6. Vivi
VIVI
Just don’t pass out. Whatever you do, Vivi, don’t. pass. out.
It would only make this night even more demoralizing. Worse, it would draw Giovanni’s attention, his proximity, and I don’t want him anywhere near me.
Not right now. Not ever.
A bit of an issue since we’re married.
I twirl some pasta around on my plate. The first few bites were a distraction, a passing source of comfort, but now the heavy cream and carbs are concrete in my stomach. I drop the fork, wincing when it clangs against the refined bone china plate.
Why couldn’t I just stay in the car? Why parade me in front of all these beautiful people when I look like something dragged out of a swamp?
Maybe he just likes being mean.
No. That implies emotion, and nothing I’ve seen about Giovanni Marchetti indicates he has those. He’s precise, procedural. Dictatorial in the extreme, but void of feeling.
The single dominating force in my life, and the man who destroyed everything.
I push the plate of food away, slumping back into the soft leather. Like everything else around me, it’s beautiful. The height of quality and luxury. As foreign and unrecognizable as the state of my life.
Tino is dead.
Tears burn my eyes. The oxygen in my lungs feels corrosive.
Tino Valori is dead, and Giovanni Marchetti is the one who killed him.
It doesn’t matter how hard I grip the little stone in my pocket, or how deeply the nuns ingrained my lessons. I can’t be obedient and just sit. Not right now.
A furtive glance around confirms that Giovanni isn’t here. It’s the perfect chance to sneak away.
I have no idea where I’m going, but anywhere has to be better than here. All the curious stares are making my skin crawl.
I make it a few steps toward the exit before a deep cough stops me short. The older man who accompanied us in from the car uses his enormous body to block my escape route. “Prego, Signora, si sieda.”
His courtesy is superficial. He’s ordering, not asking. Just like his boss.
Desperation and fear make me uncommonly defiant. “No.”
The man is a little shorter than Giovanni but just as broad. He points a brawny finger at the seat I’ve abandoned. He switches languages, matching my English. “Yes. Sit.”
“No. I-I—” I think fast. “I need to use the toilet. Unless your employer expects me to relieve myself on his floor, you’re going to need to let me go.”
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had a face-to-face conversation with any man other than Father and Tino, and even those were rare. Men are foreign creatures. The antithesis of everything I’m familiar with.
So I’m caught off guard by how embarrassed the big guy gets when he realizes I have to pee.
“Ah. Sì, sì. The toilet is that way.” Again with the pointing. When he indicates the exit, his skin is pinker than before. “Out the door, to the right.”
I mutter a quiet thanks, start to slip away. But the big guy stays right behind me. “I can go by myself.”
“No, Signora. You can’t.”
It’s not a discussion. The giant guard walks me to the ladies’ room and through the door. I think he’s going to follow me into the stall. I scurry ahead and lock myself in before he has the chance.
I can’t even pee on my own?! What the heck?
I’m confused, exhausted, groggy. My thoughts wispy, weaving in and out of a mental mist.
The guard knocks on the stall door.
“What?”
“You said you needed to pee, Signora. I don’t hear any pee.”
Oh, flip off. I’m about to barge back out and tell him to mind his own business when the ladies’ room door opens, followed by the click-click of high heels.
“Uh, excuse me?” The woman sounds young and pissed. “What the fuck are you doing in here? This is the women’s bathroom.”
“Uh—” The big guard tries to explain, but she’s not having any of it.
“No. Don’t uh me, you asshole. Get the fuck out of here!”
There’s a loaded pause, then he directs his disembodied voice at me. “You have two minutes, Signora. I’ll be outside.”
To my astonishment, he leaves.
I wait a second. When it seems like he isn’t coming back, I exit the stall. The other woman turns at the same time, moving in my direction.
We collide, both gasping as glass shatters around our feet and cold liquid splatters across my face and chest.
“Oh my God, oh my God! I’m so sorry! Shit!” She reaches for me, trying to wipe away the liquid already soaking through my sweatshirt. “Fuck, I got you all wet! Are you okay?”
I shift before she makes contact, vision blurred by streaks of what smells like champagne. “I uh—yeah, I’m fine.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Using my sleeve, I dry my eyes and look up into the face of a distraught and totally stunning woman.
She’s about my age, maybe a few years older, and looks exactly like the person I’d expect to be partying late into the night at this hotel, drinking all the fancy champagne she can handle.
She’s gorgeous. Desirable. The kind of beauty who can command a man like Giovanni’s guard to get out of the women’s bathroom with every expectation he’ll obey.
The nuns would categorize her as a temptress. A woman who inherently knows how to make men sin. I was taught to stay far, far away from creatures like her. I can feel the pull in the back of my spine, the niggling feeling that I should just walk away.
Except, she saved me from Giovanni’s guard. And she’s looking at me with a mixture of concern and friendliness, and I don’t want to leave this temporary sanctuary. Not yet.
“It was an accident,” I assure her with a smile. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Ditto.” She smiles back. It’s lopsided and reveals a gap between her otherwise perfect front teeth.
“Really, no harm done.” I indicate to my shapeless black outfit. “Pretty sure this stuff is indestructible. A little champagne isn’t going to hurt.”
The woman laughs. Bright, friendly. “No, probably not. But at least what you’re wearing looks comfortable.
I swear, these things—” She kicks up a heel, showing off turquoise-painted toenails and a shoe that’s more torture device than footwear.
“They look great but, damn, they make it hard to walk in a straight line.”
She folds her uber long legs into a crouch and starts to brush the broken glass into a pile. “Shit, if my date finds out about this, he’ll never let me live it down. He’s always teasing me about what a klutz I am.”
I join her on the floor, gingerly sweeping the larger chunks under the counter, out of the way. “Your date?”
The woman bites her lip. It isn’t a nervous gesture. It means something…
Something I don’t understand.
“Hmmm, yes. Though, I guess date is a stretch. He’s just a guy I’ve been seeing off and on.
I’m meeting him here tonight. He’s working right now, so I’ve been killing time at the hotel bar.
I mean, the place is gorgeous. There are way worse places to sit around waiting for a guy to get off work.
But I got impatient, wanted to sneak over to the club and spy on him…
Get the lady motor warmed up with a little eye fucking, you know? ”
Lady motor? Eye fucking?!
I stare at her, completely confused. I can’t say the words, let alone figure out what they mean.
She laughs.
An embarrassed blush climbs my chest and neck.
She waves her head, dark hair sliding across bare arms and shoulders. “No, no. I’m not laughing at you. It’s just—you should see your face right now. Like a giant spider has climbed into your mouth and you don’t know if you should swallow or spit it out.”
She laughs again, swaying in her squat, and grabs my shoulder to keep her balance.
“Sorry, there’s no disconnect between my brain and my mouth.
If I think it, I say it. Doesn’t matter if I’ve known you five years or five minutes.
Everyone tells me it’s going to get me into trouble one of these days. ”
Her expression is open, eyes crinkling with humor, and I realize I haven’t shrugged her hand off.
Despite everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I’m not freaked out right now. The smile on my face feels genuine. “I like it,” I say. “It’s honest. Honest is good. It won’t get you into trouble with me. Especially because I don’t know what any of what you said means.”
Her eyebrows skyrocket. “What? Eye fucking?”
I press my lips together. Nod.
Her expression turns positively gleeful. “Oh, sweet child. I’m so glad we crashed into each other. Because I’m more than happy to?—”
“VIVIANA!”
The male voice is loud, clearly audible through the walls.
The woman’s eyes widen. “Is he calling you?”
I make my head move in something like a nod.
“Oh, God,” she says, launching to her feet. “Is that the guy from before, the creep who followed you in here to listen to you pee!? What an asshole. We’re going to report him to security. I can’t believe he’d try to pull that shit in this place. Come on.”
She waves at me to get up.
Footsteps sound outside the door. “Viviana!” That voice again. Giovanni’s.
My hand reflexively tightens around the shard of glass I forgot I was holding. My fingers spasm as blood drips onto the floor.
“Shit, your hand—” She grabs my injured hand, voice fading as my husband enters the women’s restroom.
I catch a glimpse of the guard in the hall before the door swings shut. His hard glare is almost as terrifying as Giovanni’s emotionless tone. “What do you think you’re doing?”
And just like that—poof! The calm I felt in the other woman’s presence disappears.
I don’t know how the other woman does it, but she’s looking at my husband with open curiosity.
I can't bring myself to meet his eyes; I look at her instead. That’s the reason I catch the subtle shift in her body.
The instinctive reaction she has to his presence.
His power. His intensely dark good looks.
A man like him shouldn’t be allowed to look that good.
She’s struck dumb, like me. But I’m pretty sure it’s for an entirely different reason.
“Answer the question,” Giovanni demands, voice low.
I force my throat to work. “I, uh?—”
“Not you.” Giovanni cuts me off, angling his body between the other woman and me. “You. What were you doing touching my wife?”
She looks at me. “You’re his wife?” Then, her shock morphs to confusion, her focus shifting to Giovanni. “Wait, did you say you were talking to me?”
" Sì.” Whatever he says next sounds cutting and is entirely in Italian.
After about a second, the woman’s survival instincts kick in. I can’t tell if she understands what he’s saying, but she’s quickly realizing that Giovanni Marchetti is even more of a threat than he appears.
He’s talking fast. My Italian is so rudimentary I can only catch a few words. What little I understand confirms he’s incredibly pissed, but more at her than me.
“No. Basta!” I muster the tiny bit of Italian I know, the expression on the other woman’s face making me brave enough to grab Gio’s arm.
A mistake.
The glass in my palm goes deeper. I suck in a sharp breath. Giovanni pulls away, streaks of blood staining his bespoke suit.
“Vaffanculo.” He grabs my hand, his fingers surprisingly gentle despite his murderous glare. “Why the fuck are you bleeding?”
He returns those razor-sharp eyes to the other woman. “Did you do this?”
She starts to protest, but I shake my head, silently telling her to stop. Nothing she says is going to make this better. Besides, he isn’t her problem. He’s mine.
If he’s going to be vile to anyone, it’s going to be me. “It was an accident,” I explain, drawing his ire away from her. “I was cleaning up glass, and I cut myself. That’s it. It’s not her fault. Don’t yell at her.”
It feels like the stupidest little win right now, but I manage to stop myself from saying please.
Giovanni goes silent. Dead still.
We’re locked in a staring match. A palpable battle of wills.
From the corner of my eye, I see the other woman open her mouth. She’s about to say something, and it will only make this worse. For me, for Elena.
I motion her away with my free hand—the one not currently bleeding and swallowed by my husband’s grip. Silently urge her to go. Lungs locked, I don’t dare move a muscle until she reluctantly nods and exits the bathroom.
I’m relieved to see her go but also deflated.
Giovanni is the last person I want to be alone with—and the one I’m going to be stuck with for the rest of my life.
The truth lances through the softest part of my flesh, my organs. My very being.
It’s the reason I blink first.
A tactical error. Worse, a sign of weakness.
Predator that he is, Giovanni pounces. He flings my hand away, like he can’t stand the feel of me. “Never do that again.”
“What?”
“Take your fucking pick.” He steps so close his breath prickles my scalp. “Disobey orders. Leave the room. Get hurt.”
He forces the last words through gritted teeth. Like he can’t believe how reckless I was. Or how fragile.
Fine. Maybe I do appear fragile. Maybe that’s the consequence of being banished by my parents all those years ago. They punished a playful, loyal little girl until she only knew how to be quiet, obedient, passive. A pale imitation of herself.
If that’s what Giovanni sees when he looks at me, let him. I don’t care if he thinks I’m weak.
I know the truth.
I know I’ll be as strong as I need to be to protect my sister. I’ll survive anything, do anything, if it means there’s a chance I’ll see her again.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, feigning remorse. “I had to pee. I was rushing, not looking where I was going. I didn’t mean to crash into that woman. Didn’t mean to break the glass, or get cut… Didn’t mean to do any of it.”
I keep my expression blank as I press my bloody palm against my leg, glass and all. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
The it in that sentence is doing a lot of work. As vast as it is indefinable. A black hole of dreams and desires and autonomy.
And my new husband… He just clenches his jaw, like it’s the least I owe him. “See to it, Viviana. You’ll regret it, otherwise.”