His Heart Begged, His Hands Destroyed
At another Sunday dinner at the Bellandi estate, Luca Bellandi's assistant, Ava Marino, was sitting in my seat.
It was the first chair to Luca's right at the long walnut table, the seat everyone in Chicago's underworld knew belonged to Mrs. Bellandi. Ava sat there as if she had been born into it, her pale wrist brushing Luca's sleeve while she poured his wine.
I stood in the doorway and looked at him. "She's in my seat. You don't have anything to say?"
Luca raised his eyes. "You were late. Don't blame someone else for sitting down first. There are empty chairs over there. Sit if you want. If not, get out."
The dining room went dead quiet, and before I could answer, his thoughts slipped into my ears.
[Vivi, don't go. Come sit beside me. Tell them it's your seat. Tell me you still want to be my wife.]
[Please get mad. Please care. Say you need me, and I'll give you the whole world.]
In the past, those soft, trembling thoughts would have been enough. I would've swallowed the insult and stayed beside him like a loyal dog that didn't know when to leave.
This time, I didn't. I slipped the wedding ring off my finger and laid it on the table.
"If the Bellandi family can't even keep a wife's seat for me, then I guess this family doesn't need a wife anymore. Luca, let's get divorced."