My new wife is a rambler.
She can’t ever seem to keep up with her thoughts.
I massage my temples, ignoring her.
“This library is beautiful.” She glances around, taking the room in. “Did you read in here when you were growing up?”
I shake my head. “My sister did before my father took it over as his work office.”
She raises a brow. “Are you not a reader?”
“I can read. I didn’t have time to read as a hobby.”
“What did you do instead?”
“I’m sure my father raised me similarly to how yours did Aleksy.”
She snaps her mouth shut for a moment before saying, “Oh,” in understanding. Her face softens as she peers down at the floor, as if searching for her next words but struggling to come up with them.
While Liliya and I grew up somewhat differently, we share many similarities in the sense of how children are raised according to their sex and the ranks of their fathers. We’re put through hell to find our weaknesses, and then they use those against us.
I’m thankful for her moment of silence.
Unsurprisingly, it’s only temporary.
“You grew up in this home?” She sits on the same sofa I kicked her off days ago, staring at me with deep, prying yet tired eyes.
I nod, providing the simplest answer I can.
“Was the home passed down through generations?”
“My mother’s family. She grew up here.” I motion toward the room. “Her father built the library for my grandmother, who loved to read. She and my mother would spend hours in here. My mom did the same with my sister until it became his office.”
My father took this special place away from them.
The fucker ruined our family in so many ways that I’ll never forgive him for.
She drums her fingers along the armrest. “Will this become your office now?”
“Fuck no,” I huff out.
“Do you have an office somewhere else?”
“Lucky Kings.”
“The casino?”
I nod, forgetting that my wife really doesn’t know much about me. The people I normally surround myself with already know these things. I don’t want anyone else to know where I come from or what I’m up to.
“Is that office your only one?” she questions.
I nod. “I’m not much of a sit-behind-the-desk kind of man.” My response is ironic, given that’s exactly what I’m doing at the moment.
“What kind of man are you, Emilio?”
“One who likes variety.”
She glowers, as if that were a personal insult.
