The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 04

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 04

On the anniversary of my mother’s death, Vito drove me to the cemetery.

The sky was low and gray, a typical November day that couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or snow. Vito wore a black overcoat and carried the flowers – white daisies, her favorite – because he knew I

could never look at them without crying.

He didn’t say much on the drive. Just kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on my knee, his thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of my jeans. The radio played something, some concerto I couldn’t name, and the city scrolled past the window in shades of gray and brown.

My mother’s grave was at the top of a small hill, under an old oak tree that still held a few brown leaves. I knelt on the cold ground and arranged the daisies in the little stone vase, my fingers numb

despite my gloves.

“Hey, Mom,” I said. “It’s me again. I brought Vito.”

He stood behind me, one hand on my shoulder. He nodded at the headstone, grave and respectful, the way he nodded at men he was about to do business with.

“Mrs. Ross,” he said. “I’ll take care of her. You have my word.”

I felt the tears prick behind my eyes and swallowed them down.

Because if those words were true – if he really meant them – then why did I feel like I was standing on a trapdoor?

Afterward, we went back to my father’s house for dinner. The house I grew up in. The house where

my mother died.

My mother, I remember, wanted me to be wild and free.

She was the one who’d sneak me out of my piano lessons to go get ice cream. The one who’d let me run barefoot through puddles in the driveway, who’d laugh when I came in covered in mud, who’d whisper “don’t tell your father” like we were co-conspirators.

“You be you, Elena,” she’d say, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Don’t ever let anyone change you.

Not even me. Especially not me.”

But she died.

And after she was gone, my world shrank.

The piano stayed, but the joy went out of it. The easel stayed, but the colors turned gray. Tutors filled my days – LX, language instructors, a woman who came twice a week to teach me how to walk in heels and sit in a way that didn’t wrinkle my skirt. Living dolls have no opinions. Living

dolls don’t inconvenience anyone.

I learned later that my father didn’t care about me. He cared about the bottom line.

And I was his ticket to the big leagues – a beautiful, well-bred daughter who could snag a rich

husband and secure his business deals for a generation.

So whenever Vito came around, he was all smiles. All “how are you, son?” and “let me pour you a drink” and “Elena, isn’t she lovely?”

“Elena, honey, go help your mother in the kitchen. Make something Vito likes.”

“Fine.”

I started to get up. Vito’s hand landed on my shoulder, pushed me gently back down into my chair.

“I’ve got it.” His voice was easy, but his grip was firm. “Elena got up early. She’s tired. Let her rest.

“Nonsense.” My father’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re a guest. And with everything you’ve got going on at the office…” His gaze slid to me, sharp as a blade. “Elena.”

Vito squeezed my hand once. “I know my own taste better than anyone. Trust me.”

He disappeared into the kitchen.

The moment the door swung shut, my father’s face went cold. The mask dropped. I’d seen it happen

a thousand times.

“Elena Ross.” His voice was low and venomous. “You’ve really let yourself go, haven’t you? First

you have him serving you at the table like a waiter. Now you’re letting him do the cooking while you sit there with your thumb up your-”

“He offered.”

“He offered because you’ve trained him to think you’re useless. And you know what? He’s not

wrong.”

My jaw clenched.

“Let me tell you something, and listen close.” He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath. “No man likes a woman like you. Demanding. Lazy. Entitled. The only reason Vito looked twice at you is because I raised you right. I invested in you. I made you valuable.

“Keep this up, and he’ll drop you like a hot potato. And what then?” He spread his hands, mock-sympathetic. “Who’s gonna want you after you’ve been chewed up and spit out by the Colobo family? A divorced woman with no family and a reputation for being difficult?

“If your divorce costs me money – if it costs me one single deal – don’t bother coming back to this house. You won’t be welcome.”

There it was.

The puzzle piece clicked into place with an ugly, final sound.

Vito didn’t want the real me. He wanted the me I used to be – the quiet, agreeable, grateful version who’d never dream of asking for anything. And he’d figured the best way to get her back was to build me up, let me get comfortable, let me become this demanding, impossible version of myself… and then pull the rug out from under me.

Make sure I had nowhere else to go.

Make sure I knew, deep in my bones, that no one else would ever want me.

Because who would want a spoiled, demanding woman with no family and a remarried father who’d locked her out?

Nowhere to run. No one to catch me.

“I understand,” I said.

My voice came out so calm it scared me.