Page 32 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

I’m relieved when we sit for dinner and my neighbor is a talkative old man who seems to be there only for the drinks and the gossip.

He very helpfully points out some key figures and gives me a bit of background on each, while Andreas largely ignores me, focusing all his attention on a woman to his left.

On the few occasions I hasten a glance in his direction, the two of them seem to be speaking quite intimately, her hand touching his arm every now and then.

Something sharp and unpleasant crawls through my chest at the sight.

I fully expect Andreas to cheat on me at some point.

I mean, that’s what mafia men do, supposedly.

But at the very least, I hope he’s discreet about it, and not one to parade his mistresses for all of Massachusetts to see. That would be humiliating .

I flash my eyes to her briefly. She’s stunning.

A tall, long-limbed blond with manicured eyebrows and pouty lips.

Her dress falls only to the knees and a slit plummets to below her stomach, only Mother Nature holding her breasts in place.

I glance down at my own dress—in comparison it’s plain, classic, maybe a little boring?

I shake my shoulders a little. I loved this dress when I bought it and when I left the house.

Why is seeing another woman in a different number all it takes to make me feel dull?

And why does it even matter? My emotions are starting to feel so heavy that I’m eyeing up the wine glasses and wondering how I might get away with stowing one in my purse to smash into shards later.

As if he can sense my conviction wavering, Andreas turns to me and rests a hand on my thigh.

My hearts shoots up my throat and I swallow several times while looking into his questioning gaze.

His palm is ridiculously hot, burning through the dress to my skin.

“Meet an old friend of mine.”

My stomach bottoms out. They’re old friends?

“Astrid Olsson, Secretary of Economic Development. Astrid, this is my wife, Serafina.”

The Secretary tips her head back and peers down her nose at me.

Having faced people of all dispositions during my internship, I’m no stranger to killing with kindness.

I haven’t said much to anyone so far this evening, but having witnessed the way this woman has been openly flirting with my husband , I can’t sit back and be a silent doormat any longer. I’m going to be impossibly nice.

“Oh my goodness, Ms. Olsson, it’s an honor. I’m so inspired by the work you do and I know my husband is deeply grateful for your support in the planning of this facility.”

I can feel Andreas’ gaze burning into the side of my face.

“I share your passion for creating more employment opportunities and for putting Massachusetts on the map, not just for M.I.T. but for our technology industry also.”

The Secretary’s eyes have rounded, her pouty lips parted. “Well, um, thank you Miss…”

“Mrs.,” I correct. “Mrs. Corioni. ”

Her pouty lips thin into a line, and I hear Andreas inhale a tight breath beside me.

“But as my husband has already said, you must call me Serafina.”

I beam at her and then at Andreas, who looks satisfyingly stunned, then I place my napkin on the table and stand.

“Excuse me for a moment. I need to pay a visit to the restroom.”

I know I’m imagining things when I feel a pair of hot eyes on my back all the way to the restroom. But when I look over my shoulder and see Andreas still turned toward me, I shake the image away because nothing good will come of him feigning interest in someone as broken as me.

I endure the rest of the evening by sitting quietly as my husband continues to speak, with people I gather he wishes to do business with.

I don’t know too much about the technological landscape of this city, nor the state of the economy here, nor what the constituents are demanding of their politicians, but Andreas seems to know what he’s talking about.

He discusses what he thinks the city needs and how he can help.

If I didn’t know better I’d think he’s a legitimate businessman, not a hardened criminal with the blood of many men on his hands.

When it’s time to leave, he barely says a word to me, but still performs the role of a chivalrous husband by holding open yet more car doors.

I spend the journey wondering silently if he’s going to stay the night.

It’s his home after all. And then I run the scenarios in my head.

What if he wants to sleep in the same bed as me?

What if he wants to take what he’s owed—my virginity?

What if he sleeps in another room altogether?

What would that say about the future of our marriage?

My head is spinning again when the engine is cut and I’m once again invited to step out of the car. I hold my breath as he walks with me to the front door, then he opens it but stays outside.

For the first time since our wedding, I address him directly. “Are you coming in?”

He looks surprised that I’ve dared to speak, then his brow falls and a darkness blooms behind his eyes.

“No.”

His brevity makes my blood heat. “Why don’t you stay here? It’s your home.”

He shrugs.

“I need company,” I persist.

“You have Viola.”

“Viola is paid to keep me company.”

His shoulders fall with a heavy sigh. “Not yet.”

I let my gaze drop to the floor. Not yet? Then when? What do I have to do?

“Well, thank you for this evening,” I say quietly, then I step past him into the house. His hand catches my elbow and he spins me around a little too fast.

When I look up into his eyes, I have to catch my breath.

He looks almost livid, though it isn’t anger that shines through his irises, it’s something else.

It’s reminiscent of the way he looked at me in my bridal gown.

Like he’s all out of patience, like he needs some kind of fix or, I don’t know, a therapist of his own.

When he speaks, his voice is so low I can barely hear him. “Goodnight, Serafina.”

Then he turns around sharply, climbs into the waiting vehicle and doesn’t look back at me once.