Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Violetta
I never imagined I'd be the sort of woman who watches the clock while waiting for her husband, but here I am. Damiano was supposed to be back by seven thirty to have dinner with me, but three courses of delicious food came and went and he didn't show up.
So here I am, sitting alone with a glass of wine and a book I can't concentrate on, wondering why I'm so damned disappointed about that.
It's not as if we're a conventional couple enjoying our honeymoon phase. He has business that takes him away at all hours. A sensible woman would reconcile herself to not having him around.
But when it comes to the husband I didn't even want, my common sense seems to fly out the window, because I miss him far more than I should. It’s foolish to crave those moments when our fingers brush as we both reach for the wine, or his eyes finding mine and giving me that rare half-smile of his. But I wanted them anyway,
At eleven thirty, I decide I'm being pathetic and go to bed alone. As I set my glass down, Damiano walks into the room. I frown as I take in his disheveled state.
He left this morning as he always does in an immaculately tailored suit. Now he's wearing black sweatpants and a white t-shirt, an outfit I never thought I'd see him in. He looks younger and somehow more dangerous. In a suit, I can fool myself he’s just another businessman.
Like this, I see the man who lies beneath the polished exterior. The one who’s unafraid to get his hands dirty. It’s unnerving.
He crosses to the drinks cabinet and pours himself a Scotch.
Standing there, facing the wall, he drinks every last drop.
Then he pours two more glasses and comes to offer me one.
As I take it, I notice the grazes on the backs of his knuckles.
He sees me staring, but neither of us says a word about it.
He goes to sit at the other end of the sofa. Pulling my legs up under me, I lean against the back cushion and turn to face him. It's impossible to miss the weariness in his expression.
"Has something happened?"
"Lorenzo's woman was attacked last night."
Shock courses through me. "What?"
"Her ex-boyfriend got out of prison a few days ago. He came after her."
"Adriano Martelli." I stitch together the fragments of conversation I overheard in the car the other day.
"Yeah, the piece of shit hit her. He would have raped her if I hadn't interrupted him."
Bile rises at the back of my throat.
"Fuck. Is she okay?"
"She's bruised and shaken. The asshole firebombed her restaurant before he took off. We could have been burned alive."
I sip my Scotch as I try to digest what he's told me.
"Why were you at her restaurant?"
His mouth twists. "Not to fuck her, if that's what you're worried about."
Until this moment that possibility hadn't even occurred to me. "It wasn't, but I am now."
Damiano shakes his head. "Fidelity matters to me, Violetta. I will never touch another woman, just as you'll never let another man touch what's mine."
How does he manage to make that sound both reassuring and utterly infuriating at the same time? I let it slide because there are more important matters at hand.
"So why were you there?"
He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. "Lorenzo was being an asshole, refusing to share information. I thought Lucia might tell me what I wanted to know."
"What did you want to know?"
"It was nothing important, just an issue involving my cousin Gio. He's in town for a couple of days." Damiano lets out a tired breath. "It's a long story."
Since he clearly doesn't want to elaborate, I let it drop.
"So what happened to the restaurant?"
"Burned to the ground."
Oh, no. "It's been in her family for decades." My voice catches as I speak. Although I don't know Lucia Lazaro, I can't help sympathizing with her loss.
"The restaurant can be rebuilt."
"But that could take years. The insurance company will want to investigate before they pay out."
Damiano waves a hand dismissively. "It will be rebuilt and open for business within the year."
"Ah, right. Mafia contacts."
"And Lorenzo's money. He'll do anything to make her happy."
"That must be nice." I hate that I sound so wistful.
Damiano glances at me sharply and I look away, wishing I hadn’t said that out loud. Tilting his head in thought, he studies my face in that intrusive way that makes me feel so exposed.
"I would have made it back for dinner if I could, Violetta, but I had to deal with Martelli."
"You killed him?"
"It's what he deserved."
The matter-of-fact way he speaks about another man's death should chill me to the bone, but I can't bring myself to feel disgust at him ridding the world of a man who would brutalize women.
I can’t believe how quickly I arrived at that conclusion, how naturally the logic of Damiano’s world has become mine. I don’t know when that happened and I’m not sure I like it.
But a man like Martelli doesn't die without consequences. I've seen enough news stories to understand how vendettas start.
"What happens now? Surely the Martellis won't let it drop?"
"They won't, but we're ready for them."
He sounds certain, but I haven't been in his world long, and the prospect of someone gunning for Damiano is more unsettling than I want to admit.
"Does that mean you're in danger?"
He shakes his head, a strand of hair flopping over his forehead. "No more than usual."
"That's not exactly reassuring."
Damiano's jaw twitches. "What do you want from me, Violetta? The world is dangerous. People get hurt."
"I know that, but it's never been….” I swallow the words someone I care about. That's not something I'm ready to admit to him yet. But I do care — more than I want to.
As Damiano goes quiet, I stare into the amber liquid in my glass. I don't know whether now is the right time to broach the subject of Elena, but I've been sitting on it long enough.
"I wanted to ask you about something." Suddenly I'm not sure this is wise, but I forge ahead. "Elena, from the club. What happened to her?"
"Nothing."
"Don't do that, Damiano. I know Riccardo took her."
"He did and he's handling it."
"Handling it? What does that mean?"
He presses his lips together. "What do you think it means?"
I want to scream in frustration at his evasiveness.
"At least tell me she's safe."
"For now. Whether she remains so depends on her continued cooperation."
Like me, then. The words sit at the tip of my tongue but I hold them back.
There are times when it’s better to say nothing and this is one of them.
It’s not a good time to get into an argument.
I'm tetchy after waiting for him all evening and I can't imagine he's in the best place after the day he's had.
I'll just have to trust that Elena is sensible enough not to antagonize Riccardo.
Damiano casts an appraising glance over me.
"You should go to bed. It's late."
"Not when you're used to working in a nightclub," I say with a smile, though in all honesty I am exhausted.
"All the same. Go to bed."
I get the feeling he wants to be alone for a while. Placing my half-drunk glass of Scotch on the table, I get to my feet.
"Will you come to bed later?" I ask.
"In a little while."
Leaving him there, I head out into the hallway.
It's chillier out here, a draft creeping from the front door.
The marble is cold beneath my bare feet.
I make my way upstairs and go through my nightly routine.
When my face is cleansed of makeup and my hair is brushed out, I put on my favorite pink pajamas and get into bed.
I douse the lights, lie back against the pillow, and find myself waiting for Damiano to come to me. Again.