Chapter 10
Matteo
This feels wrong. I’m just keeping her safe. That’s it. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. So why have I been watching her cook dinner, dancing around our old kitchen in her tiny shorts and tank top for the last thirty minutes? Am I concerned about a grease fire?
I couldn’t believe how easy it was to enter and plant these cameras. My beautiful wife hadn’t even bothered to change the locks after all of this time. I’d be pissed if I weren’t so grateful. Not that it was easier to enter. That would’ve been a nonissue. Yet the feeling that she might still want me to put my key in the door and join her after all of this time gave me hope. Hope I wasn’t entitled to after all I’ve done.
My curiosity is killing me. I wish I knew what music she was dancing to. Did she have Frank Sinatra or Michael Bublé playing in the background as she did when we’d cook together? But I’m not listening in on her too. I draw the line there.
Memories of retrieving her wine glass, placing it on the counter, and spinning her around our kitchen as dinner simmered bring me back to a time I never want to forget. Those few years when I allowed myself to be happy.
Giovanni’s words taunt me. Let us watch her. It’ll only torture you if you’re any more involved. Hell, Matteo. That would push anyone to drink.
So far, the only thing it’s pushing me to do is want to get in the damn car, drive to our old place, and walk in the front door asking, what’s for dinner ?
I’ve never missed anything so much in my life as the day-to-day joys of living with my wife. Okay, that and making love to her each night. And the morning sex. And the shower—Okay, I miss it all.
Every. Fucking. Thing.
I need to close this laptop and walk away. But I can’t help myself. This is the best evening I’ve had in years. Sure, Giovanni’s right. Watching her every move may eventually be more torment than I can bear. Having to keep my distance, not able to go to her. Or worse, seeing her cook for someone else.
Don’t go there, Matteo.
Sydney plates her food, walks into the living area, and curls up on the couch with her dinner and a glass of wine. My memories are so vivid, I can practically smell the herbs and spices she’d use. I drag my tongue over my lower lip at the sight of her, sipping from her Pinot Grigio. She’s so predictable. She preferred a chilled glass of Santa Margherita to wind down at the end of each day. I’d gladly tempt my sobriety daily if it meant kissing her wine-stained lips again. I’d have a therapist at the ready if I needed.
Who am I kidding? When I had her, I didn’t need the alcohol.
But it’s clear, once I’m able to put this vice behind me and walk away, I need to do it for me. Quitting an addiction for someone else will never work. It’s too easy to use them as a crutch. Then blame them when the shit hits the fan and you slip, picking up the bottle again. This has to be on me.
From this camera angle, I can’t tell what she’s watching. I pour a tall glass of water and sit down in front of my computer screen as if I’m dining with her. If only.
We rarely turned on the television. We would chat about our day, reveling in one another. Sometimes we’d lie on the couch, each with a book in hand. My suspense novel, her romance as I ran my hand up and down her legs draped over my lap. The yearning I have to regain those simple moments with her.
In hindsight, I’m thankful my parents insisted on my learning English as a child.
Reflecting on my father, his need for power and money, highlights our differences. I’m nothing like him. She’s all I need. I had everything and threw it all away.
Stop this, Matteo. You did what you had to do. You need to keep her safe. She deserves the life she’s worked so hard to build.
Sydney stands from her perch on the couch, her meal finished, heading for the sink. After rinsing her plate and cleaning up the kitchen, she walks out of frame. Switching to a camera in the hallway, I observe her walking toward the bedroom briefly before re-emerging and heading for the bathroom.
I use this time to get up and make a sandwich. There are no cameras set up in the bathroom. And the one in her bedroom is merely to verify she’s safely tucked away each night. No one has access to these particular cameras but me. However, I refuse to invade her privacy any more than I already have.
Okay, so I shouldn’t be watching her every move like a crazed stalker. Yet, much like my constant craving for alcohol, at times I can’t resist the urge for one little sip. The biggest difference here…
Sydney is an addiction I never want to overcome.
I’ll only watch a little longer, then will touch base with Anthony regarding tonight’s security detail assigned to her, to ensure there are two dependable men on the job. “They better be,” I grumble. Anthony assured me they’d be taking notes on any unusual behavior in the neighborhood, every damn license plate that passes by, and of course, each and every individual who comes anywhere near her home.
Grabbing a plate from the cabinet, I go in search of some bread. Unlike my beautiful girl, I’m not putting much thought into this meal. Hell, I think I’ve eaten this same sandwich every day for the last week. While I prepared most of our meals when we were married, I don’t put much effort into anything I eat now. Why would I? It’s merely sustenance. Fuel to get me through each day. There’s no joy in my food, or anything, without her.
The lyrics to “The Birds” by Frank Hamilton come to mind. Lately it’s been playing on repeat in my mind. He sings of not wanting to sleep until his love comes home. Being wide awake for days, eating his breakfast alone, running out of milk… and hope. The way I relate to the words is mindboggling. Because, like him, everything’s a mess. And I think I’d sell my soul to go back to yesterday’s news. When we were happy in our little bubble.
My heart clenches at the memory of days gone by. What a fucking lucky shit I was, and how I took it all for granted. But I knew the risk I was taking by marrying her. There’s nothing else I can do now but be grateful for the time we had. And do everything in my power to ensure Sydney’s days aren’t numbered because of me.
Spreading the bread with olive oil and some garlic aioli, I lay several pieces of Black Forest ham and soppressata, my favorite dried Italian salami, on one slice before topping with provolone. On the other slice, I place crispy lettuce, red onions, and pepperoncini peppers before closing it and taking a bite.
Looking around the space only highlights how far I’ve fallen. A sad studio apartment for one. This place appears more suited to a college senior than a forty-two-year-old man. One who managed to secure enough funds before leaving Italy for the states that my job isn’t a requirement to support my existence. My work at the body shop can remain a facade for the undercover dealings that require my attention. Nothing more.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
Ah, Anthony. It’s like he’s read my mind. “Hello.”
“Matteo. Sorry to bother you. Since it’s the first night we’ve amped things up, I wanted to reassure you we have two seasoned veterans from our security team standing across from her house. They’ve been instructed to shoot to kill at any sign of danger, and ask questions later.”
“Yes.” Exactly. “Thank you, Anthony. You’re a good man. Any feedback from them?”
“Only that it’s been a quiet night. That and her neighbor is a freak.”
I chuckle, immediately knowing exactly who they’re talking about.
The man living to the left of us moved in not long after Sydney and I were married. He kept to himself, never making eye contact when we were outside. Quite honestly, I rarely saw him during the day. From digging through his mail, I was able to find his name and some demographic details that allowed a deeper dive online. He appeared to be of Czech descent, here in America for work.
One evening, I trailed him to an industrial park in Ashland where he appears to work the night shift. Not sure how long he’s been burning the midnight oil, but he seems to do everything while everyone else is sleeping. His lights are all lit well before the sun rises. I’ve seen him wandering about from room to room, and on occasion have caught him doing yard work well into the night, wearing a lighted pith helmet to illuminate his way.
“Yeah. I checked him out years ago. He seemed harmless. But don’t let your guard down. If anything seems amiss, don’t hesitate to run another check on him. We can’t be too careful.”
“You’ve got it, boss.”
“And once you have Syd’s surgical calendar, be sure to have someone on her to and from work. Her days often start before the sun is up. I don’t want anyone able to get a shot at her when no one else is around. The security at that hospital is total crap.”
“On it. I’ll check it out personally.”
“Thank you.”
Sydney comes back into frame as the call with Anthony disconnects and alarm bells begin to sound in my head. She’s wearing a short satin robe, the color I’m not able to discern given the black and white pictures of the camera feed. It’s tied across her waist, the hem barely covering her ass.
I drag my palm down my face, knowing I need to walk away. But my body is frozen in anticipation.
As she pulls back the covers, she sets herself down on the bed and reaches for a bottle of moisturizer on the nightstand.
“Oh, hell,” I groan. The sight of her running her hands up and down her shapely calves before moving to her neck, then untying her robe to… Fuuuuuck .
Sydney lies back against her pillows, her beautiful body on full display. Those perfect tits, flat stomach, and that beautiful bare pussy I’ve dreamed of nearly every night for the last four years. She continues to massage lotion into her skin, arching her neck and back before me. Jesus. What sweet punishment is this? It’s as if she knows I’m watching and wants to condemn me to cruel and unusual punishment.
I need to turn off this camera and walk away. It’s the right thing to do. Respect her privacy, dammit. But God, I miss her. What I’d give to have my wife in my arms. For me to be the one applying the ointment to her skin. To worship her body, grateful she’s mine.
Suddenly, she reaches inside her nightstand, retrieving an object and placing it by her side. Once I realize what it is, my mouth goes dry. Her vibrator.
She’s left to meet her needs herself, instead of having her husband by her side to properly take care of her. This incredible, strong, brilliant woman I pushed away. If only she could understand. It’s because of how much I love her that we’re in this situation.
Even knowing I’d have to live here in my own private hell for the rest of my days, I’d do it all again. Anything to protect my beautiful wife.