Page 56 of Vicious Secrets
“And I wasn’t raised to be a mob wife.”
Siro squeezes my hand in time with his exhales as he looks out over the pool. His eyes are unfocused, like he’s deep in thought. I let the silence linger for a few moments, and that turns out to be a bad idea.
As a mask of apathy grows on his face, so does the clamminess of his skin and the shallowness of his breaths. He’s continuing to squeeze my hand, so I don’t think my touch is overwhelming him. It’s his emotions overwhelming him. He’s careening right toward a panic attack. But I might be able to distract him from overthinking himself into a blackout.
“Okay, but Fabi’s never been in a relationship before, right? And he’s like, what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
“No, he’s older than that.” Siro shakes his head. “I think Fabina is twenty, so he’s—”
“Fabina?”
“Yeah, his oldest sister.”
I blink at him. “One of his sister’s names is Fabina?”
Siro slowly turns to look at me with a grimace on his lips. “You spend all day with him, and he’s never told you their names?”
I don’t bother wracking my brain. “I don’t know, maybe. The three of them are like an amorphous blob in my head. Same with all your Capos.”
His eyes close tight, he curses under his breath and presses his fist to his mouth. “Fuck, that might be a nickname. She looks like his twin.”
I snicker and cut off the sound with my glass. “You didn’t eat lunch, did you?”
Siro ignores me. “Fabi’s twenty-four, and I don’t know if he’s betrothed or not.”
“Still, not the best guy to give relationship advice. Your strippers would be a better choice.”
“Don’t say it like that. I don’t own them.” He sighs. “And no, they would not be a better choice.”
“Wanna test that theory?” I waggle my eyebrows.
“I don’t know what you’re implying and do not explain it. The answer is no.”
I proceed to ask Siro every single stripper-related question I can think of. Why do they dance on a pole and not just on the stage? Why are their shoes so cool? Why are men so weird? Is the “champagne” part of the champagne room a euphemism? What the fuck is up with the Super Bowl being the most popular night of the year? Why is strip club food surprisingly good? And on and on…
My dastardly plan works.
Siro bounces between confusion and amusement for the rest of our dinner. In between courses, we hold hands, and I keep a close eye on him.
As we leave the restaurant, I cling to his arm. Partially because we’ve had a bottle each. But mostly because I’m a greedy, needy brat. With only a few days before Christmas, the streets are jam-packed. So I avoid asking some of the more personal questions the wine and strip club conversation brought forth in my brain.
“Are we still going to the club?”
“We don’t have to. Are you tired?”
I shake my head. “Not tired. But I want privacy.”
“In the shadows or behind closed doors?”
I nibble on my bottom lip as I mull the options.
“You’re killing me, Robyn.”
I snap my chin up to see Siro’s eyes zeroed in on my mouth like lasers. Clearly, the liquor killed whatever residual anxiety was in his body. Or maybe it reawakened his frustration from this morning.
I flush and smile. “You choose, my love.”
Siro grins and kisses my forehead. “Closed doors it is.”
