Page 56 of Enzo
“Ten Ways to Murder Your Husband.”
I let out a sardonic breath. “Funny.”
This wasn’t going the way I’d envisioned at all.
“For me.” She finally looked up to glare at me. “For you, not so much.”
Jesus Christ.Was marriage supposed to be this tense?
“How about we go sightseeing?”
“No, thank you.”
My jaw clenched and I ground my molars so hard the sound filled the space between us.
“Get your ass up, Penelope,” I gritted. “I’m showing you Naples if it’s the last thing I do.”
She let out an exasperated breath but stood up before locking eyes with me.
“One can only hope.”
Then she strutted into the house, swaying her hips.
“Santa Maria, you and Amadeo will get along well,” I grumbled when she stopped in front of another gelateria. “Neither of you can seem to get enough.”
She ignored me, then licked her tutti frutti gelato slowly. My dick instantly stirred, projecting images in my mind that hovered near R-rated.
“Maybe I should have married him,” she noted wryly.
“I’d kill him first.” My blood pulsed in my ears. “You belong to me, Penelope.”
She sighed, a pinched expression contorting her beautiful face. “You and your macho, alpha-male issues are seriously disturbing.”
“I don’t have issues.”
She shrugged. “If you say so.”
We resumed walking while she licked the creamy treat. She looked beautiful, wearing soft pastels. Her skirt was light pink, and she wore a light-yellow crewneck shirt that matched her socks and Mary Janes. Come to think of it, she looked like ice cream herself, and it would probably be the only kind I’d consider eating.
Fuck, thoughts like that weren’t helping my dick at all.
“What else would you like to see?” I asked, trying to distract myself.
We’d visited Underground Naples, Lungomare Caracciolo, Museo Cappella Sansevero, and a total of six ice cream shops. My wife was determined to taste them all.
“Well, I didn’t want to see any of it,” she reminded me. “However, since we’re out here already, can we visit Via SanGregorio Armeno? I hear the narrow streets are full of artisan workshops. I want to find a gift for Amara.”
“Sure. Is there a specific thing she likes?”
She shrugged. “Something with the nativity scene. Her dream is to get one from Milan, but I’m sure she won’t refuse one from here.”
“That’s an odd thing for an eleven-year-old to want,” I remarked, hoping she’d open up a little more about her sister’s illness.
She glanced back at Giulio, who was following us at a discreet distance, then grumbled, “Yeah, whatever.”
I wanted to help, even if that meant listening while she aired her troubles, but my wife was a tough nut to crack.
“You know, you can trust me.”
