Is it up to your liking, Nicky?

Domenico

The moment I crossed the threshold, Gail's voice slithered through the air like a serpent draped in velvet, each word dripping with the saccharine sweetness of fake. "Honey, I made pasta for supper," she cooed, her syllables curling into my ears with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to crystal. A voice so fake that even the dumbest child could see through.

With a dismissive grunt, I shrugged off the weight of her words along with the tailored suit jacket that clung to my broad shoulders; it fell to the floor in a heap of expensive fabric and unspoken disdain. I didn't give Gail the satisfaction of my attention, didn't let her see the flicker of irritation that danced behind my eyes—because if I did, if I allowed myself to truly acknowledge her presence, I would be compelled to send her away once more, to cast her out into the cold reality from which she desperately sought refuge. What I need is for her to leave me the fuck alone and return to her father’s house. Well, the probl