“Thought about what?” came my bewildered response.
He licked his lips and said, “After your father’s death, your family lost a seat at the high table and Ettore walked free without punishment. There was no retribution. Your uncle never sought revenge. And you never stopped to think why?”
I’d heard the story countless times. It was how my sister learned to manipulate me. My father was murdered in cold blood.
I swallowed hard as my temple began to throb.
Wasn’t he?
“Ettore despises Vincenza,” the front door creaked as it began to close. And just before it did, Marco said, “And with good cause.”
Marco was right. I’d never really thought about it.
Oh God.
And now, I couldn’t think of anything but.
* * *
Ettore
“I’m sick this,”Vittoria uttered into the bathroom mirror, wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of navy underwear. As she leant in, her stomach pooched a little and all I wanted to do was walk in behind her and put my hand to her softness. “I don’t want to wash my hair.”
“So don’t,” I replied, as if we were in the same room.
“But it’s greasy,” was her sad admission.
“Who cares,” I sipped at my black coffee, glancing down at the paperwork I’d been neglecting for days. “Tie it up.”
“I could always wear it up,” she muttered thoughtfully.
Without glancing over, I pointed my pen at the phone screen. “There you go.”
“Or maybe,” she drawled, “I should just cut it.”
I sat up straight, paperwork forgotten. My brow furrowed and I snapped, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”
I loved her hair as it was. It was thick and lush, and shiny, and it smelled good.
“I’ve never had short hair.” My charming wife made a face. “What if it looks weird and then I’m stuck with it?” She shook her head and blew out an irritated, “Forget it. I’ll just wash it.”
My posture lessened as I leaned back in my chair, relieved. “Good.”
As she entered the shower, I tried to get as much work done as I possibly could knowing the second she was out, I would become distracted again. And when she stepped out, deliciously wet and shamelessly nude, my cock jerking behind my slacks, coming to life. She gathered her hair into a towel, twisted it then threw it back, leaving it sitting on a mound on top of her head.
“I wish I could go for a swim,” she said under her breath.
But I shook my head as I signed the papers. “Not a chance. You’re grounded, baby.”
She sighed long and slow and it caught my attention. She rested her hands onto her bare stomach and slowly trailed them upwards. Her fingertips glanced the buds of her nipples and when she covered her breasts, squeezing them hard enough to make her soft flesh swell through the gaps of her splayed fingers, I stilled as she uttered absentmindedly, “I would do anything for a swim.”
“Well.” My cock stood full mast now. I unconsciously placed a hand over the hard length of it. “I guess I could reconsider. Maybe.”
It had been twelve days since Vittoria began this monologue and, in the beginning, I was quietly surprised but weary of her intentions. That first day, I kept a closer eye on her than usual. Hearing her speak directly to me, without fear or anger or tears in her eyes, was a pleasant surprise. And so, an internal dilemma brewed.
Vittoria was the woman who shot a bullet right through me. Even though I was technically healed, the fresh pink scar continued to ache. I should not have been smiling at her harmless flirting and immature teasing. And yet, her commentary on dinner became one of my favorite segments of the day.
She was brutally honest about her cooking and at times got cocky when her winning streak surpassed two days of good meals. By the third, she was promptly reminded that while she was an okay cook, she wasn’t a great one, and usually ended with her scraping the contents of her monstrous creation directly into the trash can and eating a bowl of cereal instead.