“Um…well…there was the guy in a bow tie. I saw him practically gobbling her up with his eyes.”
“Half of the men at the ceremony wore bow ties, Bartholomew! Give me something specific!”
He shrugs. “I’m sorry, Adriano, but my eyes aren’t what they used to be.” He thinks for a second, and then his eyebrows rise. “Oh, there was this guy. Young, good-looking chap. He seemed to be mesmerized by the sight of your fair Iris. I believe he was in a dark suit. Then there was a distinguished fellow, late thirties or maybe early forties. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from your stunning bride, either. I think he was sitting in the fourth row.”
“Fourth row, left side?” I snap. That’s where Donato and his family were seated. The description certainly matches Donato’s nephew.
“I’m sure it was the fourth. Or maybe the fifth? Wait, he could have been in the third. And maybe he was a little younger than I remember. Early twenties, perhaps. I might be mixing him up with the blond guy who was standing near the—”
“Any more ‘specific details’?” I interrupt. My jaw aches from the force of my grinding teeth as I listen to useless descriptions of all the men who apparently salivated over my wife.
“Nope, sorry.” He grins. “Oh my goodness. I seem to have distressed you. I didn’t anticipate that you would get jealous. Not since you assured me of your indifference toward the girl, and the terms of your marriage.”
“I’m not jealous. But she is my wife. Principle alone dictates I shouldn’t tolerate other men ogling her.”
“Yes, of course. I understand. But you’re not blind. You must agree that your wife is very desirable. You might not be interested in her personality, but don’t you feel a physical pull? Even a slight one?”
“No. I never allow myself to be controlled by carnal urges.”
“Really? That’s quite a feat. And what about her? Has she indicated that she may be attracted to you?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
I grit my teeth.
I’ve encountered my share of women over the years who were more than eager to throw themselves at my feet. Flaunt their bodies. Try to entice me into their beds. Power and money are powerful magnets, so I’m familiar with the blatant and the underhanded flirting techniques of the fairer sex. Suggestive looks. Seemingly accidental touches. Even straight-up invitations to fuck. I know what it looks like when a woman is interested in me. Or in something I can offer her. But the expression in Little Iris’s eyes while she listened to my call about the idiot who wanted to burn himself at my headquarters was one of utter repulsion.
I’m not sure what possessed me to finish that conversation in front of her. Or to act in the way I have with her from the very beginning. I’ve never pretended with Iris. Never relied on the careful charade I’ve constructed. She has always seen the real me. And though at times I’ve tried to temper it, spare her the rottenest of my traits, she’s seen through my mask. Like no one else ever has. I could have chosen to handle that call differently. Made her think I’m more honorable than I am. Leave her with a better opinion of me. But I didn’t. I wanted her to see that man. I want—need—my Little Iris to knowme. The bad. And the vile.
“I am certain that my Little Iris is sickened by me.”
His face falls. “That’s unfortunate. How does that affect your daily life? It’s been more than a week since the wedding.”
“We mostly stay out of each other’s way. Iris goes to visit her mother every morning. When she’s home, she spends the majority of her time in the kitchen, cooking or baking. She’s also become attached to that damn dog and often plays with him in the yard.” An activity that I spy on through the window of my home office, like I’m some kind of creep. “I work.”
“Oh, she cooks for you? That’s sweet.”
“Not for me,” I grumble. “She mentioned that I don’t keep groceries in the house, so I had the housekeeper fill the pantry and our fridge to the brim. Now, I think Iris is worried that all the perishable shit will go to waste. Why else would she be slaving over a hot stove like a madwoman? Yesterday, she madesaltimbocca alla Romana, which, if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn had come from one of the trattorias at the Piazza Navona in Rome. She also madecassata Siciliana, with marzipan and sweetened blueberries that practically melted in my mouth.”
Barty’s eyes flare to the size of dinner plates. “You actually ate her food?”
I shrug. “She doesn’t like throwing it away. I bit the bullet and turned myself into a garbage disposal.”
“How very…considerate of you. So you at least have meals together?”
“Nope. I leave for work before she comes out of her rooms in the morning, and she makes sure she’s not in any of our common areas when I return. Still, she leaves meals, with my name on them, in beautifully labeled containers in the fridge.” Something twists inside my chest. My wife believes that I’m one of the most horrible people in the world, yet she still prepares food for me. Why would she do that?
“Meaning, you don’t spend time in each other’s company at all.”
“That’s more or less accurate.”
“What’s the ‘less’ accurate part?”
“With that nutcase on the loose, it’s not safe for her to be off the estate. So when she heads into the city, I tail her.”
“I thought you had a security detail assigned to her, even before the wedding. Did that change?”
