Page 13 of Virtuous Lies
Shock slices through me. “I didn’t pick that.”
“Fuck knows who is fucking that scary-ass motherfucker for free, but she must be some kind of sadist.”
I let the way her long fingers run through my hair loosen the tension in my body as she shampoos it. She looks thoughtful.
“Caterina has now been promised to Salvatore.”
“They’re moving Cat to Chicago?Fuck.”
“My father told her this morning. She seems calm about it,” I say.
Trix nods. “Like I told you,” she says, “Salvatore is a total player, but with the sheer amount of pussy he keeps on the side, she probably won’t have to warm his bed too often.”
I breathe a sigh of relief for my sister.
Trixie’s fingers work their way over my scalp, massaging conditioner into my hair. I close my eyes, enjoying the feeling. Pretending as though my life isn’t about to come to a crashing halt.
“Did he give you a ring?”
I lift my hand, twisting the diamond back around to show her the ridiculously large rock.
She whistles. “Guy has decent taste.”
I shrug.
“Where is the wedding?”
“At home.”
Her hands stop. “What the fuck?”
“Because I’ve dishonored the family, it’ll be a small affair. A simple business transaction involving a priest who’ll authorize the execution of my soul.”
“Babe,” she says.
“It’s okay. We always knew this would happen. You can’t pick your family.”
“True that, baby. True that.”
“How’s the new trainee going?” I ask.
She lifts a single shoulder. “She’s all right. She has no fucking idea what she’s gotten herself into. She flirts with every fucking mafioso who comes in the door. Poor thing is dead set on breaking her own heart.”
We walk back to the salon chair, and I take my seat.
“Tony and I had another fight.”
I want to shake her. Speaking about being dead set on breaking her own heart, Trixie Madden is hopelessly in love with my brother. A man who will never have permission to marry her. “Trix.”
“I know.” She plugs in her blow dryer. “You know he fucked Amity?”
“What?”
She shakes her head, dryer tucked under her armpit as she sections my hair.
She’s quiet for a time, her focus on the round brush she uses to dry my hair. Switching off the dryer, she sighs. “I couldn’t believe it. I just wanted him to stay the night. He refused me, obviously. Who wants to spend the night with a whore?”
My heart aches for her. She doesn’t hate her occupation—it gives her the freedom to live the way she wants to—but I see the regret in her eyes sometimes. The truth is, whether she’s paid to fuck people or not, Antonio will never be hers. She’s not Italian; she’s not a part of the family the way she needs to be.