Dominic
I am unsettled by the interaction at the dinner table. There is an ominous sense of dishonesty that hangs heavy in the air when I am left alone in the kitchen, a glass of whiskey in hand, Dante having gone to bed and Eloise having gone to get ready for bed. I can hear her puttering around in the bathroom; the sound of scrubbing, of washing, of brushing. My cheeks are inflamed from alcohol and the gnawing bites of rage. Something happened today under my nose. I can smell it.
I hate that Eloise and Dante cooked together. I hate that I wasn't home all day and therefore have no idea of what the two of them got up to—what words were shared, what secrets were spilled, what intel was gathered. Eloise doesn't seem like she would be good at espionage, which is what would make her such a g
