34. Joao
34
JOAO
T he restaurant I picked is old-school romantic. Spotless white tablecloths, soft golden lighting dripping from the crystal chandeliers, and pink candles on the tables.
The hostess leads us to a corner table. I pull Stefi’s chair out for her, then take my own seat across from her. Stefi waits for the hostess to leave, then raises her eyebrow. “You’re sitting with your back to the room,” she says. “Not worried about danger? What if someone sneaks up on you?”
I flash her a grin. “There’s no danger. My wife’s watching the room, and I pity the fool who tries to take her by surprise.”
I can’t stop looking at her. Her hair has been styled into bouncy curls, she’s done something with her eyes that makes them look larger and more luminous, and her lips are painted a soft pink, the precise color of her nipples.
A smile touches her lips. “You’re flattering me.”
“I’m not. You’ve always been better at threat assessment.”
“I had to be,” she replies. “I wasn’t as naturally talented as you, so I had to work ten times harder. It was the only way to survive.”
For a moment, I’m speechless. I don’t often think about the way we were brought up, but her words are a reminder that we’ve both fought hard to be alive. And now, against all odds, we’re together again. Seeing my ring on her finger sends a rush of warmth through me. I almost can’t believe she said yes. After everything she’s been through, she still said yes.
My wife. Mine.
I look at her face, at those luminous green eyes, and I make myself a promise. This is the second chance I never thought I’d get, and I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that nothing can come between us. This last week has made me fall in love with my wife all over again. I can’t— won’t —lose her as soon as I’ve found her.
The waiter arrives with menus, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Do you want some wine?” I ask Stefi. “I looked up their wine list when I made the reservation. It’s a pretty decent selection.”
“You choose. I’m not picky.”
“White or red?”
“White, please.”
I order a Reisling from a local winery whose name I recognize. The waiter nods and disappears. “Are you a wine expert now?” Stefi asks curiously.
“Not an expert, no. But Antonio owns multiple wineries, and we also smuggle wine. I’ve learned enough to be able to detect the obvious fakes.”
Her lips tighten at the mention of Antonio. The waiter arrives before she can say anything, pours the wine into our glasses, and takes our food order. Once he’s gone, I lift my glass to Stef. “A toast. Not to surviving but to thriving.”
“You remembered what I said.”
“How could I not?” I look around the room. “In all the time we’ve been together, we’ve never once done this. Gone on a proper date, sat in a nice restaurant, spent hours together without looking over our shoulders.”
“You have, though,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “Before you found out I was still alive, you had a stable life in Venice. You had all this, right?”
“Define ‘all this.’”
“You know,” she says. “Nice restaurants, fancy meals, dinner dates.”
“You think I dated?” I shoot her an incredulous look. “There were no other women. You’re the only one for me, Stef. It’s always been you.”
Her head snaps up. “No,” she says, sounding almost angry. “No. I was dead, Joao. You didn’t promise me monogamy from beyond the grave. I didn’t want that; I never wanted that. You were supposed to move on. You were supposed to forget me and find love with someone else. That was the deal. That was the only reason I was able to walk away from you.”
My brows furrow. “It wasn’t a deal I agreed to,” I respond. “It’s not as if you consulted me on what I thought about the matter.”
Am I angry with her choices? A little bit, yes. She was making the best decision she could, and in her shoes, I would have done the same thing, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to rage at the life that was stolen from us. I’m angry we never got to linger over romantic meals. I’m angry we never had the wedding she wanted, and I’m angry I never got to hold my son in my arms.
I take a deep breath, unclench my fists, and force myself to take a sip of wine. “I knew you’d want me to find happiness with someone else,” I say quietly. “And I would have, as soon as I stopped mourning you. The instant I could think of you without feeling like I was going to drown from the pain of your loss, I was going to date again.” The wine is cold and tart in my mouth. “It just never happened. Every time I thought about you, every time I was forced to face the fact that I’d never see you again, it felt like I was being flayed alive.”
I stare into her green eyes, as familiar to me as my own. “It didn’t matter that you were dead, Stef. How could I be with another woman when all I could think about was you? You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted.”
“ Eight years, Joao,” she whispers. “You waited eight years.”
I reach across the table and link my fingers in hers. “I would have waited eighty.”
She looks like she’s about to cry, so I change the subject to distract her. My wife hates being vulnerable in public. “What about you?” I ask. “Did you date anyone?”
She shakes her head. “You know I didn’t. I couldn’t. You were always there. And maybe I could have tried to forget you by deadening my senses with alcohol and picking someone up at a bar, but why would I do that? You’ve always been the best thing in my life. As much as it hurt to remember you, you were the one person I never wanted to forget.”
I swallow hard. “We’re a pair of fools, aren’t we?” I reach across the table and link my fingers with hers. “You pushed me away to protect me, and I would do the same thing. But maybe we don’t have to. Maybe we should try making these decisions together.”
“Would you?” she asks me quietly. “Could you? If we find out that the leak is on my end, you’re going to do everything in your power to get me to Venice, aren’t you? It doesn’t matter that Antonio Moretti funded Bach’s sick, twisted business for five years. As long as he promises to protect me, it doesn’t matter to you what else he did.” She stares at me with challenging eyes. “Tell me I’m wrong. Promise me you won’t force me to come with you to Venice.”
I’ve been thinking about this all week, and I know what my answer is going to be. “That’s not a promise I can make.”
Her face falls, and I feel like a complete asshole for disappointing her. But it’s better to tell her a truth she hates than a convenient lie.
Someone is after my wife. Someone sent a team to Zurich to take her out, and that same person sent armed men into Zaworski’s party to find her, willing to risk the wrath of some very dangerous and powerful people.
And when it comes down to it, I’d ally myself with the devil himself to keep her safe.
Even if Stefi will never forgive me for it.
Even if it crushes our marriage into the ground.
Even if it destroys the second chance I never expected to have.