The thought should kill my arousal and make me stop, but it doesn't. If anything, it makes it worse, because I know now that it was Giulia looking at me like that. Giulia is begging for my touch. Giulia is falling apart in my arms. She was mine in every way that mattered… and she was never really mine at all.
I remember the way she tasted. The sounds she made when I was inside her. The way her body would arch and tremble when I pushed her to the edge and held her there, making her wait, making her beg."I'm yours. God, I'm yours."
I'd believed her. I let myself believe that this beautiful, mysterious woman had chosen me. That she wanted me as desperately as I wanted her. My hand moves faster, and I chase my release feverishly, anything to make this ache go away, even for a moment. I’m so hard it hurts, my balls tight and aching, my entire body wound tight. I could go down the hall and sink myself in her, fuck my wife the way I’m supposed to tonight, and instead I’m going to come in my fist like I have a thousand timesbefore on nights when I didn’t have or feel like going out to find a woman.
I want Valentina, and she doesn’t exist. I hate my wife, and she does. And I’m not a cheater, even if this marriage is built on lies and obligation, so it’s only going to be me and my fucking hand from here on out.
That, and memories of sex so hot it scorched everything else before out of my head.
My cock pulses in my fist, and I groan as I let go, hot cum spurting over my fist and my body shaking with the force of it. But the relief is temporary, fleeting. Within seconds, the self-loathing crashes over me like a wave.
I'm pathetic. Sitting here in the dark, getting myself off to memories of a woman who lied to me and trapped me into a marriage I never wanted. A woman who's sleeping alone in the master bedroom right now, probably crying and devastated by the things I said to her.
Good.She should be devastated. She should feel a fraction of what I'm feeling.
I clean myself up and strip down to my boxers, then collapse onto the bed. The sheets smell like detergent and nothing else. I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about the fact that she's just down the hall—that I could go to her right now and touch her, lose myself in her body the way I used to, and forget, for a little while, about everything else.
But I won't. That would seem like I’m forgiving her, like I'm saying that what she did is okay. That I can move past it.
And that’s one thing that will never, ever fucking happen.
So I lie in the darkness, alone and aching, and I tell myself that this is better. That distance is what I need, and eventually, the wanting will fade.
I'm lying to myself. Just like she lied to me.
—
The first weekin the house is excruciating.
I develop a routine to minimize contact with her. I get up before dawn, shower and dress in the dark, and leave the house before Giulia wakes up. I go to the gym first to work off the tension that's been building, and then I go to work and handle whatever business needs handling. Meet with Romeo or Dante, and then the various crews and associates who need direction or discipline… or both. I throw myself into it with a single-minded focus that borders on obsession. Anything to avoid going home.
I stay at the office until late—nine, ten, sometimes eleven at night. I find excuses to linger—paperwork that needs reviewing, calls that need making, problems that need solving. Romeo notices toward the end of the week and invites himself into my office.
"You can't avoid her forever," he says, sitting down lazily in a chair near the bar cart. I'm still at my desk at ten-thirty, pretending to review a contract I've already read three times.
I glance up at him briefly. "I'm not avoiding her. I'm working."
"Bullshit." He crosses his arms. "You're hiding."
"I'm doing my job."
"Your job doesn't require you to be here fourteen hours a day."
"I'm handling it. I'm doing what Dante asked. I'm playing the role. What more do you want from me?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended, and I see Romeo's jaw tighten.
"She's your wife, Luca. You're going to have to talk to her eventually."
I ignore that, and he gives up after a few minutes. But I know it’ll come around again. I’m his best friend, but Giulia is his sister… the only person in the world he loves besides Savannah.He knows her fault in this, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let me be the cause of unhappiness for her without pushing back.
When I finally get home each night, the house is dark except for a single light Giulia always leaves on in the kitchen, a thoughtfulness that I do my best to ignore. I find evidence of her everywhere—a book left on the coffee table, a sweater draped over the back of a chair, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air.
She's trying to make the place feel like a home. I can see it in small touches everywhere—fresh flowers on the dining room table, new throw pillows on the couch that appear, artwork that suddenly is on walls where there was nothing before. It makes me irrationally angry every time I see it.
This isn't a home. This is a prison we're both trapped in, and no amount of decorating is going to change that.
For my part, I treat the place like a hotel. I grab food on the way home or skip meals entirely. I don't watch TV or read or do anything that might make me feel settled or comfortable. I just go to my room, close the door, and try to sleep. It rarely works.
Most nights, I lie awake listening to the sounds of the house. The creak of floorboards. The hum of the refrigerator. And sometimes, if I'm very quiet, I can hear her moving around in the master bedroom. I wonder if she's sleeping any better than I am. I wonder if she lies awake thinking about me the way I lie awake thinking about her.
