A Virgin's sinful yearnings

The rain had stopped.

Odette Davenport stood at the mouth of the Moretti estate's private cemetery, her black coat hugging her body tightly, the wind seeping under the hem of her dress and running over her skin. Her boots sank little into the wet earth as she watched her husband's coffin being lowered into the earth.

Salvatore Moretti was gone.

Three nights ago, she had found him facedown in the living room.

Blood beneath his head.

Three bullets in the skull.

Her fingers trembled from cold, as she tucked her hands into her coat pockets, willing her breath to steady.

You should be consumed by sorrow for his passing.

That’s what she told herself countless times.

But instead, a voice in the back of her mind says something entirely different—something she dared not say aloud.

You’re free now, Odette.

She flinched at the thought.

Salvatore Moretti had been the ideal son, in the family's eyes—courteous, calm, a gentleman. But at home, he had been ruthless. When he hit her, it was out of nowhere and with finesse. A black eye to the face. A slash that she had to hide. He never apologized. Never met her gaze afterward.

They had never been together. Not ever.

And yet, she had tried it. God forgive her, she had tried it. She remembered a moment standing in the kitchen, fidgeting with her hands, asking Penelope how to please a man. Hoping that if she was good enough—he would stop hating her.

He hadn't.

He had just hurt her pride with words keener than any slap.

"You think wearing clothes like that makes you desirable?"

"Don't be such a pitiful-looking thing the next time. It's pathetic."

And yet, she'd stayed. For there'd been no place else to go.

And now that she stood before his grave. The stillness that enveloped her was more deafening than any of the taunts he ever made.

Odette shifted her weight her foot sinking into the mud as a car pulled up behind her.

She turned a little—her breath instantly fading from her longs along with the chill which had been making her dizzy seconds ago.

Nico Moretti.

Salvatore's younger brother.

He hadn't been back home in five years. Not since the engagement had been announced.

He was taller now, she could tell the instant he neared them. His wiry frame of earlier filled out with muscle. His shoulders were broader, his movements more fluid.

His jaw was more defined than she remembered, while the sharp angles of his face more mature, and chiseled. The dark hair that used to fall neatly was longer and, slightly mussed, falling just beneath his collar.

And his eyes—that very same unmistakable green—roved the cemetery and landed on her briefly.

He walked past her quietly.

As she caught a scent of what he employed—something new, cool, and fresh. It struck her instantly, burrowing in her breast, and she blushed even in the cold.

She adjusted herself to one side, catching a look back over her shoulder.

but the cold expression on his face froze her sending shivers traveling down her spine. The Nico she knew—the unobtrusive boy who used to bring her brown cookies from the kitchen—might be gone.

He stepped forward to stand with his grieving father, placing a hand onto the man's shoulder. 

Odette breathed in deeply, her gaze locked on him.

A short time after, the other mourners—and the large Moretti family—began to wander towards the queue of waiting black cars.

“Ma'am, it’s time to head back." Penelope said gently, her voice breaking through the haze of Odette’s gaze. 

Odette spun around to look at her maid. Penelope freckles stood out against her pale face, and her hair had been quickly pulled back into a slovenly bun, tendrils escaping at the temples. She was tired, and yet still hadn't left Odette's bedside since Salvatore's death.

More than a maid, Penelope had been her constant. Her only solace in this house.

Odette nodded faintly. "Yes," she said. "Let's go."

But as she took one last look in the direction of the waiting cars, her eyes landed once again on Nico. He was helping his father into the back seat of one of the cars, saying something quietly as the older man sat down.

"Watch your step." Nico grunted. 

Mr. Moretti laid a trembly hand on his younger son's shoulder and nodded. And then, as if he'd sensed her eyes, Nico's head lifted. Their eyes meeting, for an heartbeat.

But that was all it took, Odette quickly looked away. Her chest tightening. She heard him follow after his father the door slamming shortly behind him. 

Odette turns her eyes meeting Penelope. 

"Please." she says accompanying Penelope away from their car, her boots in the muddy mire.

But they had not had a chance to get far when a faint voice called out behind them.

"Odette, my dear."

Odette glimpsed. Nonna—Salvatore's grandmother, advancing toward her, she was wearing a black lace veil hiding her silver hair. She leaned on her cane. And behind her stood two of Salvatore's young cousins.

Odette rushed toward her, bobbing her head in respect. "Nonna."

The gloved hand of the old woman extended, as she clasped Odette's in both of her own. Nonna's eyes became wet. 

"Oh, child, I'm so sorry for your loss."

Odette's throat tightened. "Thank you, Nonna."

The older woman gave her hand a small squeeze, then drew back just enough to let her gaze move down to Odette’s midsection. She frowned slightly, then lifted one frail, gloved hand and pressed it gently to Odette’s stomach. Odette froze.

"You’ve put on a little weight child,” Nonna said softly, her eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Or maybe it’s the coat. Hard to tell under all that black. You're not. expecting, are you, dear?" she breathed. 

"Salvatore never said anything, but I always hoped. For a little Moretti heir."

Odette's breath caught. Her body tensed before she shook her head.

"No Nonna, I'm not with child."

Nonna's face sagged ever so slightly.

"Pity," she said softly. "You would have been a lovely mother." She moved back with a little sigh, wiping at the corners of her eyes with the hem of her lace glove.

"Stop by the house soon. We'll have tea. You shouldn't be alone too frequently."

Odette smiled tightly. "That's very kind, Nonna. I will."

The old lady nodded in approval, then turns back.

"Girls, come along. This chill will kill me faster than time would have." Odette stood still, watching her get into her car.

Then moved to do the same to hers—only to stop in her tracks, as a figure moved into view.

Odelyn.

Her older sister was standing beside one of the moretti's black vehicle, She was wearing black like the rest of them, and managed to have gained some weight. 

They hadn't really spoken since Salvatore's passing.

But if she was honest with herself…

They had not spoken really since the day Mr. Moretti made the announcement.

At first, Odette had assumed her sister's chilliness was due to grief. The pain of being separated from her. But as the days passed, it became clear—there was more to it.

Disappointment. Resentment. Jealousy.

Odette wanted to say something. Anything.

Yet the words jammed in her throat.

Odelyn was the first to break eye contact and get into the vehicle. The door shutting quickly.

Odette's hands tightened at the hem of her coat.

She didn't know how to go back to the way things were, and she wasn't sure they ever could.

She turned to her own car once more. But before getting in, her eyes made one last journey to the cemetery gates.

She shook off the chill that came with staring at it and climbed into the back seat, the door shutting with a soft thud behind her.

Odette tucked herself tightly into the back seat as the driver led them home. 

A few minutes later, they returned to the mansion. Penelope promptly removed Odette’s mud-stained boots to prevent dirt from being tracked through the house and offered her a pair of indoor shoes in their place.

Odette accepted them with a nod, her eyes discreetly scanning the entrance hall.

But Nico was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll draw your bath,” Penelope offered gently.

“Yes, thank you,” Odette murmured, moving ahead slowly.

But as she passed the hallway near Mr. Moretti’s bedroom the sound of her name brought her to an halt.

She quickly pressed herself against the door. 

".....Odette was the sole occupant of the house at the time of Salvatore's shooting, Father? Does the household ever lack supervision or occupancy?"Nico asked. 

She heard Mr Moretti sigh deeply.

"I have already explained everything to you, son. Must you continue pressing with these questions?

Salvatore returned home that day in a rage. He demanded the entire household be cleared—insisted that every member of the staff take leave, without exception. He did not want anyone present. That was his choice. You are well aware of this."

There was a pause before Mr Moretti spoke up again.

“You've been arranged to marry.”

Odette stiffened.

"You've arranged my marriage," Nico's come out next cold.

"The Santoro girl, yes," Mr. Moretti said. "It's a smart match."

She heard Nico's voice next, but before she could make out what he was saying, Penelope’s hand came around hers.

“We can't be caught listening, ma'am,” she uttered quietly. 

Odette nodded and allowed herself to be pulled away.

She had heard of Mirella Santoro, from Salvatore. Mirella was every man's dream—beautiful, educated, refined.

All those things Odette had never been.

She should be happy for Nico, but she did not know why it hurt. 

Just as they turned the corner, the door behind them opened.

Nico stepped out, his face grim, his forehead furrowed. He did not notice her at first—until his shoulder bumped against hers, hard.

Odette gaps stumbling forward. His hand shot out and caught her around the waist.

She froze, her back to his chest, while his breath whispered against her neck

"What are you doing here Odette?" 

She turns her head slowly, her gaze meeting his over her shoulder.