The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 12

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 12

I stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out. Then I stood there for another five minutes,

shivering under the cold spray, because I didn’t want to face what was waiting for me on the other

side of the door.

The bathroom was full of steam. The mirror was fogged over. I couldn’t see my own reflection, and

for some reason, that felt like a blessing.

When I finally got out – wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, skin pink from the heat – the bedroom

was empty.

The lights were off. The bed was made. Vito’s pillow still had the dent from his head.

I heard a noise from the closet.

He was in there, sitting on the little bench in front of my shoe shelves. His head was in his hands.

His shoulders were shaking.

I stood in the doorway and watched him.

He didn’t look like the Don of one of the most powerful families on the East Coast. He didn’t look like the man who’d plotted and schemed to trap me in a fifty-year contract. He looked like a kid who’d lost something important and didn’t know how to find it.

“Vito.”

He looked up.

His eyes were red. His face was blotchy. There were tear tracks on his cheeks.

“Elena.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

I sat down next to him on the bench. Not touching. Just… near.

“What’s going on with you?” I asked softly. “And don’t say nothing. Because I know you’re not fine

either.”

He laughed. A broken little sound. “Fair enough.”

We sat in silence for a minute. Two. The house was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking in the

hallway.

“I’m scared,” he said finally. So quiet I almost didn’t hear him.

“Of what?”

“Of you leaving.” He swallowed. “Of waking up one day and you’re just… gone. And I don’t know where you went or how to find you or if you even want to be found.”

I stared at him.

This was not the man from the restaurant. This was not the man who’d calmly explained his strategy over cocktails and cigars. This was someone else entirely.

Maybe this was the real Vito. The one underneath all the masks.

Or maybe this was just another mask.

I couldn’t tell anymore.

“I’m going to bed,” I said. “You should come too. It’s late.”

I stood up. Walked to the bed. Got under the covers.

He didn’t follow.

The lights stayed off. The room stayed dark. I lay there with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe on the other side of the room.

He didn’t come to bed that night.

I woke up alone.

The other side of the mattress was cold. The pillow still held the shape of his head, but there was no

warmth in it. He hadn’t slept there at all.

I found him on the couch in the living room, still in his rumpled tuxedo pants and his unbuttoned

shirt, one arm thrown over his eyes. He was snoring lightly. Not a comfortable sleep – his brow was furrowed, his mouth was tight, his breathing was shallow.

I covered him with a blanket. Made a pot of coffee. Sat at the kitchen island with a mug in my hands and watched the sun come up.

When he woke up an hour later, he didn’t say anything. Just walked past me to the coffee maker. Poured himself a cup. Leaned against the counter.

“Last night,” he started.

“Don’t.”

“Elena -”

“I said don’t.”

He set down his coffee. Walked over to me. He was close enough that I could smell him – coffee and

sleep and cedar soap.

“Look at me,” he said.

I didn’t.

“Please.”

His voice broke on the word.

I looked up.

His eyes were tired. The skin underneath them was dark, like he hadn’t slept well in days. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe I hadn’t been the only one lying awake at night.

“I love you,” he said. “I know you don’t believe me right now. I know something’s wrong. I know I did something – I just don’t know what it is. But I love you. Whatever it is, I love you. And I’m not

going to stop.”

He cupped my face in his hands. His palms were warm. Calloused. The hands of a man who’d done things I didn’t want to think about.

“I love you,” he said again.

And for a moment – just a moment – I almost believed him.

But then I remembered the contract. The fifty years. The way he’d laughed with his friends about

making me cry.

I pulled away.

“I have plans today,” I said. “I’ll be back later.”

I walked out before he could answer.