The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 05

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 05

Dinner was served an hour later. Most of it was stuff I liked – Osso buco, risotto Milanese, a salad of bitter greens with shaved Parmesan. Vito had clearly had a word with the cook.

I couldn’t taste a damn thing.

Vito ladled out soup – a creamy tomato bisque, my favorite – and slid the bowl toward me with a little smile.

Under my father’s icy glare, I pushed it back.

“You have it. I’ll get my own.”

His spoon paused halfway to his mouth. I saw the micro-flicker in Vito’s brow. The tiniest crease between his eyes. The almost invisible tightening of his jaw.

Then I reached for the ladle myself, my hand shaking just slightly. Hot liquid sloshed over the rim of the bowl. Burned the back of my hand.

“Ow-shit.”

“Elena!”

Vito was out of his chair and across the room before I could blink. He grabbed my wrist, pulled me

out of my chair, and dragged me to the kitchen sink. Cold water blasted over my reddening skin.

His jaw was tight. That furrow between his brows had deepened into a canyon.

It was the same look he’d given me a week ago, when I’d tried to pick up that mangy stray from the

parking lot.

The cat was a scrawny little thing. Orange tabby, maybe six months old, all ribs and bad attitude. One eye crusted shut, the other glaring at me like I owed it money. I’d found it behind a dumpster

outside the ski shop, shivering in the October rain.

I couldn’t just leave it there.

I tried to grab it by the scruff like I’d seen people do on YouTube. It clawed the hell out of me. Three long scratches down my forearm, welling with blood.

When Vito pulled up in the Maserati, the cat was still hissing up a storm in my jacket, and I was

bleeding on my favorite sweater.

“I want to keep it.” I said it like a challenge.

He looked at the cat. Looked at my arm. Looked back at the cat.

“No.”

“Vito-”

“It’s feral, Elena. Look at it. It’s not a pet, it’s a wild animal.”

“I can rehab it. I’ve watched videos. It’ll die if we don’t -”

“You’re bleeding.” He’d never used that tone with me before. Flat. Final. The Don’s voice, not my

husband’s. “I’ll find it a home. A good one. A vet, shots, the whole nine yards. But you’re not

keeping it. We’re going to the emergency room. Now.”

I’d sulked for a full day after that. Turned my back on him in bed. Skipped our planned ski trip and

made him go alone. He’d called me twelve times. I’d answered twice.

He’d caved first, of course. He always caved first. Bought me the thousand-dollar perfume I’d been

whining about and left it on my pillow with a note that said “I’m sorry. You’re still not keeping the

cat.”

I’d thought he was mad about the scratches. About the inconvenience. About having to spend his Saturday afternoon in a waiting room because his wife couldn’t keep her hands off stray animals.

But now, standing in my father’s kitchen with cold water running over my hand, looking back…

He wasn’t mad I got hurt.

He was mad I was being dramatic. Needy. High-maintenance. Everything my father had just said out loud.

I pulled my hand away from the faucet. Turned to face him, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. I looked at the floor instead, at the little tiles, at the way the grout had yellowed over the years.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to be a problem.”

The water kept running. The only sound in the kitchen was the rush of the faucet and the distant clink of dishes from the dining room.

Vito went completely still.

His hand was still around my wrist. I felt his thumb move, just once, tracing the edge of the burn.

Then he shut off the water. Reached into his pocket and pulled out a small tube of Burn Care – the good stuff, the prescription kind.

“You carry that with you?” I asked, stupidly.

“You burned yourself on the oven last month. I’ve been carrying it since then.”

He squeezed a little onto his finger and started spreading it over my skin. Slow. Gentle. Careful, like I was made of something precious.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he spoke.

“It’s fine. Next time, let me handle it.”

His voice was soft. But it wasn’t warm.