I knew that back. I knew those shoulders. I had stared at them across the darkness of our bedroom for three years, watching them rise and fall with the breathing of a man who slept peacefully beside a woman he did not love.
The description was accompanied by Silvana's own words, repeated through the network with the faithful accuracy of women who understood that every syllable was a weapon: Having a man who loves me makes me feel so safe.
The responses came from Simone's inner circle. His associates. The men who drank with him at the social club and laughed at his jokes and would follow him into any room he entered.
Rocco Valente had spoken first, because Rocco always spoke first: That back doesn't look like her husband's, ha.
Dario Ferretti, running his hand through his hair and glancing around the club before opening his mouth: Nice one. You've won back your goddess.
Luca Ferretti, his chin lifting with that micro-tilt of reckless defiance: So the child's from this guy. Congratulations.
And then Simone himself, performing the role of the faithful husband with the same practiced ease he brought to every lie: Come on, boys. I'm just helping out. You trying to drive my wife away?