Brutal Husband (Brutal Hearts #3)

Chapter 11

11

Rieta

N ero doesn’t utter a word about Mia staying in our house, and I wouldn’t let him tell my sister to leave even if he wanted to. Day by day, I find myself growing more and more excited. Mia’s having a baby, and with Laz gone, Mia can stay here, and we can look after it together. The nursery that I’ve been planning in my mind for such a long time will have a baby in it after all. New moms need all the help they can get. We’ll raise this child together.

While we prepare for the baby, Mia and I spend a lot of time with Annie. She has so much expectant mom information to share with Mia, and I eagerly listen to every drop, almost feeling like it’s for me. I start buying food that’s good for Mia and the baby and stocking up on things she’ll need when the baby comes. My heart feels light and hopeful.

One morning when it’s just me and Annie sharing coffee, Annie asks me, “Are you okay? I know this has been hard for you.”

She means Mia falling pregnant while I’m still struggling. I smile at my friend, and it feels easy. Genuine. “I’m more than okay. I’m happy for the first time in…well, maybe forever.”

Until suddenly, it all falls apart for me.

Because a few weeks later, Laz is back, and Mia runs into his open arms. On the outside, I’m smiling. Of course I’m happy for my sister and the love of her life. They deserve to be together, make plans together, share their own home with their baby.

After the OB-GYN appointment that Laz crashes out of nowhere, I go home to an empty house. The silence is too loud, and so I open a bottle of wine.

I wake up the next morning with a headache, a fuzzy tongue, and a sick feeling in my stomach. I can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or if I’m feeling guilty about not being uncomplicatedly happy for my sister.

“I am happy for her,” I whisper as I struggle downstairs and into the kitchen. With a mug in my hand, I open the fridge, and my eyes land on the second bottle of white wine I opened last night but didn’t quite finish. It tempts me, all crisp and cold, promising to take the edge off my hangover and my misery.

I avert my gaze from my reflection in the kitchen cabinets as I yank the bottle out of the fridge and pour the remaining wine into my mug. I drink it as I walk into the living room and switch on the TV. This is awful, shameful behavior, but I can’t stop myself. What’s scarier is I can’t think of a reason to stop. No one wants me or needs me. I don’t feel happier as I drink wine for breakfast, but I do feel numb.

I’m halfway through the mug when there’s an insistent ringing at my front door. I ignore it, but it turns into urgent knocking and goes on and on. When I finally go see who it is, I spy Mom through the peephole. The wine has made me reckless enough to want a confrontation with her, and I open the door.

“If you’re here to play the innocent victim, I’m not interested,” I tell her. There’s no way that Mom wasn’t the one who locked Laz up to keep him from Mia. She tried to coerce Mia into getting rid of the baby just to punish them both and ruin their happiness.

She pushes past me and walks into the living room. “My brothers are protective of me. I had no idea what they did to Laz or where they were keeping him all this time.”

She’s so full of it. I slam the door and follow her. “Mom, locking people away is your bad habit. I know that better than anyone.”

Mom’s eyes narrow, and too late, I realize that I’m slurring as I speak. “Rieta, have you been drinking?”

I tuck my hair behind my ear and shrug. “I had two glasses of wine last night. I was upset.”

Mom comes closer and sniffs. “Your breath smells like you’ve been drinking this morning.” She plucks my coffee mug off the table and examines the contents, which is clearly white wine.

I slump down on the sofa, hugging my knees to my chest. Mom can judge me all she wants. If I’m hurting anyone, it’s only myself.

“I told you that you were making a mistake before you married him,” Mom says, her voice riddled with satisfaction.

“No, you told me that we deserve each other.”

“It’s the same thing, darling. The man who bravely rescued you from the basement where your bad mother locked you away. Where is he now?”

I’m locked inside a deep hole of despair, just like I was in that basement, only this time Nero’s not coming to pull me out of the dark. I don’t know where that man has gone. Some days I wonder if he was even real.

“Have you seen Harriet? I can’t find her.” Annie’s voice is shaking on the other end of the phone line.

I sit up in bed, pushing my hair out of my eyes and trying to get my bearings. What time is it? Have I fallen asleep in the middle of the day again? It’s still light outside, so I must have.

“Harriet? No, I haven’t seen her. Is everything all right?”

Of course everything isn’t all right. What a stupid question.

“She was in our front garden. I thought she’d be safe in the front garden.” Annie’s house has a waist-high fence with a gate. There’s a pause, and then Annie says tearfully, “She got colored marker on the sofa, and I yelled at her. She went into the front garden while I cleaned the marker off, and when I went to look for her, she wasn’t there. I—I didn’t mean to get so angry.”

I can hear the remorse and despair in Annie’s voice. She’d suffer colored markers being drawn all over her house if it meant she could have her daughter back.

I get out of bed and head downstairs. “I’m getting in my car. I’ll drive around the neighborhood until I find her. You keep calling people. Maybe she went to a friend’s place.”

Annie immediately clutches at the straws I’ve offered. “Yes, a friend’s place. Thank you, Rieta. Call me if you find her.”

“Of course I will. She can’t be far. We’ll find her.”

I grab a Coke from the fridge and drink it quickly, hoping the caffeine chases away the alcohol in my system, and then I run to my car. I drive laps around the neighborhood, looking closely at every small figure I see. Harriet’s a good girl, but perhaps she ran a few blocks away because she was upset that Annie yelled at her over an accident. Maybe she needed some space.

With every minute that I don’t find her, my anxiety grows. I drive until it gets dark, and then head back to my street. There’s a police car outside Annie’s house. The front door is open, and I can see Annie tearfully talking to a police officer. Her husband, Jake, is standing outside, pacing up and down as he talks on the phone.

When he hangs up, I approach him. “You still haven’t heard anything from Harriet? I’ve been driving around looking for her.”

“We haven’t heard a thing. I don’t know what to do.” Jake’s expression is confused, and he seems frozen by desperation.

Apart from the single police car parked on our street, there isn’t anything out of the ordinary. Should there be more activity if a girl has gone missing?

“I can knock on our neighbors’ doors and ask if anyone saw anything,” I offer, and when Jake nods distractedly, I squeeze his arm and tell him, “We’ll find her.”

For the next few hours, I knock on doors, asking dozens of neighbors if they’ve seen Harriet and ask if they’re willing to join the search. Some make a lap or two of the block in their cars or on foot, others stand gossiping in the street.

Around nine in the evening, I see Nero’s car pass me on the way to our house. I don’t think he sees me, and he doesn’t stop. A light switches on inside our house. A minute passes, long enough for him to realize I’m not there, but he doesn’t call to find out if I’m all right. The sight of a police car parked on our street hasn’t made him worried about my safety.

I’m glad I saw that.

I needed to see that.

I turn my back to my husband and head for the next front door.

The hours are long, cold, and futile. More police cars arrive in the neighborhood. I ask one uniformed officer why an Amber Alert for Harriet hasn’t appeared on my phone yet, and he tells me that they can’t issue one unless they know she’s been abducted.

“But it’s been hours. Harriet wouldn’t stay away this long on purpose. She must have been taken.”

“I’m sorry, but we can’t.”

A day passes and Harriet doesn’t come home.

Three days.

A week.

Another week.

I thought that if a child goes missing, there would be some credible evidence of how it happened. A strange man spotted in the neighborhood. Someone who saw the nine-year-old walking by herself. A second or two of Harriet on someone’s security footage. Harriet has vanished without a trace.

Day by day, I watch Annie crumple before my eyes.

One evening, I sit exhausted at the dining table in front of the half-hearted meal I’ve put together. I can’t imagine what my friend must be going through. To carry a child in her body, to love and care for her day after day, only to lose her and not know why.

Nero sits down at the dinner table without a word, picks up his knife and fork, and begins to eat grilled chicken and salad. Finally, he notices me staring at him. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You have no idea, do you?”

He keeps eating. “No idea about what?”

“Next door. Harriet.”

“I don’t keep up with the local gossip. Is she getting a divorce?”

“It’s Annie, and no she’s not. Harriet is her daughter, and she’s gone missing. How could you not have noticed? There have been police on our street just about every day.”

“Teenagers run away sometimes.”

I slam my hand on the table. “She’s not a teenager. She’s nine. A child .”

Nero’s eyes narrow, and he lays down his knife and fork. “I sense you have grievances. Maybe you should tell me what they are instead of acting like a child yourself.”

I shake my head and stare at the wall. Employees have grievances. Customers have grievances.

My husband watches me silently. “Perhaps I could have been more attentive to you lately. Things are dangerous right now. I have enemies. There are things you have no idea about.”

“So tell me.”

“You don’t need to know. You don’t want to know.”

“You’re full of shit, Nero.”

He looks at me and then pointedly at my wine glass. Getting to his feet, he says, “Have another drink, Rieta.”

A moment later, he slams out of the house.

Somewhere around midnight, I finish the bottle of wine, and Nero still isn’t home.

“I want a divorce,” I mutter, saying it to the empty room. It feels liberating, so I say it even louder. “I want a divorce from my husband.”

Yes, that’s it, and now that I know what I want, I don’t want to wait a second longer. Staggering to my feet, I head for the garage. Distantly it occurs to me that I probably shouldn’t drive in the state that I’m in, but there are other, louder parts of my brain that don’t care.

I drive to several of Nero’s clubs, but the bouncers tell me that my husband isn’t there, and I don’t see his car. Several of the bouncers ask me if I’m all right, and I tell them that I’m just fine for the first time in months, in fact, I’m great , and that confuses them even more.

But I’m becoming frustrated. I try calling Nero, but his phone rings out. After a burst of inspiration, I drive to his office.

There are a few cars in the parking lot near his office, and one of them looks like Nero’s. I squint at the license plate. It’s Nero’s car.

“Ha.” I open the car door, get out, and slam it behind me, making my unsteady way toward the front door. I know Nero is in there.

This marriage ends tonight.

My head is pounding.

I groan, open my eyes, and close them again when I realize my bedroom is bathed in hideously bright morning light. I didn’t close the curtains before I fell into bed. Just how much wine did I drink?

I want to go on lying there feeling like crap, but my headache is steadily growing worse. I get out of bed and stumble into the bathroom for a painkiller, which I swallow down with water straight from the faucet.

Why are my clothes damp?

I go back to my bedroom and notice something startling about my bed. There’s blood all over my pillow. I put my hands to my face, and my forehead feels tender and crusted with something. Hurrying back to the bathroom, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and gasp.

There’s dark purple and red swelling above my right eye. Blood has dripped down my face and dried across my cheeks.

What the hell happened last night? I try to turn back through my memories, but I’m presented with…nothing. I can’t even remember what I did yesterday. Oh, my God, I have amnes—

A memory comes back to me. Things are dangerous right now. I have enemies.

I sigh with relief as I realize I do remember what I did yesterday. All right. I don’t have amnesia. Nero and I talked at dinner, and he made cryptic remarks about enemies.

Have another glass of wine, Rieta.

I wince as a wave of shame passes through me. Nero is aware my drinking is getting out of hand. The memory loss is because I was drunk last night when I…what?

Turning on the taps, I scoop cold water over my face, carefully wash the dried blood away, and bathe the lump on my forehead. I can cup it in my hand it’s so big. I need to put some ice on it. What are the signs of a concussion? I can’t remember.

As I straighten up, a snapshot from last night flashes over my mind. Me walking over dirt in the rain in near total darkness. The memory feels…frightening. When I look down at my feet, I see that they’re clean. I’m clean, though my clothes are damp, so perhaps I took a shower fully clothed. I suppose that after I showered, the cut on my forehead kept on bleeding.

I hunt for clues in my room for any sign of what happened last night, but nothing is amiss apart from a damp towel lying crumpled on the floor.

I take off my damp clothes, put on a dry robe and some large, fluffy socks for warmth and comfort, and then make my way through the house. Nero’s bedroom is deserted, and there aren’t any newly discarded clothes in his laundry hamper, so he didn’t come home last night. Downstairs, the only thing out of place is an open bottle of wine on the kitchen counter and a near-empty wine glass, but considering my queasy stomach and the way I’ve been spiraling lately, it’s not that out of place.

As I make coffee, I try to remember what happened after dinner. I think I went out. Why did I go out? Somehow, I was injured, and then I came home and took a shower wearing all my clothes, drank more wine, and passed out.

My skull throbs. I groan and rub my forehead but yelp when pain bursts through my tender flesh. This is a new low for me. I can’t go on like this or I’m going to make myself sick and ruin my life. I need to leave my husband.

I gasp and straighten up. That’s right, I went out because I wanted to tell my husband I want a divorce. Did I tell him?

I hold my breath, hoping for a memory of the encounter to surface.

Nothing. Goddamn it.

My handbag is on the floor by the garage door, and my phone is inside. There are no missed calls from Nero. No messages from him either. I hesitate, and then call him, wondering if I’ll be able to tell what we spoke about last night from his tone of voice and the way he greets me.

Nero doesn’t answer. I send him a text asking him to call me and put the phone down.

Maybe I was hurt before I managed to track him down. I could have been in a car accident.

I go into the garage and take a look at my car. No dents. No broken headlights or taillights. Okay, probably not a car accident.

Moving back into the kitchen, I sit quietly at the counter and sip my coffee. If I stay calm, then everything will be all right. The memories will surface, and I’ll understand what happened. What was I thinking, getting drunk and going out alone in my car? I’m lucky to have woken up this morning and not been found dead in a river or on a construction site. The minutes tick by, and I can remember nothing. My heart starts racing, and the sick feeling in my belly doubles.

No more drinking. I can’t live like this.

I spend the morning collecting everything alcoholic I can find in the kitchen, lounge, and master bedroom, and pour it down the sink. There’s quite a collection of empty bottles by the time I’m nearly done.

The front door opens and closes, and I hear the cheery greeting of Mrs. White, our cleaner who comes once a week. I call out a mumbled hello, concentrating on watching dregs of vodka disappear down the drain. I’m stronger than this misery. When the loneliness hits me tonight, I’ll ignore the cravings for alcoholic comfort and make good decisions from now on.

“Mrs. Lombardi, there’s blood in the hallway, and I noticed that in the garden…oh!” Mrs. White enters the kitchen, and I turn toward her, and her mouth drops open as she catches sight of my injured forehead. “Mrs. Lombardi, are you all right?”

“I had a strange night last night. I’m—I’m trying to do better.”

Mrs. White glances at all the empty bottles I’ve piled up next to the sink. Her lips firm into a line, and she nods sharply in approval, in a way that makes me wonder if even our cleaner was aware of my spiraling. “I will clean it all up. Don’t worry about anything. You’re doing better already, dear.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, fresh shame washing through me. I will remember Mrs. White’s belief in me the next time I feel myself longing for a glass of white wine.

When Mrs. White leaves a few hours later, I sink down onto the sofa, only planning to rest my eyes for a moment before calling our family doctor.

When I open them again, it’s dark outside.

I sit up with a start. I shouldn’t have slept the day away. That probably wasn’t the right thing to do if I possibly have a concussion, but I suppose it’s too late to worry about that now. My head isn’t hurting anymore, and I feel refreshed, so I suppose I’m all right. If I call the doctor, I’ll have to explain to him about my drinking and burn with shame all over again as he judges me with those piercing, chilly blue eyes of his.

There are still no calls from Nero on my phone, and he hasn’t read my message. That’s strange. He’s not an attentive husband, but he always calls me back. Could this mean I did confront him last night and tell him I want a divorce? It would explain why he’s not here and he’s ignoring me. Maybe it’s a blessing that I don’t remember how that conversation went.

I make myself a simple dinner of things I scrounge out of the fridge and pantry. Some hot salami. Cheese. Crackers. Slices of red peppers. Cucumber dip. The craving for a glass of wine brushes the edges of my mind, but instead, I drink two huge glasses of sparkling water and go to bed.

The next morning, I wake up to a silent house. Nero’s bedroom is just as it was yesterday, and there’s no sign that he’s come home. When I call his phone, this time it goes straight to voicemail. Unease trickles through my belly. Something doesn’t feel right. Nero should be here, telling me I’m an ungrateful, spiteful bitch. Or his lawyers should be serving me with divorce papers, ordering me out of the house, and reminding me coldly that because I signed a prenup, I get nothing.

Something should be happening.

The last place I saw Nero was at home, but the last sign of him was his car parked outside his office. I’m pretty sure I can trust that memory as it’s the last thing I remember before blacking out.

Not knowing what else to do, I drive to his office. Nero’s car isn’t there. I go inside and speak with several people who work for him. They’re concerned as well because if Nero’s busy elsewhere or goes on a trip, he tells them. Maybe not straight away, but at least within twenty-four hours. None of them saw his car parked here yesterday, and no one was here in the small hours the night previously.

I scroll through my phone contacts until I reach Mom. I’m furious with her because of her cruelty toward Laz and Mia, but I don’t know who else to talk to, and she’s happy to get involved with other people’s crises.

After just two rings, she picks up. “Hello, Rieta. Are you still throwing yourself a pity party?”

“Mom, I can’t find Nero.”

A pause, and then in a different tone of voice, she asks, “When did you last see him?”

“The night before last night. We ate dinner together, then he went to his office, and I haven’t seen him since. Or at least, I don’t think I did.”

“Rieta, what are you talking about?” she asks impatiently. “Did you see him or didn’t you?”

“I think I told him I want a divorce. I followed him to his office, but I can’t remember if we spoke.”

“Were you drunk?”

No excuses or minimizing. No lies. “Yes, I was drunk. I had a whole bottle of wine, and I think I had more when I got home. I’ve been drinking way too much. I have a problem.”

“Oh, Rieta,” Mom says with a scornful sigh.

“I blacked out, or I was knocked out. There’s a lump on my forehead. I hit my head on something.”

“You hit your head, or someone hit you?”

That’s a good question. I try and scrounge up even a shred of a memory from when I was hurt, but I have nothing. “I don’t remember. I don’t know what to do. This isn’t like Nero.”

“What should you do?”

“I have no idea. Nero could be doing God knows what with any number of different people, and he’s too distracted or angry to tell me about it.”

“No, Rieta. Think. What does a wife do when she can’t find her husband?”

An ordinary wife, Mom means. Not the wife of a criminal. “She reports him missing to the police.”

“So do it,” Mom says crisply. “If Nero returns meantime, you can tell the police you found him. No harm done.”

I can feel that she’s about to hang up, but there are still so many worries laying heavily on my chest. “Nero said something about enemies. What if he’s been assassinated?”

“Rieta. We do not talk this way on the phone.”

If your husband is involved in crime, you always have to assume your phones are tapped. Plenty of men have been undone by their wives speaking too freely. “I know, but please just reassure me.”

There are a few beats of silence. “There’s no use in Mommy telling you everything will be all right, but if you insist, fine. Nero may have gone to ground, for his own safety and yours. He’ll come back when he’s able to come back. Now, call the police and report your husband missing. But, Rieta,” she says sharply. “You don’t know where he’s gone or why. He said or did nothing suspicious. All right?”

Don’t breathe a word that Nero’s businesses aren’t totally legal. Don’t tell the police that he was worried about enemies. If I conceal all that, the police won’t have the full picture about my potentially missing husband, which means they probably won’t be able to find him. But I’ll have done everything that’s expected of me.

“All right. Bye, Mom.”

I hang up and call the police. They’re not very interested in Nero’s disappearance. A healthy, grown man who’s been gone for just over a day isn’t a high priority. When they ask if my marriage is a happy one, I can’t manage to sound very convincing, and their scant interest vanishes. Still, the report is filed. Dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin, six-foot-three, thirty-two years old. I’m told that they’ll look into it, and they’ll be in touch, but right now they’re busy searching for a missing nine-year-old girl. It’s obvious who the police believe is more deserving of their attention and resources, and in my heart of hearts, I agree with them.

Over the following days, I suffer from debilitating headaches. It could be alcohol withdrawal, or it could be the bump on my head. Maybe I damaged my brain. That thought scares me enough to make an appointment with the family doctor, and when I see him, he scolds me for neglecting to see him sooner.

After a checkup and being told that I may have a minor concussion and need plenty of rest, Doctor Levine asks with a smile, “Did Mr. Lombardi drive you here? I hope you didn’t drive yourself.”

“My husband has disappeared.”

Doctor Levine stares at me, the bright white office lights glinting off his spectacles. “But where is he?”

“I don’t know. That’s what it means when someone disappears.”

“Have you reported him missing to the police?”

“Of course, but they blew me off. I don’t know what else to do.”

The doctor thinks for a moment. “Mr. Lombardi doesn’t have any family. He could be with friends—”

“I don’t think he has any friends. Only business associates, and I don’t know how to contact them. I presume he has a lawyer or an accountant to whom he regularly speaks, and I’m waiting for them to contact me.”

“Do you know where his office is?”

Don’t go there , a voice in the back of my mind screams. Bad things will happen to you there.

“Um…not really.” Why don’t I want to go there? Why this sense of foreboding? I reach up and touch the bruise on my forehead, wondering if that’s where I hit my head. I take a shaky breath. “Nero will come back when he’s ready. I think I did something to make him angry, and he’s punishing me. But there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been drinking too much lately, and I’m worried about my future fertility.”

“How much have you been drinking?”

I tell him honestly, and there’s a flicker of shock in his eyes. “That’s… You should cut back. To nothing, or almost nothing at the very least. You’re young and relatively healthy, so as long as you learn to manage your problem now, it won’t have any long-term adverse effects on your fertility. I can recommend a discreet rehabilitation facility if you feel you need additional support.” He adds, almost as an afterthought, “And when you’re ready to start trying, Mr. Lombardi can return to the urologist and have his vasectomy reversed at any time.”

A cold sensation washes over me. “His…what?”

The doctor’s polite smile vanishes. “Mr. Lombardi’s vasectomy.”

“But we’ve been trying for a baby for months.”

The doctor pushes his spectacles up his nose. “Mr. Lombardi implied that you knew. I deeply apologize for speaking out of turn.”

My hands clench in my lap and my head throbs. “When did he have this vasectomy?”

Doctor Levine hesitates and taps a few keys on his computer. “It was July last year. That’s all I can tell you, Mrs. Lombardi. I’ve already said too much that breaks my patient’s privacy.”

I sit back hard in my chair. July last year. Just after we returned from our honeymoon. Nero decided right away, in private, that starting a family with me was the last thing he wanted, yet he told me to track my cycle and made me endure a degrading monthly ritual in which he screwed me without desire, emotion, or even kindness. He made me hope for a pregnancy that was never going to happen.

I try to stand up from the chair, but my knees buckle, and I sit back down, dissolving into helpless, humiliating tears.

What was the point? I want to scream at Nero. Why has your every action since our wedding been calculated to inflict me with the most pain? What did I ever do to you?

“Mrs. Lombardi, I can see that you’re in acute distress over your husband’s disappearance. Allow me to prescribe you a sedative so that you can get some sleep.”

The doctor turns to his keyboard, but I hold out a hand and stop him. “No, please. I don’t want drugs, alcohol, anything. All this time I’ve been trying to get rid of the pain, but I’d rather feel it because at least it’s the truth.” I wipe away my tears and stand up. “Thank you for everything, Doctor.”

My heart is full of devastation, but I’m not going to numb it with alcohol or anything else. I will pull the pain out by the roots. Nero’s done me a favor. He’s killed the last of my love for him, and all that’s left for me to do is move on without him.