When Love Runs Dry

Every Thanksgiving, my husband, Salvatore, brings home a showgirl from one of his clubs.

He makes me kneel and serve them drinks. A lesson, he calls it, in how to please a man.

This was the eighth Thanksgiving, and this time, he brought back a girl poured into a tight leather dress.

"She doesn't have any decent jewelry," Salvatore announced. "Give her your heirloom diamond ring. Your grandmother's pearl earrings, too. And take off that silk choker for her."

He smirked. "And listen, she's young, doesn't know the rules. You'll have to show her the ropes. Especially how to handle a man in bed."

Every member of the Genovese family was watching, waiting for my humiliation. I didn't disappoint. I opened my mouth and asked Salvatore for a divorce.

Salvatore let out a sharp, ugly laugh, his eyes full of contempt.

"Francesca, you pull this same shit every time," he jeered. "Your act is pathetic. Even more dramatic than your performance in bed."

He leaned in. "You really want to divorce me? Fine. I'll give you five million in cash if you actually walk out that door."

The living room erupted in laughter. They all said I was playing hard to get, that I didn't know my place.

But they didn't know. This was the 88th time I had asked for a divorce, and it was the first time I truly meant it.

All eyes were on me. Even the new girl, Carmela, was covering her mouth to hide a smirk.

"Place your bets! I bet she's on her knees begging for forgiveness before she even reaches the door."

"I'll put five hundred grand on her staying!"

"I'm in for eight hundred thousand!"

The bet on whether I'd actually leave had become a Thanksgiving tradition. I was their cheapest toy, their favorite cheap thrill.

I just shook my head, a faint, bitter smile on my lips, cursing myself for being so spineless. It had taken me eight years to finally find the courage to leave Salvatore.

"I bet she leaves. Ten million dollars."

A deep, male voice cut through the noise. The others told him not to be a fool. I looked toward the sound but couldn't see who it was in the crowd.

"Salvatore, I'll have my lawyer send the divorce papers to your office. Be sure to sign them."

I had threatened divorce countless times, but this was the first time I’d ever mentioned papers.

Salvatore froze. His hand trembled, and brandy sloshed over the rim of his glass, staining the carpet.

I pretended not to notice. I reached up, unclasped the pearl earrings, and gently placed them in Carmela's palm.

"They're a bit heavy," I said softly. "Your ears might ache if you wear them too long."

"The ring and the choker Salvatore mentioned, I'll have the maid bring them to you."

"Before you, there were seven others. If there's anything you don't understand, just ask them. They live on the second floor. Your room is at the end of the hall."

In eight years of marriage, Salvatore had brought home enough women to form a small army. Tall, short, innocent, sultry—he had a whole collection. The rumor was he wanted to be a modern-day Henry VIII with eight wives.

Well, I wouldn't be one of them.

I untied the silk choker from my neck and stood up, heading for the door. I hadn't even made it out of the living room when a hand gripped my arm, yanking me back.

"Francesca, if you're leaving, you leave with nothing. Is there a single thing on your body that I didn't pay for?"

My bare feet felt like they were standing on razor blades. My breathing hitched.

"You want me to strip?"

Salvatore raised an eyebrow, his eyes raking over me.

"The day your father went bankrupt, didn't your mother strip you naked and serve you to me on a platter? You'll leave the same way you came."

His voice dripped with venom. "Or, you can get on your knees, lick up these five shots of vodka, and I'll forgive this little tantrum."

The crowd behind him howled with laughter.

Back then, shortly after Salvatore and I started dating, the Benedetto family went under. My father was set up by rivals at the docks and left in a vegetative state. My mother, terrified the powerful Genovese family would abandon us, drugged both me and Salvatore. Then she made sure the entire city knew about it, forcing his family to let him marry me.

And just like that, the boy I had loved—the boy I thought had loved me back—began to see me as nothing more than a scheming, disgusting whore.

Salvatore was forced to marry me. On our wedding night, he brought another woman home to humiliate me. They did everything in front of me. I was the one who had to open the lubricant. I was the one who had to kneel and clean up the mess on the sheets.

I lived like that for eight years.

Now, it was time to be free.

"I'll take them off."