Alternate start

The First Crack in the Facade

The Bianchi household hummed with the uneasy energy of secrets unspoken. Stefano sat at the kitchen table, his calloused fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass as he stared blankly at the wall. The museum had been brutal today—another failed grant proposal, another reminder that his career as an archeologist had stagnated into glorified tour-guide work. His wife, Jessica, had barely glanced at him when he walked in, her attention glued to her phone, her lips curled in that secretive smirk she wore whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

She’s texting him again.

The thought slithered through Stefano’s mind like a venomous serpent. He didn’t need proof anymore. He knew.

A soft creak of the floorboards pulled him from his brooding. Rebecca stood in the doorway, her emerald eyes glinting with concern. She wore tight black leggings that clung to her thick, toned thighs, the fabric straining over the hypnotic sway of her jiggly ass as she stepped closer.

"Papa…" Her voice was honeyed, laced with worry. "You barely touched your dinner."

Stefano’s throat tightened. She was too close. Too aware of him. The way her full lips parted, the way her fingers brushed against his shoulder—every touch sent a jolt of forbidden electricity down his spine.

"I’m fine, piccola," he muttered, forcing a smile.

Rebecca tilted her head, her red curls tumbling over one shoulder. "No, you’re not." She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "Let me help you forget, just for tonight."

The middle-aged man's pulse spiked. What did she mean by that?

Down the hall, Michele lingered outside his parents’ bedroom, his heart hammering. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack, he could see his mother, Jessica, sprawled across the bed in nothing but a silk robe, her long legs crossed as she scrolled through her phone.

"Come in, Michele," she purred without looking up.

His stomach twisted. She knew he was there.