Page 24 of Luca
She goes through the family photos in the living room, studying each one carefully. My childhood pictures, shots of my parents, family gatherings. As if she's trying to understand my history, my relationships.
In the kitchen, she talks to Rosa while examining our espresso machine, our wine collection, asking about my preferences. What I like for breakfast, whether I have any food allergies, how I take my coffee.
Normal wife stuff.
Except Sofia never asked about any of this during our two-year engagement.
When she gets to the guest bathroom, she goes through my grooming supplies. Not searching for anything specific. Testing my aftershave, examining my razor, checking what brand of toothpaste I use.
It's intimate in a way that should be normal between married couples, but feels strange coming from someone who barely made eye contact with me a week ago.
The basement office she can't access. There are too many locked doors with different lock mechanisms. But she doesn't seem frustrated by this. Just accepts it and moves on.
By noon, she's made her way upstairs to our bedroom. She goes straight to my side of the bed, picks up the book I'm reading, flips through it and puts it back.
She opens my nightstand drawer. Again, not searching, just looking. There's nothing sensitive in there, reading glasses, some antacids, a bottle of aspirin. A box of condoms she opens and curiously counts. She’s examining everything like she's building a picture of who I am.
None of this is criminal. None of it is even suspicious, except for the whiskey.
It’s the behavior of someone who's genuinely interested in me.
Except in two years, she never showed this kind of curiosity about my life.
I've seen enough.
Instead of confronting her, I head to my car and drive around the block. I need to think about this logically.
Because what I watched doesn't look like espionage. It looks like a woman trying to understand her new husband.
If Sofia's changed this much, why? What happened to turn a shy, nervous art dealer's daughter into someone who picks locks and knows good whiskey?
And why is she suddenly so interested in getting to know me personally now?
Maybe I wasn't paying attention. Maybe I was so focused on the business arrangement that I missed who she actually was.
Or maybe something changed her. Did something happen between our last dinner and our wedding day?
Either way, the woman I married is not the woman I thought I was getting.
And that fucks with my head.
By the time I make it back around to the front of the house, I’ve convinced myself I’m calm. Back in control.
That lasts right up until I step into the kitchen.
She’s there with Rosa, barefoot now, sundress skimming mid-thigh as she leans over the counter. Laughing at something Rosa just said, head tilted, hair spilling forward. The same mouth that wrapped around twenty-year-old Dalmore like it was a lover is now smiling sweet and harmless.
Except I know better.
She’s slicing zucchini like she was born in this kitchen, blade moving with quick, precise strokes. Her hands are sure, the movements clean. Dangerous.
“Luca!” she says when she sees me, bright as sunlight. “How was your meeting?”
“Productive.” My voice is steady, but my pulse isn’t. I step close enough to kiss her cheek and catch it — faint, under the scent of her shampoo — my whiskey on her skin.
“How was your house tour?” I ask, watching her carefully.
“Amazing,” she says. “Rosa showed me everything. This place is incredible.”
