I hunch over my plate and spoon the food into my mouth as fast as I can. I can’t stop thinking about what happened last night with James. I see the car hurtling towards him, the screen going black. I only manage to eat half my meal before I run to the bathroom and throw up.
When I return, there’s another full portion on my plate again.
“Are you serious?”
“We can sit here all day,” Claudio says.
I force myself to chew and swallow, slowly this time, and I manage to keep it down.
After lunch, Claudio takes me by the arm and leads me into the bedroom, and I’m afraid he’s going to whip me again, but instead he guides me in to the bathroom. “Clothes off. You’re sweaty and you smell like puke,” he says, expressionless.
I tear off my clothing and throw them into a basket. “I hate you,” I say bitterly.
That earns me an arctic smile that chills me to my core. He seizes me by the hair, his fingers tightening. He slides his other hand between my legs, and instantly I’m wet. He bends down, and his lips brush my ear. “Your pussy says otherwise.” Then he steps away from me. “Shower,” he orders.
As I lather my hair he leans against the wall, watching me, and unzips his pants again. He pulls his cock out, and masturbates into a towel, looking at me the whole time.
I get the message. He won’t touch me. Our one tentative link, our insanely passionate connection – I ruined it by trying to run away.
If he’s trying to make me feel horrible, it’s working beautifully. He leaves me alone for the rest of the day, and I try to read, try to watch tv, but I’m so distracted my mind is bouncing around everywhere. Will it always be like this? What am I going to do with my days? Thank God Donata is coming to teach me to cook tomorrow, so I’ll have something to keep me occupied, or I’d go insane.
He comes out briefly to make dinner and watch me eat it, but doesn’t say a word.
Hours later, he finds me in his den, which is on the first floor. It’s stocked floor to ceiling with books in every category; I lose myself in a science fiction romance, so I can pretend I’m a million miles away, and with someone who loves me.
He stands there, framed in the doorway. Filling it with his bulky frame. I stare at him, my eyes tracing the contours of his perfect face, the curve of his upper lip, the broad jaw, the cold gleam of his amber eyes. I try to reconcile his physical beauty with the ugliness of his nature. I search for the slightest trace of affection or forgiveness. I find none.
“ Are you ready to come to bed with me?” he asks coolly. “If not, I’ll go visit one of Diego’s nightclubs.” I know what he means. He’ll go have sex with one of the mob groupie skanks. With someone who’s not me.
The idea of him leaving me makes me want to cry. I feel so lonely, and I’d rather be lonely with him then without him. I can lose myself in sensation, and forget what a horrible person I am for still craving Claudio, after everything he’s done to me.
“Stay,” I say, in a voice so low I can barely hear it myself.
But he doesn’t make me say it again. He just nods, and I follow him to our bedroom.
I shed my clothing as if in a dream, and lie down on the bed without being told to. He moves quickly, hand-cuffing me, and puts the blind-fold on again. I can’t help myself; I go rigid when he does that. I hate it. I want to see what he’s about to do to me, I want to look at my husband’s naked body.
And it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve never seen him naked. T-shirt and boxer shorts, that’s the most stripped down I’ve ever seen him. I remember seeing a couple of white scars on his muscular arms; are there more of them hidden under his shirt and shorts? And why would he think that I’d care?
But then he’s running his hands over me, dripping oil onto my back, massaging it into me, and my thoughts melt away. It’s as if the only way he can show the slightest touch of tenderness to me is in bed, and even then, he has to pepper it with punishment.
Despite myself, I moan as he rubs my muscles, the heat from his palms leaving trails of pure pleasure in its wake. I know it will soon be followed by pain, but just for right now I can pretend he actually cares for me.
Too soon his movements slow, stutter, and his weight shifts. The cool air rushes in, replacing where his hands were against my skin.
And then I hear an ominous sound, something whipping back and forth and creating a breeze. I can't help but tense, the fear rising and chasing away the languorous glow of his touch.
The smooth edge of a thin object slides across my buttocks, a chuckle escaping him as my breath hitches. He drags it again, as if drawing parallel lines on my upper thighs. I know he's enjoying my fear, that his silence only amplifies the terror....and the betraying dampness between my legs.
I hear a whistle in the air, before a stripe of sheer agony races across my buttocks. A scream escapes me a split second later, before another blazing line joins the first. I don't even have time to register it before the pain rains down again.
And again, and again, each slash worse than the previous, until all I am are layers of pure sensation and ravaged flesh, I don't even know where the line between pain and pleasure are, it's all melded into one ball of white heat akin to bliss, the connection between Claudio and me.
Even if I'm the only one feeling it.
I suddenly realize the blows have stopped, but then my husband's fingers start digging into my hips. I know what he wants, and I shift my weight, tilting my buttocks upwards.
I want it too.
My movement pleases him, I can tell by his moan as he suddenly, powerfully, enters into me. He fills me up deep inside and this time I'm the one whose sound escapes, as he withdraws to spear me again. I'm gasping as he lances into me over and over.
I feel his body slapping against my brutalized flesh, sending out another fresh wave of pain, but I don't care. My hips move to welcome every thrust, every inch of his thick cock. His fingers make their way towards my clit, and quickly slide into my dampness, forming tiny circles that make me breathless. He knows exactly how to make me come, and it doesn't take long before I shatter into nothingness, his own release following right after.
His fingers grip me once more, and then he traces words on my burning flesh. I swear I think he traced “I love you” but maybe that’s just the last vestiges of my hope, tricking my brain.
When he frees me and takes my blind-fold off, he’s still in his t-shirt and boxer shorts, and he heads out of the room to shower alone.
Chapter Fourteen
Heather
True to her word, Donata comes over with bags of groceries. Claudio has already been gone for a couple of hours; before he headed out, he warned me not to try to leave the house, or to use my phone. He didn’t say a thing about my father or my brother, and I bit down on my lip so hard that I drew blood, but I didn’t ask him.
Donata has two bodyguards, who sit in a car outside while she and I head to the kitchen. She’s brought a recipe box filled with recipe cards, categorized under breakfast, lunch, dinner, appetizers, and dessert. She’s beautifully dressed, wearing designer clothes, polished red nails, hair styled in shining waves. I see what Claudio means about the way high ranking mob wives are supposed to look; she could be the cover model for “Mafia Wives Weekly.”
Normally, I would enjoy hanging out with her, because she’s kind and funny and showers me with endless compliments, but I’m desperately stressed out about James and my dad, and I’m also limping because Claudio screwed me so hard last night.
Donata pretends not to notice how weird I’m acting. It’s so awkward I think she’ll never want to come back, but she does, the next day, with more groceries.
After we make focaccia bread and slide it in the oven, she fetches a bottle of wine from Claudio’s pantry, pours me a glass, and pours herself some sparkling water. We sit at a small table in the courtyard, and I drain half of the glass in one long gulp.
“All right, talk,” she says. “What’s bothering you?”
<
br /> I manage a rueful smile. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s practically tattooed on your forehead.” She looks longingly at my wine. “I cannot wait to be able to drink again.” Then she shakes her head. “But we’re dealing with your problems, not mine. You’re part of the family now. And Claudio’s a friend, and my husband’s most loyal employee. I want things to work out with you guys. So what’s going on?”
I take another sip of wine. How much can I tell her without getting myself into trouble? It’s Wednesday, I was supposed to visit my father two days ago and Claudio still hasn’t said a word about it, and my brother is probably in a hospital bed somewhere with multiple broken bones. But I have a feeling that I shouldn’t get that specific.
“Claudio is angry at me all the time,” I say carefully, setting the glass down. “I don’t know what to do about it.”
She sighs. “Getting close to Claudio will take a lot of time and patience. I know that. But it will be worth it in the end. He’s the most loyal man I know, Heather. And I can see the attraction between you two. I see the way that he looks at you when you’re not paying attention.”
“How?” I say, in surprise.
She sips her water and smiles. “As if you’re the most delicious dessert in the world and he can’t wait to devour you.”
I’ve never seen that look in his eyes. Is she lying to me? I don’t see why she would.
“He hasn’t shown me the slightest bit of affection,” I protest. “There’s lust, yes, but no tenderness, no kindness, no concern for me and how I’m feeling.”
Donata winces in sympathy. “I’m sorry. That must be rough. He’ll get better with time, I swear to you. Without giving you specifics, which are his alone to share when he’s ready, I can tell you that there’s a reason that he’s like this.”
I know she’s trying to be helpful, but I haven’t seen any reason to have even a glimmer of hope that my marriage to Claudio could be less than miserable. “It just feel like he’ll hate me forever.”
She shakes her head. “He doesn’t hate you, and he will get over it. You’ve got to understand, working for Diego is his life. You made him look bad in front of Diego, and you also put yourself at risk. Things are very uncertain right now, with Kostya in town, and it’s dangerous for any of the made men’s wives to go anywhere without protection.”
I wince in dismay. I screwed up really badly, I know.
She pats my hand. “It’ll be fine. Let’s go check on that focaccia.”
We pull the bread from the oven, and it’s perfect. So there’s that. We’ve also made risotto and penne pasta with tomato sauce and sausage, and Panzanella, which is a salad of bread and chopped tomatoes and vegetables.
She helps me put all the meals in ceramic dishes, and I walk her to the door. She pauses before she leaves. “Here’s how I look at it. Is there danger in this lifestyle? Yes. Are our men bull-headed and difficult sometimes? Of course. But there are also heights of passion that we’d never reach if we were married to ordinary men. We live in an age of office drones, and our men are warriors. That makes us the warrior queens.”
I smile at that. I like how she paints such a heroic picture. If only my warrior actually wanted me to be his queen.
She tells me to practice, and she’ll be back in soon, and when she returns she wants me to cook lunch for her using one of the recipes she learned.
That evening, over dinner, I keep waiting for him to look at me the way she said, as if I were delicious and irresistible. He seems preoccupied, and he doesn’t look at me at all.
“Was the risotto all right?” I ask him nervously.
He glances up at me, his expression distant. “I ate it, didn’t I?’
All of my worry and frustration boil over, and I slam my hands down on the table.
“I wish you’d choked on it!” I yell. And I storm from the room, taking refuge in the shower, the only place I know for sure he’ll leave me alone.
I scrub and scrub, trying to wash this hurt off my flesh. When I come out, he’s gone to his office.
And yet, shamefully, I still ask him to stay that night. I submit to all the pleasure and pain that he can give me, and I orgasm again and again.
I’m still not ready to share my husband with another woman because to me, that would be admitting that I’ve failed.
I couldn’t make my mother want to stay with us. I couldn’t keep my father from spending his days drifting away in an alcoholic haze. And I lost my brother to the streets. What is it about me, that drives away everyone I love most?
Maybe if I could convince my husband to care about me, just a little, I’d feel like I’m not defective and unlovable.
I cook breakfast for Claudio the next morning, using one of Donata’s recipes. A cheese frittata with chopped tomatoes and shallots.
“Donata said this is one of your favorite breakfasts,” I say hopefully, as he eats. “Did I do it right?” He glances up at me.
“Yes. You haven’t finished yours,” he says. And he shovels another forkful in his mouth.
Is that progress? I can’t tell.
After breakfast, he says “Put on a nice dress and do your makeup. We’re going out.” There’s not a trace of warmth in his voice, but I let myself hope. We drive, and my heart leaps with joy when I realize that we’re heading to the hospital.
I still don’t know what’s happening with James, but if Claudio is finally thawing, I hope he’ll tell me soon.
“Can I text my friend Mary?” I ask.
“Whatever,” he grunts. I quickly send her a message telling her that I’m fine and I’ll visit her soon. She sends me back a text with heart and flower emojis.
As we enter the hospital, I slip off my wedding ring and leave it in my pocket. When we get upstairs to my father’s floor, Alison is at the desk, and she comes bustling over, glaring at me.
“Oh, this was a nice time to take a business trip,” she snipes at me. “You barely even see him as it is, and then you just skip your weekly visit to go gallivanting out of town?” Business trip? What is she talking about?
I glance up at Claudio. He must have called and left a message, so my father wouldn’t freak out. The bastard could have told me he’d done that, sparing me days of agonizing over my poor dad, but I guess that was the point.
Alison throws a scornful glance at Claudio, before returning her furious attention to me. “Well, I thought you worked at a coffee shop, but whatever you were really doing, I hope you enjoyed your ‘business trip’.” She makes big air quotes as she says that. “Because I overheard him asking another patient to sneak him in a drink. That’s all on you.”
Panic squeezes my lungs, and I struggle for breath. He can’t relapse, he just can’t. One drink could kill him. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry,” I murmur, clutching the counter of the nurse’s station.
Claudio stomps forward, and gives her a look that would make a grown man pee his pants. “Don’t talk to her like that. Ever,” he says, his voice slicing through the air like the blade of a knife. The color drains from Alison’s face.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I just...I’m just looking for the best interests of - ”
“Did I fucking ask?” he barks.
She turns and walks away, very quickly.
“Thank you for that,” I murmur. He shrugs impatiently.
I swallow hard, and blink away sudden tears. “Sometimes I feel like nobody ever has my back. It’s nice to feel like someone is there to stick up for me, even if it’s just for a minute.”
“It’s not for just a minute.” He takes my chin in his hand and tips my head up as he speaks, his voice deep and intense. His gaze seizes mine and holds it. “It’s your entire life. If anyone messes with you in any way, ever, I will cut them down to pieces too small to be measured. That’s my job.” He lets go of me.
“Go,” he says impatiently, gesturing at my father’s room.
My father is sitting up in bed. He’s pale and drawn, but he
manages a smile for me.
“There’s my baby. Did you have a nice trip?” he asks, as I plop down in the chair next to his bed.
I’m too upset to come up with yet another comforting story.
“Dad,” I say. “Were you thinking of drinking again?”
His eyes shuttle to the left the way they do when he’s thinking about lying to me. Then he looks me right in the eye. “Yes,” he admits. “I thought you were never coming to see me again. God knows I deserve it, but it still hurt. And I haven’t heard from your brother in weeks. I don’t know if my boy is alive or dead, and I know that there’s something you’re not telling me. And I’m behind all of this somehow. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, Heather, I was never any kind of father to you.”
I bite my lip. I’m so tired of living in this house of lies. Whatever time I have left with him, I want it to be real.
The truth is, my father drank every day for decades, and now he’s lying in his hospital bed, a forty-five year old man who looks twenty years older. And I gave everything I had to try to take care of him, and my brother did too, and it still wasn’t enough.
“I believe you’re sorry,” I say to him.
“I am,” he says, and tears fill his eyes and run down his cheeks. His shoulders heave. “I was a bad dad, wasn’t I?”
I hesitate. It’s hard to kick a man when he’s down. “You stayed,” I say. “You could have let us go into the system.”
“But I wasn’t there for you.”
All those nights alone in the house...I shake my head from side to side, slowly. “No, you weren’t.”
I hold his hands as he cries and says that he’s sorry, over and over again. I feel as if he’s saying goodbye, and yet, for once, I don’t lie and say everything’s all right.
I see the exhaustion showing on his face. He needs to rest; I’ve worn him out. I lean in and hug him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’m...my schedule’s changed, maybe I’ll be able to come more often.”
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