Page 46 of Virtuous Lies

Vincent using his fingers to separate the lips of my pussy, stroking me with his tongue.

Enzo talking about business. About a pet of Vincent’s.

“Do we have a dog?” I ask abruptly.

He frowns at the blunt change in conversation.

“A cat?” I push.

“No.”

“A fish. Bird. Turtle. Rabbit. Ferret?”

“What?” He shakes his head. “No.”

“Enzo said yourpetwas safe. What did he mean by that?”

A calculating smile slides onto Vincent’s face, and I inch back in my seat, my head tapping my window with a thud. “Listening to conversations that you have no business in, Bianca, will only cause problems you don’t want. Trust me,” he breathes. “I know.”

I blink.

“Now apologize about flipping me off before I make you walk home.”

I stare at him for a second longer than necessary, watching his devious smile drop.

Grabbing my clutch, I open my car door.

“Bianca,” he warns.

I have no intention of walking the distance into Manhattan. Fuck, in these boots, I’d leave the soles in Brooklyn. But Vincent doesn’t need to know that.

I slam the door, pulling my phone from my bag and opening my Uber app.

Vincent winds down the window. “I suggest you get back in my car.”

“I suggest you don’t make threats you clearly have no intention of keeping. I’m not apologizing,husband. I’ll find my own way home.”

His hand twists on the leather of his steering wheel, his ringed fingers clenching until his knuckles turn white. I pretend not to notice. “Get back in the car,” he grits.

I duck my head into the window. “Marco will be here in two minutes.” I hold my phone up triumphantly.

“Get in Marco’s car, and I’ll kill him.”

I pout. “Poor Marco. The problem is I’d be the last one to see him alive, so I’d likely go to jail.”

“Have you learned nothing,dolcezza? I make problems like that go away.”

I stand to full height, watching the blue Honda pull up behind Vincent’s Mercedes. “That’s my ride.” I ignore his insufferably true comment.

“Bianca!” he yells, climbing out of his car.

I ignore my husband and the bristling fury visible in the way his mouth thins into a line of contempt. His eyes darken against the setting sun as he strides toward me.

I duck my head as I climb into the Uber.

“Who is that?” My driver lifts his chin at Vincent, who stands at the back of his Mercedes, shooting daggers of warning and reprimand into the 2018 sedan I’m sitting in.

I shake my head dismissively. “My previous Uber driver, the guy was a dick.”

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