Big didn’t turn to look, but I did. Rosaria Caffi. Like her pictures, she was beautiful. Long black hair parted down the center and pulled into a chignon. Sparkling eyes. Tan skin. A red dress to match her red lips—like mine. She stopped when she was close, and her spicy perfume drifted in the air around us.
“Amaryllis was engaged to Mario—the man who just stormed away—before she fell in love with Tullio. Tullio, of course, didn’t want her, not when he had a treasure like my sister. Mario is still stung about it. And now that Tullio shows up here with you?” She looked me up and down. “It’s really going to stick the knife in Mario and twist. You could be Amaryllis’s twin.”
Tullio hadn’t told me much about his time in Italy as a racer. Mainly why he left Vegas—to find himself away from his family’s business—and why he returned. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in an unhappy marriage after his mother had died.
A moment passed, filled with Rosaria giving us looks that were almost aggressive in their directness. Then she sauntered over to the top of the stairs and looked down, her eyes searching before they stilled for a second.
My lungs stopped taking in air when I got the feeling she had found her husband, and he was still lavishing his charm on Georgia. Big put a hand to my arm before I went down to make sure Rosaria didn’t take Georgia by surprise. Big had told me Rocco had affairs, and so did his wife, but I wasn’t sure how that worked. Was it all behind closed doors? Or would Rosaria seeing them together push her into action?
“She’s not going to care about Georgia,” Big whispered in my ear.
He was right.
A second later, she turned to us and watched us until we left, as if she were her sister’s eyes and she was plotting my demise.
CHAPTER21
Mrs. Big
Big and Iwere both quiet on the ride to wherever we were staying for the night. “Wherever” was a quaint place on what seemed like Rocco’s land. It was traditional, with green shutters and an apricot facade, and it felt comfortable. It had been a long day, and I couldn’t wait to climb into bed and…think. Think about the last twenty-four hours without Rosaria’s eyes on my every move. And without worrying about Georgia.
Though I was still somewhat worried about her. She had left with Rocco as we left. She kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear, “I’ll be okay.”
I trusted Rocco, for whatever reason, but I didn’t like that Georgia had a husband at home who could be malicious, and the same for Rocco’s wife. I knew if anything happened between her and Rocco, it would be a one- or two-night thing, but I wasn’t used to Georgia being the one who slept around on Joe. It was usually the other way around. Their marriage was mostly for show, but…it was just a lot to take in.
Then there was the “my husband-Mario-Amaryllis-Abree” situation.
I sighed as Big helped me out of the dress. We took a mostly silent shower together, and after, while he slipped into bed, I finished my usual nighttime skincare routine. I’d never really had one before, but Lidia had gotten me into it.
Big sat up, no shirt on, just thin sweats, and watched me through the mirror as I pulled my hair up on the sides. His eyes dipped down when the long silk nightgown opened enough to show my thighs as I crossed my legs. The scent of the facial cream drifted through the room.
He met my eyes again. “I love watching you do that every night now.” His voice was hoarse. “I don’t think I could go to sleep without watching you do it.” His words had weight to them, and they made me feel…sad.
“What’s going on, Big?”
“My past isn’t a place you should be.”
“Why?” I set the container down, rubbing the leftover cream into my hands, and turned to face him. “Did something happen with Amaryllis?”
“She told Mario it did. It didn’t.”
I went to stand, to turn my back on him and that bullshit answer, but he jumped from the bed and stopped me by taking my arms in his hands. “I was drinking a lot at the time. Mario wasn’t doing it for her, she wanted me to fuck her, and she came to me when I was so drunk—I can’t even remember why I turned her down. I never drank while driving or during practices, but during my off time, I drank like a motherfucker. Like my parents.
“Even after she told Mario we’d slept together, I never corrected it. She wanted to sabotage her relationship; that was on her, not me. Mario and I have never gotten along, which was why he never admitted to anyone what she told him. He never wanted anyone to think he lost her to me.”
He’d never confided in me about drinking, and I never asked. He only had one drink once a year—that was it. He was water and lemon in a whiskey glass eighty percent of the time. I called him wild when he decided to try something new, like fruit punch.
“This confession isn’t about Mario or the bullshit surrounding all that. This is about you and drinking.”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I whispered.
“Nothing controls me.”
I breathed out. “Drinking did? Before, I mean?”
“Part of me—the part that was weak enough to continue the same cycle as my parents. In our house, it was love or hate. When they loved each other, it was good. When they hated each other, they drowned it with whatever was in the liquor cabinet, but their feelings only surfaced even bitter.”
