They look happy, and it was all I wanted for them.
When they notice me, Dad grins and Mom’s eyes light up.
“Tesoro!” she calls with a wave of her hand.
I cross the gravel, letting them pull me into hugs, the smell of grapes and soil and old oak barrels wrapping around us.
“You look tired.” My mother brushes my hair off my face. “You work too much.”
“Or maybe it’s not the work,” my father mutters, glancing over at her with a grunt. “Maybe it’s il diavolo vestito bene.”The well-dressed devil.
I give him an exhausted smile. “It’s just been a long day, Papa. That’s all.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.
“You’re not happy.” He looks at my mother again, voice rising. “Look at her. You’re going to let this happen?”
She says nothing, just lowers her gaze and squeezes my hand gently.
“I’m fine,” I say, more forceful this time. “I promise.”
“No, figlia mia, you’re surviving. This is not right.”
I don’t have the strength to argue. Instead, I change the subject.
“The vineyard looks beautiful.” I turn toward the rows of green stretching down the hill. “There are so many people here. Are all the staff back?”
My mother nods. “Yes. We can pay everyone now. The deliveries, the vendors. Even the restaurant is opening for full hours this week.”
“And the outstanding bills?”
“All paid,” she says quietly. “He did what he promised.”
Well, at least he’s good for something other than mind-blowing orgasms.
But my parents don’t have to know about my complicated marriage. I’m just glad to give them this. I’ll let them believe I’m okay for long enough to secure their future. Then I can figure out how to walk away.
Even when I don’t know what I want anymore.
ALEKSEI
The punching bag doesn’t hit back. That’s the problem.
I slam my fist into the center again, the leather groaning from the force. Sweat drips down my back, the heat of the basement gym at Kirill’s pressing in, but I could be in a prison cell for all I care.
Every strike I throw is a curse. A prayer. A plea for silence in a mind that won’t shut the fuck up. Her face flashes behind my eyes, and I hit harder.
The soft groan she made when she said my name in her sleep.
A kick slams into the bag, rocking it on its chain.
Her scent in my nostrils, even though I never stay long enough to sleep beside her.
Another hit. My knuckles throb, but I don’t care.
Every goddamn night, like clockwork, I come home late enough to know she’s asleep and slip into bed beside her, just long enough to breathe her in, to feel her warmth against my chest. And before the sun rises, I’m gone again. Because if I stay longer, I won’t be able to leave.
