20. Valeria
VALERIA
We don’t go to lunch with Alessia and my friends.
Nico waits outside the curtain while I clean myself with tissues and fight the satisfying ache between my legs. My thoughts are a dull thrum at the back of my mind.
I don’t bother to fix my lipstick or hair. I yank on my shirt and jeans and wrap myself in my coat.
When I step out from the curtain, Nico extends his hand out for mine. I walk past him without acknowledgement.
He leads me to his car—a new, black SUV that I’ve never seen before. Maybe it was a bribe, or he stole it, but I find that I don’t care.
He opens the door for me, his gaze searing against my face as I step into the passenger seat.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, expecting a message from Lacey or Mei.
My brother’s name pops up.
Stefano
I’m sorry things got out of hand. Are you okay? Please talk to me.
I turn my phone off and tuck it into my pocket. All of the shit men in my life are coming out of the woodwork today.
“Who was that?” Nico asks as he starts the engine.
“No one,” I say.
“Val—”
“I’m tired,” I say, tightening my coat around my shoulders. “I don’t want to talk.”
He doesn’t breathe a word for the rest of the trip.
In the parking deck of his apartment, I’m out and striding to the lobby before he’s even fully stopped the car.
He’s hot on my heels all the way to the elevator. I jab the call button and go to cross my arms, but he grabs my wrist. I wrench my hand out of his.
“Val,” he says in a warning tone.
A family of four stepping off the elevator gawks at us before the mom rushes them along.
I glare at him. “Val, Val, is that all you can say? How about an actual fucking apology?”
“For what? For loving you?”
I stomp into the elevator and fold my arms over my chest, squeezing against the catch in my lungs at hearing him say that.
Every time I think we’re moving forward, that we’ve made some progress, he goes and ruins it all. I don’t care how hard I came in the boutique—he can’t just fuck his way through every insecurity. That’s not how a healthy couple works through a problem. We aren’t healthy.
He presses the elevator button, and the doors close.
“You don’t know what love is,” I say, staring forward. He never will.
All of his blurry reflections in the silver walls stare at me.
When we get to the apartment, I walk straight to the bedroom, past the stupid collage I was working on on the kitchen table.
It was a piece about a woman resting next to a man in a field of flowers—stupid, it was stupid, and I’ll throw it all in the trash later.
Nico calls after me, but I shut and lock the door.
“Val, let me in,” he calls through the crack in the door. “We have to talk.”
Now, he wants to talk?
Fuming, I glance toward the closet where my duffel bag of cash is hidden. A sliver of the pink fabric is visible on the closet floor.
I can’t deal with this right now.
I strip off my clothes and step into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me.
A disbelieving laugh escapes me as I catch my reflection in the mirror. Red hickeys mar my neck and chest in symmetrical trails. Despite my cleaning efforts, my upper thighs are sticky again. My lipstick is smeared up my cheek. My bangs are a mess.
I have half a mind to turn around and yell at him some more, but he’d probably like it.
He’d love it.
I step into the shower and hiss as freezing cold water hits my back.
In seconds, I’m shivering, glaring at Nico’s lime-scented body wash like I can crush it with my mind.
I know you’re scared, but I’m going to keep you safe.
I clap my hands over my mouth.
I won’t let anyone hurt you.
He was wrong. Every time he forces me to do what he wants—ignoring my wishes, jumping to conclusions, assuming the worst of me—he hurts me.
He needs to learn to process his stupid fucking emotions on his own. He can’t keep doing this. Making me come so hard I see stars. Telling me he loves me.
I clench my fists even as my teeth chatter.
I hate how he makes me feel.
I hate that he makes me feel.
I can’t do a year of this. I can barely survive a month without wanting to tear my hair out or confess something terrible to him. Nothing about this is sustainable.
I’m still cold by the time I get out of the shower, but the discomfort centers me.
Nico sits on the bed, his suit jacket next to him and shirt slightly unbuttoned. His elbows rest on his knees, and he swings his head up as I walk out of the bathroom.
I glance at the bedroom door. “How’d you get in?”
“I popped the lock,” he says. “Do you feel any better?”
Somehow, he has the fucking gall to look interested in my answer. Like I’m going to tell him a shower cured all of our issues.
“No,” I say bluntly. I walk to the closet, and the scrap of pink fabric sticking out feels like something out of a horror movie. I can’t face it yet.
I turn and go to the dresser instead to put on a T-shirt and underwear. I try not to be so aware of Nico’s attention, but it’s a physical weight licking against my back. That’s all we are—physical.
Once I’m mostly dressed, I march back to the closet, bend down, and pull my bag to me. It’s empty—the guts scooped out like a pumpkin. I can barely breathe as I stare inside.
I don’t give a fuck how many zeroes Nico threw into my bank account the other day. I don’t own that money. Just as easily as he put the money in, he could take it out. The only thing that I had, that was mine, was inside this duffel bag, and now it’s gone.
I take two steps to the bed, and toss it at Nico’s feet.
“Where’s my money?”
Nico looks up at me, resigned. “It’s gone.”
He’s just like my family. Giving money, taking money when it serves him.
My voice is hard, unforgiving ice when I ask, “Where is it?”
Nico stands, and I take a big step back. He doesn’t move. “Val, you need money, I’ll give you money. I’ll always give you money.”
“I don’t need your fucking money. I already had my fucking money.”
He scrubs his hand over the top of his head with a hang-dog look. “I can’t risk you running, not when our marriage is the only thing keeping you alive right now.”
“Have I run? Have I even made an attempt to run? You jumped to the absolute worst possible conclusion and completely broke my trust. You say our marriage is the only thing keeping me alive, but you’re making it impossible to be married to you.”
His face hardens. “I can’t take any half measures when so much is at risk.”
“What risk? I’ve been with Alessia all day.”
“Anyone could be filling your head with the wrong ideas. Giovanni, my father, Salvatore, your family, even Alessia.”
The massive red painting on the wall behind him and his somber expression give him the look of a general in the middle of a bloody battlefield, but still I take a step toward him. “Nico, do you hear yourself? You sound crazy right now.”
“Crazy? Where’s your mom? Your dad? Do you know what your brother’s doing right now?”
I stare sullenly at him. My family has been blissfully far from my thoughts these past few days, and hearing them listed together all at once sours my gut. It’s like I’ve been on vacation, and now Nico’s reminding me of all the responsibilities I have waiting for me back home.
“Do you think it’s an accident they’re getting picked off?” he asks. The red painting seems to throb behind him. “Isolating you? Shooting at us? Someone wants you scared and alone. I can’t risk you making an impulsive decision, not now.”
“An impulsive decision, like what? Like trying to resolve all your problems with your cock? Like claiming you love someone as you steal their money? Maybe they’re not trying to scare me. Maybe they’re trying to scare you.”
He watches me for several seconds, his expression heavy and dark.
I’m cold. Cold from the shower. Cold as I look at him.
Is he good to you?
He’s not. He’s just a good lay, and I thought I could build a relationship from that. He’s probably not even listening to me and only thinking about how close we are to the bed.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly. “If I get scared, I’ll keep you close. If you get scared, you’ll leave, and that puts you at risk. I’m not going to let that happen.”
The red pulses behind him like a heartbeat.
I hold all my anger like a razor blade on the flat of my tongue as I take one last step to him.
The hard line of his mouth softens. He cups my shoulders.
“These past few days have been amazing, haven’t they?” I ask gently.
His eyes are dark pools of black, only a sliver of amber remaining. “Yeah.”
“Do you know why that is?” I shove against his chest—hard. He doesn’t move, but we separate as I stumble back. “It’s because we were apart.”
He exhales, scrubbing his hands over his face. “No, that’s not true.” He waves a hand between us. “You and I? We are amazing together. You can’t deny the way I make you feel.”
“That’s just sex, Nico. We can’t build a relationship on sex.”
I want to rip the stupid smirk off his lips.
“Why not?” he asks in a husky voice, tilting his head back to watch me with half-lidded eyes.
Even as his little display sinks arousal through me, I don’t let go of the frosty anger swirling through me. He’s lucky I don’t have a knife in hand.
“This isn’t enough for me,” I say carefully, so he hears every word. “You are not enough. I can’t raise kids with a man like you.”
He stills, a pained look crossing his face.
He’s finally getting it. He’s finally understanding—
“You changed your mind?” he asks. A smile touches the edge of his lips. “You were thinking about kids?”
I bite back a scream. I turn on my heel and march out of the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me.
Our apartment greets me, decorated with all the furniture I picked out, a pink couch and matching armchairs, a soft, cushy striped rug across the entire floor, and a glass coffee table.
Nico never said a word of complaint when I picked all this out.
He seemed amused, and at the time, I took it to suggest how easy-going he could be, how he could let me take the lead in the home, at least.
But I was wrong.