Chapter 2 - The Softness of Home
By seven o’clock that evening, the heavy weight of the unexpressed truth drove me out of the office and into the heart of the house. I walked quietly down the corridor and pushed open the kitchen doors.
Clare stood by the stove in faded denim jeans and one of my old, oversized white dress shirts, the sleeves haphazardly rolled up to her elbows, exposing her soft forearms. Her thick, dark curls were piled carelessly on top of her head in a messy knot, secured with a stray pen.
She looked breathtaking. In the polished, designer black dresses she wore to formal syndicate charity dinners, she was the epitome of untouchable elegance. But to me, she was infinitely more beautiful right here, in the quiet warmth of our kitchen.
Soft.
Curvy.
Comfortable.
Home.
She glanced up at the antique wall clock, her dark eyes widening slightly in surprise. “You’re home.”
“I am,” I replied, leaning against the doorframe.
“Before midnight?”
“Yes.”
She turned around fully, wiping her hands on a dish towel and studying me with an intensity that made me feel completely transparent. “Did somebody die?”
I pushed off the frame and walked further into the room. “No.”
“Did you lose a business contract?”
“No.”
“Are you hiding from an assassin or running from a federal raid?”
“No.”
Clare narrowed her dark eyes, tilting her head. “Then I’m seriously worried. Should I check your temperature?”
A faint, rare smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “I can leave again if my presence is inconvenient.”
“Sit down at the island,” she ordered, pointing a wooden spoon at a barstool.
I did as I was told without a single argument.
She turned back to the steaming stove, stirring a heavy pot of homemade marinara sauce. “I made pasta.”
“I’d like some,” I said quietly.
Clare froze instantly. The wooden spoon hovered halfway between the pot and the counter, her shoulders stiffening under my old white shirt.
I frowned, leaning forward. “What?”
She slowly turned back to face me, her expression a mix of disbelief and guarded suspicion. “You... you want dinner? Actual home-cooked food? From me?”
“You’re my wife, Clare. Wanting to eat dinner with you shouldn't feel like a foreign concept.”
“Could have fooled me,” she muttered under her breath, turning off the burner. She scooped a generous portion of pasta onto a ceramic plate and set it down in front of me with a soft clatter, sliding a fork beside it. But instead of sitting across from me, she leaned against the opposite counter, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching me like a hawk guarding its nest.
I took a slow bite, the rich garlic and basil flavor hitting my tongue. It was incredible, just like everything she made. But the heavy, unbreached chasm between us hung in the air like smoke.
“You’ve been distant for months, Clare,” I said softly, setting my fork down and looking straight into her eyes.
She flinched as if I had struck her, her jaw tightening. “Distant? Vincent, look who’s talking. You live at your warehouses, you sleep three hours a night, and when you are home, you look at me like you’re trying to memorize my face before an execution.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me from what? From my own life?” she snapped, her voice rising with sudden, pent-up frustration. “From walking into a room where my husband treats me like a fragile piece of porcelain that might break if the wind blows too hard?”
“From my enemies,” I countered, my voice dropping an octave, carrying the dark authority that usually made grown men tremble. “From the federal investigations closing in on the shipping lanes. From men like Moretti’s rivals who would slice your throat just to send me a message.”
Clare pushed off the counter, stepping closer until she was standing right beside my stool. Her eyes flashed with hot, fiery tears that she refused to let fall. “Do you think I didn't know who you were when I married you, Vincent? Do you think I walked into this house thinking you were an insurance salesman? I knew the blood on your hands. I knew the danger in your name. And I accepted every single bit of it because I loved the man beneath the scars.”
Her words hit me like a physical blow to the chest.
May you like
“Then why were you meeting with Daniel Warren?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it, sharp and pointed.
Clare stopped breathing. The color drained entirely from her face.
