Page 22 of Love Him Like Water

I couldn’t decide, though, if it was a change for better or for worse.

If I would have been better off left wondering instead of knowing.

Regardless of that, it was done.

I walked through my new bedroom in my new apartment, digging out my hairbrush, toothbrush, creams, and shampoo, all my essentials, taking them into the bathroom with me, hiding what I could in an empty drawer, and placing the rest in the shower, tucked behind Renzo’s own items.

The scent of him clung to them, and then me after touching them, bringing a sense of longing through my system that I couldn’t explain. It was an ache behind my ribcage, a knot in my belly that refused to untangle as I went through my morning routine, dressing in clothes that suddenly felt too wrong for this new life I was living.

I’d never been interested in fashion. In skirts and dresses and showing off my body. If anything, I’d done everything in my power to hide it, to deflect attention, to be able to fade into the background of any given situation.

My bags were packed with yoga pants and massively oversized tops, hanging down nearly to my knees, making it impossible to make out the curves of my body underneath.

I stepped back from the mirror, seeing my flared leg black yoga pants and my old, gray shirt with the red embroidered New York emblazoned across the chest, worn soft from endless washings, with little holes in the sleeves for my thumbs to slip through, so they wouldn’t hang down and hide my hands at all times.

I looked like some girl on her way to early morning college classes. Not a mafia boss’s wife.

With a sigh, knowing there was nothing I could do about it at that moment, I made my way out of the bathroom, making the bed, then finally forcing myself to move downstairs.

I crept around, feeling more like a forgotten guest than someone who belonged.

The main living space smelled of cigar smoke and liquor, and I found myself gathering glasses as I made my way through the space, the evidence of a party I hadn’t been invited to, hadn’t been missed from, making another little crack start in my heart.

I was making my third trip toward the kitchen with glasses when the door suddenly opened, making me jolt, letting out a little yelp that had the man entering stiffening.

Elian.

The man who’d seen me to my room.

Who seemed to remember me more than my own husband.

His gaze slid from my face to my hands, his brows pinching. “That’s not your job, Mrs. Lombardi,” he said, moving toward me, and removing the glasses from my hold before taking them to the sink himself.

“What is?” I heard myself ask, without really meaning to.

“What was that?” he asked, turning.

I cleared my throat, shaking my head. “What is my job?” I asked.

Elian stared at me a moment, those golden eyes as confused as I felt. “You… you don’t have a job,” he finally declared.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” I asked.

“What did you do before?”

I’d worked part-time at one of the family businesses, earning money that I used almost entirely to pay for fancy takeaway coffees and books. So, so many books. All of which I’d left in my childhood bedroom, stacked three deep in the built-in shelving units that lined an entire wall.

“I… worked,” I said.

“Renzo won’t want you working,” he said, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Because the boss’s wife doesn’t need to work,” he informed me.

I guess that was true across all of the families. Most of the Costa women worked when they were young. But then they married. They became homemakers and then mothers.

“What can I do then?” I asked, finding Elian unexpectedly easy to talk to. Maybe it was the hint of softness I saw in his golden eyes, like he understood how I might be feeling, tossed into this new life with no direction.

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