Page 107 of The Sound in Silence

A few minutes later, Erico returns to find me chewing on my lip, a towel around his waist. Instead of his usual heated grins, his brow’s dipped low, his eyes shadowed with concern. I vow when he returns from dressing, I’ll fix my expression to seem more okay.

Based on the look he gives me when he comes back, dressed in a pair of low hanging shorts, I don’t succeed.

Without pause, he strides to the edge of the bed and scoops me in his arms. Tossing my phone on my lap, he walks me from the bedroom.

I don’t know what he’s doing, but I’ll never tire of his hold. Especially now, since it might have an expiration date. He claims otherwise, but when push comes to shove, he’ll choose the organization over me, and I can’t even despise him for that.

Silly, pathetic fool in love I am.

“What are we doing?”

“You’re eating. Because the fact I have no idea the last time you did scares me.”

He descends the staircase, and with every step away from the bedroom, more of that lightness continues to peek through. I ruin it by asking the very question I’ve been wondering since he left this morning.

Resting my hand on his heart, I ask, “I’m sorry. Are you mad?”

He takes so long to reply that old worries creep up.Of course, he is. You’re no good to him anymore. Useless. Always second best. You shouldn’t be his wife.

Finally at the bottom of the stairs, he replies, “Yeah. Extremely mad.”

See? You’re no good for—

“But not at you.” His hold tightens, his gaze capturing mine. “Never you, Ariella, and don’t you fucking think it. I’m madforyou. Pissed you’ll have to experience this doubt, these feelings. Of everyone in the world, this isn’t fair.”

In the kitchen, he deposits me on the counter and turns for the fridge. He begins pulling out a bunch of food—eggs, meats, cheeses, vegetables—and I realizehe’sgoing to cook. My mafia boss husband is working in the kitchen, of all places, and it seems laughable.

Only an hour after he killed someone. Presuming that’s what the blood came from.

“Omelet?” he offers, already retrieving a pan, which begs the question how much choice I have in this.

Unable to talk through the cotton in my throat, my hands come up in aYessign.

He gives me his back as he begins preparing the vegetables and cheese to be mixed in with the eggs. He works in silence, while I mentally practice phrasing a question about his bloodied clothing.

But he talks before I manage to. “Once, any betrayal toward theFamigliacould be the only thing to trigger my rage. Traitors have no place in this world and my role means protecting theFamiglia, and doing what’s right by them.” The knife sounds so much louder when it clangs against the smooth countertop, and he focuses on me. “But the rage I’ve been living with since I found you on the carpet yesterday is like no level I’ve felt before. Ihateyou’re going through this, and not because I need a son. The future of theFamigliaisn’t even a consideration over your happiness.”

And then, like he hasn’t just shattered my heart in every right way, he picks up the knife and finishes slicing the onion. My eyes prick with tears, but it’s not from the onion’s juices emitting into the air.

“I hate that you have to go through it with me,” I mumble. “You have no idea how much I want to be normal. To not have to live through test after test. For once in my life, I just want simplicity.”

His grip tightens, his slices quickening, and I realize I should stop talking before he accidentally injures himself with the knife.

“So, you cook, huh?” I state, shifting the conversation as he heats up a pan.

“You are normal, Ariella. Don’t believe otherwise.”

Back on that then.He begins pouring the egg mixture into the pan, the sizzling sound filling the room, and I’m thankful I don’t need to respond.

He remains silent as he finishes cooking. He makes one large omelette, flipping it flawlessly until sliding it onto a plate. He brings over a fork and hands me the plate but doesn’t remove me from the counter. The scent of fresh food activates my hunger and my stomach knots in pain, the first bite feeling so much tastier than usual.

He watches me take that first bite, observing almost clinically until nodding. “Good.”

I take another two delicious bites, once again thankful to have him. Not only for cooking, but for making me eat. From experience, it’s unlikely I would have done it myself.

“When did you realize you had depression?”

He asks it so offhandedly as he wipes the counter, I almost question if I heard him clearly. He drops the cloth and spins, positioning his arms behind him so he grips the edge of the counter, where he leans between them. A position of ease, if it wasn’t for his tight hold, the veins in his arms popping.

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