Page 39 of The Viper's Wife

In my hunt for more alcohol, I pass Valeria’s dad, sitting alone at a small table in the kitchen. The first time I’d seenhim, he was about to celebrate his attempted assassination of my brother and then begging for his life. Now, he’s a shell of a man, sitting alone.

It lowers the mood to have him here, but I’m sure Salvatore thought it necessary—a reminder to the others of what happens when he’s betrayed.

I find the alcohol and down three mimosas while some guy with a Harvard sweater grins with approval, and once I’m sufficiently buzzed, I decide it’s time.

Most of the old guys are playing cards in a sitting room—Giovanni among them and now Stefano, trying to suck up to the others by losing all his money.

I nearly spill my fifth mimosa as two little boys in bowties race past, their mom shouting after them.

The jazz music swells, and I spot her.

Valeria’s dressed in funeral blacks—did she think she was funny when she picked out a tight-fitting black sweater and black trousers? Her short hair dusts over her shoulders as she tilts her head in thought. I’ve never liked short hair on a woman, but it suits Valeria—showing off her long neck and sharp features. In a sea of pastel skirts and blouses, she stands out like a raven.

At first blush, she seems content. A quiet smile plays at her dark red lips. A half-empty mimosa hangs delicately from her fingertips as she nods at the woman in front of her.

But I’m getting better at reading her.

Her shoulders are tense.

I grin. She’s annoyed with whoever she’s talking to.

The other woman spots me and smiles, before saying something to Valeria.

Valeria turns toward me. Her eyes flick down my figure.

I thought about wearing my shitty, torn jeans. Mymuddiest boots. A Cardinals jersey. But as always, it’s more fun to knock Valeria off-kilter instead.

I’m wearing my black, bespoke merino wool suit and matching Italian leather oxfords. I look like Salvatore’s brother. I look like my father’s son.

When Valeria’s eyes snap back up to mine, and the rest of the room fades away, I know I made the right decision. Her mouth flickers with a real smile, and she gives a slight nod of her head to suggest that I join her.

I weave through the small crowd, never breaking our eye contact.

“Darling,” I say, and her eyelashes flutter. I lean down to kiss her—despite her heels and height, I still have a slight advantage—but she turns her head at the last second, and I kiss her cheek instead.

I frown.

She places her hand on the center of my back—five fingers spread across my muscles there like she’s my handler.

The background chatter dies down as wives and mothers lean in for a shred of gossip about the new family arrangement.

“Nico, this is Giorgia. Giorgia, Nico.”

Across us, a dark-haired woman in a snug white dress holds my gaze for a beat too long, smiling with very white teeth.

“Nico Matassa. What a pleasure.” She speaks in a slow, measured cadence, like she’s inspecting each word before she says it.

“Giorgia was just telling me about your sister’s art gallery in New York.” Valeria’s hand drops from my back, and she takes a long sip of her mimosa. She’s wearing thesimple engagement ring. I wonder if she’s already thrown the expensive one off a bridge out of spite.

“Your sister has quite the eye for art,” Giorgia says, holding my gaze. “Is she an artist herself? I’ve always wondered after seeing her exhibit on a trip one year.”

“No.”

Her smile wavers at my curt response.

Valeria finishes her mimosa. I offer mine to her, and she shakes her head, rolling the stem of the empty glass between her fingers.

I wish I could go back in time and turn the lights on at that party, just to see her fingers on my body. I’d like to see her pressed up against me through a mirror. We would make a good pair.