AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I’m just going to grab some cheese and fruit.”
Chef says, “There’s a plate in the refrigerator waiting for you.”
I’ve tried several times to get Chef to tell me his real name but have thus far been met with silence. Even Donna claims she doesn’t know, which makes me that more determined to find out.
“Thanks, Cheffy.”
His lips twitch at the nickname. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Moretti.”
I grab the plate from the fridge and make my way to the living room. Chef and I have settled into a routine where he stops insisting to fix elaborate meals for every meal and I stop just helping myself to items in the kitchen. Chef is very particular about who touches anything in his domain—his words, not mine. Our other compromise is that he can go all out for dinner. And, gosh, does he ever. Last night he fixed four courses. I was so stuffed by the time the last course came out that I could barely make it to my bedroom, much less think about having sex with my husband. Definitely had to digest a bit before we could do anything of that nature.
In the living room, I sit on the couch with my plate in my lap. Alessandro said I could make some changes around the house if I wanted. The statement made me happy for a few reasons. It feels like he sees me as an equal partner and wants me to feel like his house is our house. Besides, I know he's heard me mention that I wish there was a chair by the window because, honestly, there should be a chair over there. Which is why I’m looking for chairs online right now.
I’ve narrowed it down to a few choices, but I think I’m going to go with the one where we can both sit in the chair together. I let out a soft sigh, imagining it. He’ll come home after a long day of work and we can sit there, talking about our day. Yeah, that sounds perfect. The only question is what color should I pick? All the other furniture is black, which is why I’m feeling compelled to order the chair in a light pink. My soft to his hard. My light to his dark. It’s perfect. After ordering it, I look for a few more items to place around the house.
I end up scrolling on social media. Alessandro was reluctant to let me download some of my old apps on my new phone, but I have nothing to hide. I stop as I come across a post from Gia. I only followed her because Giosuè insisted and just never got around to unfollowing her. And now? Now I’m staring at a photo of Gia at her wedding…to my father. Disbelief courses through me. How in the heck did this happen? And when? The date says two days ago. Is that true?
The photo is of the two of them standing in front of the same priest that married me and Alessandro. Giosuè stands next to my father as his best man and one of Gia’s cousins stands next to her. The kicker? She’s wearing the same dress that she said I was too fat for. Of course, her dress is a smaller size, but it’s the same design. I huff out a laugh when I read her caption.
Married the love of my life. I’m now Mrs. Dale Bass.
Jesus. That means she’s my stepmother. Again, how in the heck did this happen? The comments on the post don’t give any clues either. Just well-wishes and congratulations. There aren’t any posts of the two of them before that one, either. My finger hovers over the comment button. Finally, I type out a message and post it.
Congrats to the two of you! Wishing you all the best.
There. Now no one can say I didn’t do the right thing. I’m about to close the app when I get a message notification. It’s from Gia.
Should I open it?
Curiosity gets the better of me and I click on the message.
Gia: OMG, Isabetta! Your father and I have been so worried about you. Everyone tried calling after that monster stole you and no one could get ahold of you. Please let us know that you’re okay!
I stare at my phone. I might believe that they had tried to get ahold of me, except for one thing. No one reached out on social media. I know if I couldn’t get ahold of someone, I would try every avenue.
I type out my reply.
Me: No need to worry. I’m fine.
Gia: Your dad would like to talk to you and your old number doesn’t work. Can you call?
Me: That’s not a good idea.
Gia: Isabetta, he’s worried. He said there are things you don’t know about Moretti. Call, and he’ll explain everything.
I don’t reply. Why? Because I don’t believe a word that comes out of either of their mouths. There’s nothing they can say to me about Alessandro that I’d believe. And after we talk tonight, I’ll be able to ask him anything and he’ll answer. It’s perfect. Everything is perfect.
13
Alessandro
I tap my fingers on the top of the desk as I listen to Smith and Jones argue on the virtual call we’re on. We’ve been going at this for hours, getting nowhere. Smith received a letter and claims that Jones is the only person in the world who knows the enclosed information. This, of course, pissed off Jones, who didn’t like being accused of being the person behind the letters. The thing that stands out is that it’s not the same kind of letter that DeLeon received. The paper is different, as is the wording. Which makes me think someone else sent it. That’s all we need—a copycat wannabe killer.
Now, they’re going around in circles, accusing each other of any and every sin under the sun.
“Enough,” I say. “Smith, it’s obvious that Jones didn’t send the letter. Despite what you say, someone else knows all of your dirty little secrets. Now what in the fuck are you going to do to fix it?”
Smith is stunned into silence. Jones, on the other hand, doesn’t have the same problem.
