Serena was sitting on my husband’s lap, laughing as she pressed a kiss to his lips. “I don’t think Valentina will file for divorce. She’s a parasite—she wouldn’t dare.” Lorenzo raised an eyebrow, stubbed out his cigar, then suddenly pulled her in for a deep kiss. I stood just outside the door, shaking all over. It hit me then—they’d called me here on purpose. They wanted to see my reaction. But I was even more pathetic than they imagined. I couldn’t even bring myself to walk in. Instead, I made a phone call. To Serena’s husband. “Serena’s drunk. She’s at the Triumph Club. You should come get her.” Alessandro Greco—a man who’d once gone to prison for slashing someone in broad daylight. He should be braver than me. “Who’s she drinking with?” His voice carried a cold edge. “Friends. All men. You’d better get here fast.” Alessandro said okay. Said he’d be right there. I hung up and turned to leave. Serena had once bragged to me: “Alessandro looks like a pushover, but he nearly killed a man for me once.” “And ever since, he never goes anywhere without his knife.” I’d barely reached the club entrance when my phone rang. Lorenzo. His tone was casual, lazy. “You’re already here, aren’t you.” I moved my lips but said nothing. He continued: “The doorman said you stood outside watching for a while. Heard everything?” I let out a quiet “Mm.” Lorenzo laughed. “Pathetic.” He was right. Everyone knew I was pathetic. Back in school, all I ever did was trail behind Lorenzo. If he hadn’t looked out for me, I might not have even finished university. “Don’t tell me you didn’t even dare come inside?” “Playing ostrich isn’t much fun, you know.” People were egging him on in the background, their laughter shameless and unbridled. Then Serena chimed in, all smiles: “If I’d known you were this afraid of losing him, we wouldn’t have bothered hiding it from you.” “Though I have to say, doing it behind your back—what a rush.” “Your husband—I’ve had a taste on your behalf. Excellent in every department.” “So I’ll just be keeping him, okay?” “Serena, if you keep going, she’s going to cry.” “Lorenzo, aren’t you going to comfort her?” This time it was Lorenzo, uncharacteristically serious: “Cut it out. If she cries later, I’ll have to deal with it.” “Valentina’s not like you—she’s much easier to soothe. Don’t bully her.” Then he took the phone back, and his voice became clearer: “Where are you? I’ll come find you. It’s hard to get a cab around here.” I looked down the corridor. I saw him holding up his phone, freezing for a moment when he spotted me, then hanging up. The expression on Lorenzo’s face was one of satisfaction—even a flicker of cruel enjoyment. He walked over, ruffled my hair carelessly: “She’s not like you. You’re the legitimate Mrs. Rossi—what are you crying for?” “Relax, I’m not going to divorce you.” But just then, Serena stumbled out, one hand pressed to her forehead. She staggered with precision, colliding right into Lorenzo’s arms. Lorenzo immediately wrapped his arm around her waist, his palm flat against her bare skin. Serena tilted her head against his chest, lifted her eyelids, and glanced at me: “Lorenzo, my head hurts. They were forcing drinks on me in there.” “Take me back. Valentina already knows anyway—there’s no point hiding it anymore.” “She won’t mind. Right?” On those last two words, she looked straight at me. The challenge in her eyes was brazen. Just then, a message from Alessandro appeared on my phone, asking for the club’s address. I sent him the location. After sending it, I looked up and fixed my gaze on Lorenzo: “What if I do mind?” Lorenzo’s face softened with something like reluctance. He tried to push her away. But Serena clung to him like wet clay. “We’ve already done it so many times. What’s with the gentleman act now?” She laughed and cursed, then turned to me: “Didn’t you say it yourself? That Valentina’s like a dead fish in bed—no fun at all!” Lorenzo shot me a nervous glance: “That was just a joke. I was just playing along with her.” My nails dug into my palms. I let out a thin, weightless “Oh.” “Then let me go with you to drop her off.” “What did you just say?” Serena asked in disbelief. I lifted my head and looked at them both steadily: “You have a headache, don’t you? Lorenzo and I will take you back.” I pulled her firmly toward me, forcing her to lean against my shoulder instead. Lorenzo froze for a moment at my gesture, then seemed almost amused. He reached over and tapped the tip of my nose: “Oh? Finally willing to get jealous? A little temper looks good on you.” His gestures and words were intimate, as if nothing had happened at all. It made my skin crawl—but I let nothing show. In high school, I’d been cornered in the bathroom by the school bully’s girlfriend, who shredded my clothes with scissors. I’d worn this same expression then, too. It was Lorenzo who warned that girl off for me. At the time, he’d frowned at me for a long while, then pulled off his school jacket and draped it over my shoulders: “You should have more of a backbone.” Later, that girl never came back to school. Lorenzo assumed it was because of him. He never knew it was because I’d made sure her father found out about what was going on between her and the bully’s dad. I was happy to let Lorenzo play the hero. So I never told him the truth.
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