Old Flame: Dante’s Story by Sam Mariano
9
Colette
Dante doesn’t return homeuntil late that night, and when he comes in, I pretend to be asleep so I don’t have to talk to him. I’m so lost in my misery, it doesn’t even occur to me what day it must be until Dante comes in the following afternoon, throws open my walk-in closet door, and steps inside. He emerges with a black dress in one hand and a pair of heels in the other hand.
Meeting my gaze, he dangles the outfit and says, “Time for you to shower and get dressed.”
“Why?” I ask, not moving from my corner of the bed.
He sighs, looking no more excited than I am for whatever this is. Then my stomach drops when he finally answers, “Family dinner night.”
Family dinner night. My blood runs cold as memories of the last one I attended wash over me, finding my friend dead and Mateo traumatized—or, so I imagined.
“At your brother’s house?” I ask, even though the answer is clear. I push myself up and move my legs over the side of the bed. “I have to go to that? Can’t you go by yourself? I don’t want to see him.”
“Neither do I,” he answers dryly.
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Once upon a time,I felt pleasure when we pulled through the gates to Mateo’s house. I enjoyed the sense of family, even if this particular family is stuck in time with their somewhat archaic practices. Sunday means I’ll spend the whole evening cooking and serving my man while the men drink and talk shop—or whatever it is they talk about—in massive wing chairs in Mateo’s study.
When Beth first started seeing Mateo, she found it all charming and kind of fun. A chance to play dress-up—she always embraced it and went all out, red lipstick and pearls—and serve her man. Then, as she didn’t really want him to be her man anymore, the charm wore off and it became a chore.
Tonight, I get it. I’d rather stab Dante than serve him dinner, but I don’t know what will happen if I refuse. Given his sensitivity to Mateo when I’m around, I imagine rejecting Dante in front of Mateo would lead to a fit of rage the likes of which I probably haven’t seen before. It probably wouldn’t be worth it… but maybe.
Dante lightly grips my wrist and tugs me into his side as we walk in the door. Keeping his voice low, he murmurs, “This should go without saying, but behave yourself tonight.”
“I’m not a child,” I chide, trying—and failing—to yank my wrist from his grasp.
Grip tightening, he says, “Then don’t act like one. This is the only warning you get, Colette. Try to make me look like an asshole, and you’ll damn sure get one. I won’t put up with any shit tonight. Not here. Not in front of him.”
“Then you should have brought a willing date,” I state, narrowing my eyes and finally looking at him.
Lifting a dark eyebrow in warning, he tells me, “Piss me off and you’ll pay for it later.”
His words shouldn’t send a trail of heat through my core, but they do. I shake it off and do my best to install a wall of ice around myself. I don’t want to be here and I won’t pretend otherwise. I don’t give a damn about pleasing Dante. I don’t care if I piss him off. He’s pissed me off. What about my wrath? That doesn’t count?
Besides, if I embarrass him in front of Mateo, it’s his own damn fault. He should have known better than to drag me here tonight.
When we used to come to these, we would meet Mateo and Beth in his study or here in the foyer, but tonight Dante sends me to the kitchen without so much as a glimpse of Mateo.
In the kitchen, I hope to find Dante’s younger sister, Francesca. I had hoped she would be here so I would have someone to talk to, but instead I find a chummy pair of blue-eyed blondes, both young and alert to the new girl sliding into their fold. Dante told me in the car on the way here I don’t need to make friends with either of them, so I don’t try to. If we have to do this every week, it would be easier if we all got along, but I don’t want to attach to another soon-to-be dead girl.
Instead, I keep to myself and pound glass after glass of wine like a deflated housewife at the end of a hard day.
