridge doors closed and carry the food to the table where Mrs. Pisano is sitting with her eyes glued to her plate.
Tempering my disgust with this fucked-up situation, I place the groceries in front of her in the same order she asked for them—ham, cheese, and, finally, a jug of milk—then I turn around and leave the kitchen.
***
The traffic light changes to red. I pull to a stop behind a white truck and look in the rearview mirror. Mrs. Pisano is sitting with her eyes focused on her lap.
She hasn’t uttered a word since she exited the kitchen this morning. I took her on another shopping spree and then to her mother’s place, where she again covertly left some of the things she bought. A sweater and a shawl this time.
The initial time I witnessed this, I thought the clothes may have been for her mother. But once I had a chance to consider what was happening, I realized that both women are roughly the same size. Since all those items seemed too large for her, the clothes Mrs. Pisano stashed behind the couch must be for someone else. Before we leave, I noticed her slip a piece of jewelry under the cushion of the sofa. We didn’t visit any jewelry stores today, so I assume it’s something of hers.
The light turns green, and I move my eyes back to the road, but the scene from this morning lingers in my mind.
