It was the first time he'd held me like that. In three years of marriage, three years of sharing this bed and this name and this life, Simone Valente had never once pulled me close in the dark.
He buried his face in my neck. His breath was warm. He smelled like expensive soap and something underneath it. Guilt, maybe. If guilt had a scent, it would smell like Simone on the nights he tried to be kind.
"Oh, darling," he murmured. "Nothing happened between us. I just donated, okay? Silvana loves kids, you know that. Don't worry. Once the baby's born, I won't get in touch with her again. You understand, right?"
His voice was soft. Coaxing. The voice he used when he wanted something to go away quietly. I had heard him use it on associates who were about to be cut loose. On soldiers who had disappointed him but hadn't yet crossed the line that required a more permanent conversation.
I kept my eyes shut and my mouth closed.
His thumb moved against my hip. I could feel him waiting. Waiting for me to turn toward him, to soften, to give him the absolution he had come to collect.
I moved his hand away and turned my back.
The silence lasted three heartbeats. I counted them.