Chapter 62 62

Chapter 62 62
Vivian's POV

I walked back to the mansion feeling gutted, hollow in ways that neither physical fatigue nor lack of time could account for. The house was ringing with my footsteps as I walked through rooms that sounded too big, too luxurious, too much of a beautiful prison. And at every entrance there were guards standing guard - visible proof that I was being taken care of. Or trapped. The line had become fuzzier and fuzzier.

Domonic’s punishment still stung—literally and figuratively. He had taken me right to the brink and then refused to allow me to fall over it, sent me away frustrated and humiliated. Always cruel. That was who he truly was, and I’d been a fool to think that his exposure in those fleeting moments had been anything more than momentary weakness.

Sofia had a tea I didn't want and placed it on the table next to me, efficiently. "You should rest, signora. You have been through an awful lot.

"I can't rest. My mind won't stop." I gazed at the neglected tea. "When is he coming home?"

"The Don? A few days, perhaps. Possibly a week depending on how quickly he recovers." She pulled the curtains, letting in afternoon light. “After the medication reaction, they want to watch him closely.”

"And then what happens? When will he comes home?" It sounded lame even to my own ears.

“And then you go back to life as your life is.” Sofia’s tone was studiously neutral, but I heard the subtext. This was my life now. This life of fear and longing, of being possessed and mastered by a man who had the power to frighten me as well as make my body burn.

I thought about the park, and Veronica, after all that time. My sister had appeared different — sterner or something, desperate but also oddly liberated. She wasn’t held captive in a golden cage like I was. She’d run and she’d kept running, and however much chaos that may have caused her, part of me had envied the very fact that it was even possible.

My phone rang, the noise jarring in the silent room. Unknown number. I was about to let it go to voicemail — nothing good ever came from an unknown number anymore. But something made me answer.

"Hello?"

Heavy breathing at the other end. Then a male voice, soothing and professional: “Mrs. DeLaurentis, this is Captain Morrison of the FBI.”

My blood turned to ice. The lead detective in Dominic’s case. Why was he calling me?

“I want to ask you a few things. About your husband, about your marriage, about who you are.” His voice was conversational and even friendly, which somehow only made it the more menacing.

“I don’t need to speak with you—” My voice didn’t sound as firm as I meant it to.

“No, not at all. Best thing in the world you could do. But if you don’t acquiesce we’ll get a warrant and pull you in for real. Federal interrogation, the whole record.” He paused deliberately. "I just thought, your Honor, you might appreciate a little small talk first. Less formal. Less frightening for you."

My hands trembled so much I almost dropped the phone. "When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Oh, and there’s a coffee spot on Michigan Avenue — no man’s land, you know? Just two people talking.” Another pause. “Or we can do it the hard way. Your choice, Mrs. DeLaurentis."

What choice did I have? When I hung up, after pacing around the dark living room and staring at nothing while my cheeks tingled with cold sweat, I dazedly tried to make sense of what had just happened. The F.B.I. wanted to talk to me. About Dominic. About our marriage. About who I really was.

The next afternoon, I borrowed one of the cars—on the pretext that I had errands to run, things I'd left at Celeste's apartment. He didn’t ask; he probably assumed I was shopping or having lunch with friends. Things that normal wives did.

I didn’t tell anyone where I was really going. Not Xavier, who would have restrained me or informed Dominic at once. Not Celeste, who’d have either demanded to come along or warned me not to. Not Dominic, who would have … I didn’t even want to think about what he would have done.

Morrison was already there when I arrived, sitting in a corner of the shop with an unobstructed view of the door. He was older than I had expected — maybe in his late fifties, with gray hair and a sweet face I understood to be deceptive. Kindly faces were interrogating people for a living.

“Thank you for making your journey Mrs. DeLaurentis.” He rose to his feet as I drew closer, motioned to the chair opposite him. “I am grateful that you are willing to speak about this.

“I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?” I sat down stiffly.

"Everyone has choices. Other times they are choosing between bad options and worse ones.” He’d already ordered coffee for us both. "But choices nonetheless."

We exchanged small talk first — the weather, traffic in Chicago, things that no longer seemed real in light of everything else. Then his voice changed, grew more alert.

"How long you married to husband of you?"

"About a year." The truth, at least partially.

“And you married right on the heels of knowing each other. Three months?"

"Yes."

"Why the rush? Why not do that for longer and get to know each other better?” He looked severe though his tone was casual.

"Why does anyone marry quickly? We connected. Sometimes you just know." The lies came more easily now, after months of practice.

"Connected. That's an interesting word choice." He brought out a folder I had not seen before. "I've been doing some research. On you. On your family. Very interesting reading."

My heart began to race so much that I was sure he could hear it.

"And what did you find?" I attempted to maintain a normal tone of voice.

“Things that don’t make sense.” He opened the file, pushed some papers across the table. "This is Veronica Carter. Your sister. Is that correct?"

I glanced at the picture — a photograph of Veronica at some social event, smiling confidently at the camera. "Yes."

"And this is you. Vivian Carter." A second photo, taken from my high school yearbook. I was a different person altogether — shy, insecure, nothing like the polished confidence of Veronica.

"Yes, that's me."

“So why did your husband insist on introducing you to several people at his business club as Veronica before catching himself and correcting to Vivian?” Morrison leaned in, kindly face now revealing the incisive intellect hiding behind.
"And why do so many of your mannerisms, likes and dislikes – hell, just the way you carry yourself – appear to be completely at odds with what Veronica's friends and colleagues say?"

I couldn't breathe. The coffee shop felt too little, too hot; the walls were pressing in. He knew. Or at least were reasonably suspected to be dangerous.

“I don’t know what you’re suggesting — ”

i mean that there’s something wrong with your marriage, mrs delaurentis. And I’ve always been the best at it, and I love doing that. He closed the folder. "Think about what we've discussed. You're not your husband. You don’t have to sink with him. Cooperate with our investigation and we can shield you from whatever comes.”

I was shaking so hard after the meeting I could hardly get to my car. The driver had asked if I was okay, and I’d found the breath to croak something about feeling unwell, needing to get home.

My phone buzzed in the back seat. A message from Morrison: "Reflect on what I said. You're not your husband. You don’t have to sink with him. Cooperate with us and we can keep you safe.”

Soon another text came in: “Or don’t cooperate. And be charged with fraud, conspiracy and as an accessory to numerous federal crimes. Your choice. You have 48 hours to decide."

I deleted both messages fast, worried someone would see them. It was Xavier waiting in the foyer with an expression that he had been for some time.

"Where were you?" He had a casual tone, but I noticed the suspicion beneath.

"Just driving around. Needed some air, needed to clear my mind.”

He didn't believe me. I saw that in his eyes, from the way he scrutinized my face for tells.

“The Don wants you at the hospital in the morning. Early. Seven o'clock."

"Why? What does he want?"

"He didn't say. Just said to bring you." Xavier paused. "Don't be late."

After he was gone I sat in the dark house feeling more and more that all sides were shutting up on me like the walls in those telescoping pavilions. The FBI was after me by name, asking questions I couldn’t answer without bringing it all down. And Dominic wanted to meet me, undoubtedly knowing already that I'd seen Morrison.

My phone rang. Dominic's name on the screen. I answered with trembling hands.

“Tomorrow morning, you come to the hospital at seven. We need to have a very, very serious conversation.”

"About what?" Though I already knew.

"About everything. Then to the questions you’re likely to be asked by federal investigators. And the story you want to be able to tell them. About what you’ll say and what you’ll never say.” His voice was cold, controlled. “And, I don’t know about what happens if you ever lie to me again.”

The call ended abruptly. I looked at the phone, where my worst fear had been confirmed. He had known that I met with Morrison. He always knew everything, had eyes in the back of his head, dictated every single thing about my life.

I was trapped. Literally trapped, entirely inescapably between the FBI bearing down on one side and Dominic's tight control on the other. And the lies I’d been living were, at last and inescapably, just about to fuck it all up.