His eyes drag from my face down to the phone in my hand. His pupils widen with barely contained fury. Thinking it’s best not to provoke him, I slip my phone quickly into my bag.
“Who was that?” Giacomo’s voice is low. But it’s the kind of quiet that hides a blade behind it.
I blink. “What?”
“Your phone. Who was on the phone?”
“My mom,” I say, shifting my weight, trying to keep my voice steady. “You know I talk to her every day.”
His eyes narrow, sharp with accusation. “Show me.”
He reaches for my bag, and I jerk it behind me.
“No. You can’t just grab my things.”
“Why not?” He steps closer, invading my space like he owns the right to it. “Who were you talking to? Another man? Are you whoring yourself out now?”
I flinch at the venom in his voice. “Do you hear yourself? Why would you even say that? It was my mom. I have nothing to hide.”
“Then give me the bag.”
He moves so fast I barely have time to blink. He grabs for my bag and yanks hard, but I get a good grip with both my hands and pull it back to me.
“Giacomo, stop. This is ridiculous.”
“Give me the bag, Beatrice.”
“No.”
The word slices the air between us. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and I know this isn’t about the call; it’s about the waiter outside, the attention, the imagined slight he can’t let go.
“Give it to me!”
“Back off!” I tug the bag toward me, but he’s already latched onto the strap.
We’re locked in a silent tug-of-war, the bag jerking violently between us. He’s not even looking at me anymore; he’s staring at the bag as if it contains proof of some betrayal he’s invented. I try to pull harder, shifting my weight, and that’s when it happens.
The bag slips.
The strap whips.
The corner catchesmy cheekbone with a brutal crack.
A burst of pain shoots straight through my face, bright and shocking. I gasp, dropping the bag and cupping my cheek with both hands.
“You hurt me!” My voice comes out raw, a stunned, shaking scream that seems to freeze the entire bathroom.
Silence swallows the room.
He stares at me—eyesblown wide, mouth parting in horror—as if only now realizing what his jealousy has caused.
“Shit—amore, I’m so sorry.” His words tumble out fast, breathless. “I didn’t mean to. Amore, I swear?—”
He drops the bag instantly, reaches for me, tries to touch my face like suddenly he remembers tenderness.
I recoil so sharply his hand stops mid-air. Fear and fury crash through me in one volcanic surge.
“Don’t.”
