Page 72 of Sinful Hearts

Biting into her lip, she doesn’t say a word as I unroll the napkin and drape it over her lap.

I watch her swallow hard as I squeeze her knee before doing the same with my napkin.

“I’ll have the braciole,” Liliya says when the server stops behind her.

A lump forms in my throat, and I dig my fingers into the table, wondering if she ordered my mother’s favorite meal to fuck with me.

Even though it would be impossible for her to know this information, my mind always travels to the worst-case scenario. I always think the worst of people because it’s usually all I see from them.

I don’t trust my wife.

She’s a runner, a liar, a manipulator.

But, goddamn it, I want to.

I hold up my glass when the server reaches me. “Just a refill. Bourbon.”

Leaning back in my chair, I listen to the conversation without contributing. I sip my drink, taking turns watching the people around me and watching Liliya.

She looks more comfortable in this room full of strangers than she does with me. The wives are doing a good job at hiding the fact that their husbands have probably killed men in this very room.

She participates in the conversation more than I do, and people throw questions at her from around the table.

Natalia asks her, “How’s married life, Liliya?”

Liliya pulls at her dress strap. “Married life is …” She pauses, searching for a word other thanmiserable. Her head turns in my direction. “We’re adjusting.”

“You’ll get there,” Gigi says in assurance before pointing at me with her fork. “Bothof you will.”

For how much violence flows through the Marchetti blood, I don’t know how she’s always so goddamn positive.

I’m relieved when the focus shifts from my marriage to Genesis sharing updates for the Safe Hearts remodel. Together, everyone at the table helped her raise a million dollars to move the shelter to a new building and renovate it.

I had no issue writing a check then, nor do I now for my monthly donations. I only wish my mother had found Safe Hearts before her death.

When the servers return with the main courses, I glance over at Liliya’s braciole and inhale the strong aroma of garlic, olive oil, and basil. My stomach rumbles, and I knock back my drink in one go to quiet it.

The braciole looks just like it did when my mother used to order it.

“Do you want a bite?” Liliya asks, leaning in toward me.

Fuck? Do I look like I’m salivating?

Shaking my head, I look away from her. “I’m good.”

She grabs her fork. “Have you had braciole before?”

I nod. “Have you?”

“No, but it sounded good on the menu.” She cuts a piece.

Resting my elbow on the chair’s arm, I nudge closer to her. “You made a good choice.”

A hint of a playful smile hits her lips. “Does that meanyou dowant a bite?”

I hesitate, not answering.

“Oh, come on,” she says with a low groan. “Didn’t you give me crap fornoteating?” She straightens her shoulders. “How about this? You eat, and I’ll eat.”