Page 33 of The Viper's Wife

He steps out of the Ferrari.

I reach for my jacket.

“No,” he says with an edge of threat. “Leave it.”

He slams the door shut.

I take a shuddering breath, grateful for the reminder—this isn’t a date. I’m not here because I want to be, I’m here because he forced me to come. He’s a bad guy, and I’m not throwing years of hard work down the drain just because he smells good.

I scramble out of the car and reluctantly let him take my hand.

“You get cold, you use my coat,” he says as he leads me to a set of doors.

I’d sooner lose all my toes to frostbite.

I force myself to take steady breaths and fight the creeping tunnel vision as we wait for an elevator.

In the blurry steel doors, I picture my future home. A red door. The smell of cookies in the oven. Squeals of my babies’ laughter and happy yips from my dogs. The kind of peace and calm that comes from security.

And all I have to do is ditch Nico. Simple.

As the elevator lifts us, I slip my hand from his and cross my arms. “When am I meeting your family? I’ve heard good things about your dad.”

Nico pulls a grimace. “You heard wrong. You’ll see them whenever they visit, I guess.”

“Do they know about me?”

“My parents do. Alessia, my sister, probably doesn’t, or else she would’ve already demanded to meet you.”

A scary, overbearing sister to match the brother. Great. “Do you like your sister?”

He meets my eye. “I love my sister. There’s no one I trust more. Don’t worry about her. She’ll love you.”

My heart sinks. “Why?”

“She’d love any woman who can keep me on my toes.”

I taste acid. The elevator doors open. I follow him to his apartment through a silent hallway, looking like an employee in my work uniform next to Nico’s designer jacket.

Annetta’s theory—that Nico is only using me to rebel against his dad—cracks open to reveal a long, deep fissure.

I hadn’t fully accepted how much he might actually like me.

Some men—Lacey and I call them lover boys—are especially drawn to me because I give off vibes that I’m hard to please. I’m not, unless you count “wanting to be treated with basic decency” as hard to please, and then I’m QueenCleopatra to these guys. Not that it matters when I never get that far anyway. The second I open myself to emotional intimacy, the spell of my cool unavailability is broken, and they run.

Maybe that’s what Nico’s deal is.

Maybe I’ve been playing this wrong.

Nico pushes open his apartment door, and at first, I think we’ve stepped into the wrong place.

It’s small.

The rent is probably triple my monthly salary and sits in one of the richest neighborhoods in the country, but I expected Nico Matassa to be living in the lap of luxury, not a one-bedroom apartment. It’s empty too, or at least looks that way, with a single armchair in front of a moderately-sized television. On the ground, several books are stacked next to the armchair. A broom and mop are propped up in the corner of the living room.

His tiny kitchen looks a little more used, at least. A toaster and electric kettle rest on the counter, and there’s a stainless steel espresso maker on the stove, a single white mug next to it.

Nico strides inside, so I assume no one has come in and robbed the place while he was out. I follow him and wait awkwardly next to his two-person kitchen table with a single chair.