Page 11 of Mafia King
Better. And it’s what I want. If it’s what Santino wants too, or if he likes what he sees, that’s none of my business.
Is this how I will live from now on? Doling out pleasure to myself and keeping it from my husband? Starving myself in the hope that his hunger kills him before he kills me?
The front door alarm chirps to let me know someone has entered the house. I quietly make my way into the kitchen and pull on oven mitts.
“You’re here,” Santino says in a tone touched with surprise.
“Didn’t you tell me to make dinner?” I snap open the oven and take out the eggplant parmigiana.
When I stand with it, I find him staring at me with a curious expression. Part surprise. Part relief. A little of something like muted triumph.
“Si,” he says. “And you did.”
I almost laugh when I realize he thought I was going to use the phone to escape. As if I’m some kind of child, jumping all over myself to go from frying pan to fire.
“You thought I was going to leave you hungry?”
“You’ve starved me of everything else,” he says with a shrug.
“Boo fucking hoo.”
He smirks as if he’s enjoying my utter lack of sympathy for the pain I’ve caused.
Passing close to him, I take the hot pan to the dining room, where I’ve laid out the settings. The wine breathes in a decanter next to the bread and butter.
Santino sits and shakes out his napkin. Like a good wife, I pour his wine and fill his plate before I sit. His mood is high and his manner is relaxed. He’s in exactly the element he expects. Everything in his world is in its place.
“This smells good.” He picks up a fork and waits for me to say something. He thinks this meal is an olive branch. He thinks I’ve forgiven him.
I put my hands in my lap and stare out the window, where the sky dims from blue to orange. When he finally begins eating, I do as well.
“Is this Celia’s recipe?” he asks.
Back into my lap go my hands.I say nothing.
“Of course not,” he mutters as if apologizing for an insult.
I neither confirm nor deny.
We do this the entire meal. He says something or asks a question. I don’t respond, putting down my fork until he starts eating again. I can feel his frustration grow with every pause, but he’s audacious in his assumption that repentance is for losers and it’s possible all past sins can be forgiven without any work on his part.
His plate’s almost clear when he’s simply had enough. “What is it youwant?”
I scoop up our plates and take them to the sink. That’s where he goes for it, coming behind me with his murdering hands and kissing my neck.
“Do you want me to just take you?”
Yes.
No!
Christ on a ladder. He thinks I’m playing a sex game.
But yes, I want him to just take me.
“Non toccarmi.” I elbow him off, figuring he’ll believe me if I tell him not to touch me in Italian.
He grabs my arm with enough force to make my middle damp with heat, and enough force to let me know he’s done playing my silly games, and turns me around to face him. My entire body lights up with promise. It’s more of a struggle to resist his seduction than it is to keep silent.
