Page 16 of His to Hold

It takes me another moment to realize he’s waiting for me to serve him. I could call him out for expecting his wife to dish up his food for him, but this isn’t a hill I’m willing to die on. Before our time is over, I’m sure there’ll be much more important issues for me to take a stand on.

I slide off my stool and go to the oven, acutely aware that Antonio is watching me. The aroma that hits me when I open the door makes my mouth water. Though I’m a decent cook, I haven’t mastered Tuscan cuisine the way Janetta has.

Grabbing the padded mitts to protect my hands, I take a heavy casserole dish from the oven and set it down on the countertop. Then I bring out a shallow, rectangular dish filled with creamy polenta. I find plates in a cabinet near the stove and grab a serving spoon from the drawer, which also contains the cutlery we’ll need to eat the meal.

I serve up a generous portion of food for Antonio and a smaller one for me, and carry the plates and cutlery to the breakfast bar. I place Antonio’s food in front of him. He doesn’t say thank you, just takes me serving him as his due. I guess he’s reserving his good manners for when people might be watching.

Again, it’s not something I want to start an argument over. Tamping down my irritation, I scoop up some of the stew and pop it in my mouth. It’s instantly comforting, the familiar flavors carrying my mind back to a happier time. The red wine dominates, but the garlic also comes through. The beef is so tender it melts in my mouth.

“This is good.” My remark is intended to start a conversation. “Janetta hasn’t lost her touch.”

“I wouldn’t keep her around if she had.” Antonio is typically dispassionate. The woman has worked for his family for decades, yet he talks so casually about discarding her. It’s a harsh reminder that everyone’s disposable as far as Antonio is concerned.

Silence falls again as we continue to eat. I take sips of the dry red wine and cast the occasional glance at my husband. It’s funny the things you miss about a person. The way the corners of Antonio’s lips turn upward when he’s enjoying a meal is one of them. He takes his time to savor each mouthful.

The longer we go without speaking, the more uncomfortable I become. I don’t know why Antonio brought me all the way out here if he doesn’t want to talk. If he thinks he’s going to act as if I don’t exist until he wants to fuck me, he’s in for a shock. I won’t let him ignore me.

“Tell me about my new sisters-in-law. What are they like?”

He shoots me a glare as if he believes I’m asking about things I have no right to know. I stare back at him, refusing to cower in the face of his contempt. He heaves in a breath and puts his fork down.

“Emilia’s Italian. She’s a couple of inches shorter than you, brunette, slim.”

“Really? What’s her shoe size?”

Antonio frowns, and I roll my eyes. “I don’t want her vital statistics. I want to know what she’s like.”

Antonio considers the question for so long I think he’s not going to answer. Then he takes a sip of wine and sets his glass back down.

“She’s quiet, kind, a bit naïve in some ways, and sharp as a tack in others. She recently bought a hotel in Soho. It’s doing well.”

His praise is grudging. It’s no doubt a struggle for him to get to grips with the Volantes having a career woman in their midst. When Antonio and I married, he made it clear that any competition outside of the house would not be an option.

“Does Alessandro love her?”

Antonio stares at me, eyebrows arched, as if my question is ridiculous. “He’d put a bullet in anyone who hurt her.”

I guess in my husband’s world that’s what passes for love. I yearn to hear him tell me that he’d kill anyone who hurt me, but I’m not about to set myself up for disappointment.

“And Vinnie? What’s she like?”

“I don’t know her.”

“Well, was it a nice wedding?”

Antonio shrugs. “I wasn’t there.”

This is painful, like talking to a reluctant stranger. We’re intimately acquainted with each other’s bodies, but in many respects, it’s as if we’ve only just met. This conversation is like a tennis match, with questions and clipped responses being batted back and forth across the breakfast bar. It doesn’t feel like a game I can win, but I’m not ready to give up yet. I’ve got to get Antonio talking.

“What about Matteo and Gio? Either of them planning to settle down?”

“No.” Antonio’s jaw clenches. The way he’s acting, you’d think I was trying to get to his deepest, darkest secrets, not make polite conversation about the family I married into.

“How’s Livvy?”

I’ve been hesitant to ask about his sister, not because I don’t want to know how she is, but because I don’t want to let something slip. I’m worried about Livvy. She’s the reason I blew up my marriage in such a spectacular fashion. When I let Joey Gallo and his attack dog Vito into the house, I was trying to protect my young sister-in-law. Telling Antonio that would go a long way toward fixing our relationship, but I can’t betray Livvy’s trust. The poor girl can’t breathe with five overprotective brothers hovering around her.

“Olivia’s a pain in the ass.”

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