Brutal Husband (Brutal Hearts #3)

Chapter 9

9

Rieta

O ut of hope or foolishness, I’m not sure which, I do exactly as Mom tells me to do.

I make a beautiful home for Nero, decorating the unfinished rooms in his enormous house. I was never very good at cooking, but I learn what he likes and how to make it, and I serve it up to him. I wear makeup and pretty dresses. I smile. I never argue with him. I’m the perfect, chaste little Stepford wife.

It changes nothing between us. Nero’s cold, silent anger toward me is as palpable as ever.

We don’t even share a bed. I sleep in the master bedroom, and he sleeps in the guest bedroom down the hall, and we both have our own en suite bathrooms. We haven’t seen each other naked since before our wedding. We’ve never had sex as husband and wife.

Sometimes I catch Nero staring off into space, lost deep in unfathomable thoughts. He rubs his brow, clenches his fists, or sighs heavily. Small signs that there are loud thoughts in his head. Regret? Confusion? Conflict? It’s impossible for me to know, and when he sees that I’ve noticed the signs, he turns away from me.

Occasionally, I see him examining the tattoos on his arms as if he’s never seen them before. I don’t know the meaning behind his ink because I never thought to ask him about it before we were married, and now it’s too late.

I can’t take much more of our silent, unhappy home. I’m not giving a man who doesn’t love me five years of my life for a “mistake” I can’t and won’t own. I’ll give Nero one year. Twelve months, and if he hasn’t changed his mind and begged my forgiveness, I’ll leave this marriage on our anniversary with my head held high. Maybe I’ll be broke, but I’d rather struggle on my own than live in cold, loveless luxury for the rest of my life.

Meanwhile, I make friends with one of my neighbors. Her name is Annie, and she’s married to a man who owns a construction company. I tell her my husband is in imports, which is more or less the truth. I can’t tell Annie about my marriage being arranged or that I think my husband murdered a man on our wedding night, but over numerous cups of coffee in her kitchen and mine, I confide that I’m having marital problems. She can see for herself that Nero is rarely home. I gaze enviously at her two children, eight-year-old Harriet and six-year-old Noah.

“Do you want children?” Annie asks me one day.

“That was the plan,” I tell her.

To my horror, I burst into tears. It’s not just longing for a child that has worn me down, but Nero’s cold rejection. No one’s held me in such a long time, and I can vividly remember that my husband and I were fire together. That first blissful time with Nero is burned into my brain. Delicious, illicit sex in the middle of the day on his desk when he was so eager to fuck his baby into me. I was queen of the world at that moment.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” Annie says, fetching a box of tissues for me.

Annie promises me that if I decide to leave Nero, I’m welcome in her home until I get on my feet. I thank her with more tears because I’m not used to the kindness of others.

As my secret deadline approaches, I begin to care less and less about playing the humble, chaste, smiling, obedient wife.

One evening when Nero’s on his way out without any explanation of where he’s going, I call after him, “How are we meant to start a family when you won’t even touch me?”

Nero pauses and glances over his shoulder. “You want children?”

“That’s what we talked about when we were engaged.”

“I didn’t think you were still interested. You haven’t asked for anything since we were married.”

Like I’d change my mind about something so important. “I’ve been trying to be a good wife. I hoped you would forgive me for my terrible mistake .” There’s a heavy dose of sarcasm in my voice because I can’t hold it in. I don’t want to pick a fight. What I want is for him to take me in his arms as he did before we were married, giving me hungry kisses and filthy promises.

Nero is silent for a long time. “When are you ovulating?”

I blink in surprise. “Why?”

“Get one of those apps women use to track their time of the month. Measure your temperature or whatever it is that doctors recommend. Find out when you’re fertile, and we’ll try.”

He’s saying things that I’ve longed to hear, but he’s already turning away.

“Nero. Look at me.”

He turns to face me, and his brows are drawn together. He’s serious, but not angry. Could this be the moment I’ve been waiting for, when we find our way back to one another?

With my heart pounding in my chest, I ask, “You want to have children with me?”

Nero thinks for a moment, and then nods. “I intended to start a family with you. That’s why I married you.”

Okay, not the romantic answer I was hoping for, but it’s something. “We’ll need to actually have sex if we want children. You’re not going to suggest we use a turkey baster, are you?”

Nero gazes at me for a long time, and then he seems to come to a decision. He steps forward, lowers his head, and presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’ll do what you need me to do. I don’t want to lose you.”

It’s hardly the dirty talk that he once indulged in, but it’s oceans more intimacy than I’ve experienced since our wedding. He doesn’t want to lose me. He cares about keeping me.

“I’ll find out when I’m ovulating, and we’ll get started,” I tell him, starting to feel excited.

He nods and starts to turn away. “I’ll see you when I get home.”

“Don’t—” I nearly say, Don’t stay out too late , but if I make demands, he might grow cold again. How pathetic of me to be afraid of annoying my husband with just a few words. “Don’t work too hard. See you later.”

Meekly, I stand back and watch him go. I’m such a good, obedient wife. Just like he always wanted.

I spend the evening downloading fertility apps and reading the instructions and reviews. At nine p.m., I’m searching for pharmacies that are still open so I can buy a digital thermometer, and I go out and get one. A baby is just what Nero and I need. A project to focus on together so we can get past all our issues.

After a handful of days, I realize it’s my fertile time while Nero is out, and I excitedly call and text him. There’s no response, but a few hours later, he marches through the front door like he’s on a mission.

With a fierce glower on his face, he points to the stairs. “Bedroom.”

My heart pounds with excitement. This is more like it. Breathless with anticipation, I hurry up the stairs, hyperconscious of Nero following close behind me. At my bed, I turn to him, hungry to feel his hands on me, his lips on mine, but he’s concentrating on taking off his clothes. I suppose getting naked is a good idea, and I start to undress myself. I haven’t taken off my clothes in front of my husband for such a long time.

When I’m naked, Nero doesn’t look at me at all.

“Lie down,” he orders.

I was reaching for him, but I lower my hands, disappointed. Maybe this is a return to how things used to be with him, where he was unpredictable and shocking, but I ultimately enjoyed it. A glance at his erect cock tells me he’s getting some kind of stimulation from this. I wish I could say the same for myself.

I lie down on my back, and he climbs on top of me, still without looking at me. An image flashes through my mind of one of those blow-up plastic sex dolls with stiff arms, stiff legs, and a vacant expression. Nero uses spit to lubricate the head of his cock, and he shoves it inside me. It’s not a painful experience unless you count humiliation as pain. His dead weight is pressing down on me, and I’m finding it hard to breathe as he thrusts erratically. I can’t get the image of the blow-up doll out of my head. I feel like I’m made of plastic and he’s jostling my squashy, inflated limbs.

I have to try and rescue this awful experience. I push his shoulders, hoping he’ll sit up so I can look at him. It felt better the first time we had sex, and I’m sure the position had at least something to do with it. “Nero, can you—”

My husband shudders and makes a grunting noise, and then goes still.

Oh.

He clambers off me with his face averted, gets off the bed, and leaves the room. I stare at the ceiling, wondering what the hell that was. Is it me? Is he so angry with me that I disgust him? I cover my face with my hands as tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

Nero leaves the house, and I lay there for a long time, feeling him leak out of me. The one spark of hope is that I’m pregnant. Everything except the act itself was perfect, after all, and the point is to have a baby. I want this baby so much, for me, and for its own sake. I desperately need to love someone. I have so much love to give.

Two weeks later, I get my period. It’s disappointing, but everything I read tells me not to expect to fall pregnant right away, and that it can take up to a year.

The next time I’m fertile, it’s the same experience between Nero and me. Mechanically successful, but passionless, disconnected sex.

And the next month.

And the next.

The deadline of our first anniversary that I set for myself comes and goes. I feel stuck because what if after I make a big fuss and leave my husband, I discover that I’m pregnant? On paper, we have a complete marriage. We wear our wedding rings, he provides for me, I keep house, and we’re trying for a baby. Maybe I just had a warped idea of what a happy marriage was meant to look like. What if Nero and I are…normal? I don’t know. I don’t want other men, that’s for sure. The thought of other men and the sight of other men, even handsome ones who smile at me, leave me cold. I catch myself dreaming wistfully of moments I spent with Nero before we were married. Wonderful, outrageous moments. No one’s ever made me feel like he did back then, and I can’t imagine feeling that way with anyone else.

I realize why I’m stuck in this empty marriage. I can’t leave my cold, heartless husband because I’m still in love with my fiancé. I keep hoping he’ll come back.

One evening I’m eating dinner at home with Mom, Mia, and Isabel, and they’re pestering me for details about me and Nero. Usually I can brush their questions off with a smile and a murmured, “Oh, we’re fine. He’s working hard,” and they’re satisfied, but tonight, they’re persistent.

Finally, I take a deep breath and say, “Nero and I are trying for a baby.” To divert any questions about me and my husband, I pull out my phone and show them the app I’ve been using. “We’re doing this properly. I’m tracking everything.”

What I don’t tell them is that it’s been five cycles already, and I’m still not pregnant. I’m starting to get frustrated. I don’t care what the experts say. Assuming Nero and I are both fertile, shouldn’t I be pregnant by now? Then again, we haven’t exactly been going at it like rabbits, which I assume would increase our chances. I’ve had five fertile windows, and we’ve had sex five times. Or rather, he’s ejaculated inside me five times. What we have can’t really be called sex.

Mom beams at me. “I knew you and Nero would get past any silly differences between the two of you. To think you wanted to throw your marriage away but, instead, you listened to your mother. I’m always right about these things.”

Oh, yes, how happy I am now. Thank you, Mom.

After Isabel and Mia have expressed their excitement, Mom muses thoughtfully, “I think I’ll download this app as well. What’s it called?”

I tell her the name, and then ask with a frown, “Why do you want to download it?”

“Because I’m getting married next month,” she tells me.

There’s stunned silence around the dinner table.

“You’re not ,” Isabel exclaims.

“I am.” Mom’s smile is triumphant. “It’s all arranged. The Bianchi family will soon be connected to the well-respected Rosetti family in an arrangement that’s mutually beneficial to both of us.”

Mia stares doubtfully at Mom, and I can tell what she’s thinking. How could Mom want another baby when she barely acknowledges her third daughter?

“How old is your husband-to-be? I bet he’s ancient.” Isabel snickers. “Sixty-something. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Lazzaro Rosetti is twenty-nine, and good-looking in a…” Mom considers this. “In a rough and ready kind of way.” Her nose wrinkles slightly.

Rough and ready isn’t to her taste. She prefers her men to have a polished, neat appearance. Perhaps she thinks she can change Lazzaro.

It’s only later as I’m driving home that I realize Mom stole my thunder about trying for a baby with her news about getting married. I wonder if she was pressing me so hard for news just so she could upstage it.

The first good look I get at Lazzaro Rosetti is on his and Mom’s wedding day. I don’t see much that’s rough and ready about him. His black hair is slicked back neatly, and he’s wearing a tailored suit and bow tie. Then I notice his tattooed hands and the uncomfortable way he tugs occasionally on his tight collar.

The only person who looks more bored and irritated at the wedding than Lazzaro is Mia. No one seems to notice her sighs and eye rolls except for me, until I notice Lazzaro glaring at her. Or staring at her. I can’t tell which. I hope he doesn’t give her hell for making it so obvious she disapproves of the marriage. Mia is the one who has to live with our new stepfather.

A few weeks later, I realize that I’ve been so wrapped up in my own misery that I’ve been neglecting my family.

I try spending time with Isabel, but she wants to drink wine, and I can’t while I’m trying to get pregnant or hoping that I am pregnant. Her conversation is all sharp edges, empty gossip, and digging around in my relationship with Nero. Probably for more gossip that she can take to a different wine-drinking session with someone else. Every time I leave Isabel’s apartment, I feel empty and uncomfortable, so I stop going so much.

I ask Mom for advice on how to fall pregnant, but all she does is criticize me and tell me I’m overthinking things. I should be pregnant by now, and I mustn’t be trying hard enough.

I start to spend more time with Mia, and I discover that my sister has a lot more backbone than I thought she did. There’s almost nothing about her that’s like Mom or Isabel. She’s not vain, and she doesn’t gossip about other people. I have the sense that she’s biding her time with her eyes on the future, and as soon as she has the chance, she’ll leave us all behind. I’m quietly envious of my little sister and her fierce, secret spark.

One day I pick her up from school, and we go for ice cream. Mia was grounded recently for fighting at school, but apart from a bruise on her knuckles, there’s not a scratch on her. I’m secretly proud.

“You and Isabel are so lucky you have me to take the heat off you,” Mia grumbles.

I look at my sister over my sunglasses. “You think? How many times has Mom told you you’d be pregnant by now if only you tried harder?”

I marvel at how normal I sound as I banter with my sister. I’ve gotten so good at pretending. At Mom’s house, we sit on the edge of the pool and dangle our legs in the water. Mom can’t resist the chance to criticize the ice cream I’m eating, like that has any effect on me having a baby.

“If I get pregnant before you do, I’ll be having words with your husband,” Mom says. “Nero can’t work all the time and expect to magically father a child.”

If only Nero being a workaholic was our problem. There are tears crowding in the back of my throat, but there’s not one hint of them in my voice as I say, “You probably will be pregnant before me. You’re still in the honeymoon period where it’s sex night and morning.”

Appealing to Mom’s vanity works. It’s so easy to distract her.

“Yes, he’s a handful, my husband. So demanding,” she says with a smile.

Mia looks like she’s going to throw up. The man we’re discussing enters the back garden, grease stains on his hands from working on his car, and he glares at Mom like he knows she was just discussing his sexual appetite. My family is so dysfunctional. No wonder I have no idea how to cope with Nero.

As I watch Mom’s relationship with Lazzaro deteriorate, I wonder how much longer it can last. Everyone in the family knows the marriage is a disaster. I wonder if people notice the same things when Nero and I are together.

Nero won’t attend big family events, but I casually mention to him one morning that I’ve invited Mom, Lazzaro, and Mia around for dinner. I just got my period. My lower belly is aching, and my heart is heavy with disappointment.

Nero puts his espresso cup in the sink and heads for the front door. “Sure. Fine.”

“I’m not pregnant again,” I call after him.

Nero pauses with his hand on the door, but he doesn’t turn around. “Oh. Maybe next time.”

The door slams behind him.

Next time. I want to scream .

When the doorbell rings that night, There’s only Lazzaro and Mia on my front doorstep. Mom has a migraine, and Nero didn’t bother to come home. I suppose he could have forgotten that I invited people to dinner, and we were expecting him, but I doubt it.

The three of us end up spending a surprisingly pleasant evening together. Lazzaro—or Laz, as he prefers to be called—is funny and talkative once he relaxes. I notice something strange. He won’t stop staring at Mia. As he talks, as she talks, as I talk. His eyes have a way of finding their way back to her whenever they leave her face.

As Mia and I stack the dishwasher together, I casually mention the attention Laz is giving her, and my little sister freezes up like a rabbit caught in the headlights. She turns red and whirls around so that she has her back to me.

I stare at her, mystified. I’ve never seen her act this way before. Then I realize what’s going on.

Mia has a crush on our stepfather.

I’m surprised to find how much I’m not shocked and disgusted about this. I should be, shouldn’t I? I mean, he’s married to Mom, yet the way Laz acts around Mom and the way he acts around Mia is like night and day. I don’t blame her for feeling her heart soften for a man who’s good-looking, makes her laugh, and is a little bit dangerous.

Mia slips on some water, and suddenly Laz is there, holding Mia and setting her back on her feet.

“Careful, Bambi,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through her hair and gazing tenderly down at her. There’s so much sweetness in his usually harsh face. It matters to him if she hurts herself. It matters because she’s the most important thing in his world.

The ache in my empty lower belly doubles, right where there should be a baby, just like the ache in my empty heart.