Page 81 of Salvatore

“Vincent’s whore,” she answers.

In growing silent, I tell her exactly what she wants to know. She laughs without humor. “Come on, Aedry. I’m not blind. And I assure you I’m not stupid.”

I turn slowly in her direction, my voice as leaden with sadness as my expression. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Rita.”

She straightens, keeping her back to me from where she was placing my rolls in a wire basket. “She was here before me. So, she stays. But men don’t marry whores, do they?” She glances over her shoulder at me. “They marry good women like us. Those who cook, who wait for them to come home, those they’re not embarrassed to bring to church when they confess their sins, right?”

I don’t answer, because she’s not really asking. She’s telling me how she feels.

“Have you met her? Donatella?” She huffs when my expression gives the truth away. “I know her name and I know what she looks like. I followed them once, right before we got married.” Her voice cracks. “I wanted to see what she could give Vin that I couldn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, meaning it down to my soul.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” she says, despite how her lips press together in her attempt to hold back her tears.

I abandon my station, walking slowly to her side. Out of instinct, I embrace her, gathering her carefully in my arms.

She stiffens against me with so much resentment, I’m sure she’ll push me away. But then she returns my embrace and tells me something I don’t expect to hear. “Thank you,” she says, sniffling. “I promise to be there when it happens to you.”

I break away, taking a step back. She was crying on my shoulder seconds ago, but now those tears are nowhere in sight. “What?” I ask.

She cocks her head, scrutinizing me closely as if I can’t possibly be this naive. “Come on, Aedry. Salvatore and Vincent are cut from the same cloth. Do you think your pretty eyes will spare you from the control over women men like them crave? It won’t be long before he leaves your bed for someone else’s.” Her irises sparkle with anger. “If he hasn’t already.”

“He wouldn’t do that to me,” I say, hating the sudden doubt that quivers my voice.

“Why?” she asks. “Because he tells you he loves you or swore before God that he wouldn’t?” She lifts the back of her hand, twiddling her fingers to draw attention to the large engagement ring and wedding band. “That doesn’t mean anything when power means more.”

She motions to my side. It’s not until I glance down that I realize she’s pointing to my bracelet. “Did Salvatore give you that? What did it cost you? A night alone? Maybe more?”

My mouth is closed so tightly, my teeth ache. She strolls toward me, her hips swinging, and her steps barely registering over the increasing pounding in my ears.

She stops directly in front of me, sighing softly and shaking her head. “Whether you believe me or not, Sal will eventually get an extra friend to play with. Maybe more if he stays as tight as he is with Vincent.” Her voice is casual. But she laughs when she catches a glimpse of my face. “Don’t look so sad, Aedry. It’s all a part of the game.”

She may have gone from tears to laughter, but I don’t find anything she says amusing. “What if I don’t want to play?” I ask her.

“Ah, but you will play,” she tells me. Her smile remains, yet it’s not enough to hide the flickers of misery plaguing her face, and the sorrow lingering so close to the surface.

Her attention fixes on the bracelet Salvatore gave me. I don’t fight her when she lifts my hand, not when I see how fast her light brown eyes pool with tears. “You’ll play, because you love him . . . tut-tut-tut,” she says when I open my mouth to deny it. “You know you do, despite knowing there’s more to Sal’s work than what he tells you.”

My spine grows rigid enough to crack.

“You’ll play the role of his devoted woman, you will,” she tells me. “Just like you’ll keep your mouth shut for pretty little things like this.” The tip of her long red nail taps over my bracelet. “In exchange, he’ll give you a nice house, his name, and babies. Those are good things, Aedry. There’s no shame in that.”

Slowly, she lowers my hand, her hips swaying as she returns to the stove. I barely move, a feeling of dread tightening my chest hard enough for me to clasp it.

As I watch, she opens the oven door and removes a covered dish. “Be a dear and finish up,” she says, blindly staring at the wall. “Vincent’s hungry. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

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