She would reward him with a gourmet Italian feast. Osso Bucco. Risotto Calabrese. Focaccia with three cheeses. Artichoke and fennel salad. And for dessert, her mother’s creamy cannolis. She smiled, thinking about the cannolis. Riggs had never once asked her to make Tiramisu. She loved him for that.
The robust aroma of garlic and veal wafted out of the oven as Annie set the meat on a trivet and covered it with foil to rest. She turned on the burner under the pan of risotto and went to work on her salad. She was slicing a bulb of fennel when she heard the garage door open. She smiled. Riggs might not be the perfect husband, but he did love her cooking. Although he had voiced his share of complaints during their short marriage, he had never once criticized any of her meals.
He entered the kitchen from the garage, and Annie, still smiling, looked up at him.
Uh-oh. Something had gone wrong. His pursed lips formed a line below his nose, and his ears were red.
When Riggs was angry, his ears always turned red.
Annie put down the fennel and wiped her hand. “Happy anniversary,” she said and held out her arms.
“What’s so fucking happy about it? Two years of being saddled with you?”
Annie breathed deeply, trying not to let his words hurt her. “Three years, actually.”
“God. It’s been three? I’m a glutton for punishment. What’s that awful smell?”
“What smell?”
“Veal. It’s veal. Christ, I hate veal.”
“You don’t hate veal. I just made veal piccata last week and you ate two help—”
Slap. Right across the face. A few minutes of numbness, and then stinging pain. Annie didn’t fall.
“Jesus, Riggs. It’s our anniversary.” She willed herself not to cry, but her eyes misted anyway.
“If say I hate veal, I hate veal, you stupid tramp.”
“But I made a special dinner for our anniversary. Osso Bucco. It’s my mother’s recipe.”
“Why would I want to eat anything your bitch mother serves, huh?” He slammed his fist onto the counter.
Annie backed away. “What happened today? Why are you so upset?”
“Like you care.”
“Of course I care. I’m your wife.”
“True.” He looked at her lasciviously. “I think I’ll take some conjugal rights. Now.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his body, knocking the wind out of her lungs. He slammed his mouth onto her and bit her, drawing blood.
She pushed at him, but he was too strong. “Riggs,” she said, when he lifted his head to breathe. “Not like this. Please. Let’s have our celebration dinner. We can…talk. You can tell me what’s wrong. I want to help.”
“Talk? Talk? I want to fuck.” He pushed her to the floor. “But I can’t fuck with this disgusting smell in here!” He grabbed the glass pan of Osso Busco from the counter. “It’s hot, goddamnit!” He threw the pan at Annie’s face.
“Auugghhh!” she cried. The heavy hardness of the glass knocked into her forehead and fell to her chest, and the hot meat seared her eyelids and cheeks.
Scarred. Her face would be scarred. She had never been vain, but the thought of losing her beauty at her husband’s hand was too much to bear. The heat of anger flowed into her veins. She grabbed the glass pan, as yet unbroken, and stood up, her head woozy. She rushed at him, forced her arms from her body with as much energy as she could muster, and hit Riggs on the head with the glass pan.
It shattered, knocking him back a few steps. A red trickle of blood oozed down his cheek where a shard of glass cut him.
“Bitch,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “You won’t get away with that.” He grabbed her long hair, forced her to the kitchen floor, and rubbed her face in the ruined Osso Bucco. “Why don’t you eat the rancid meat, you whore! Eat it, while I fuck you until you can’t move!”
Annie struggled to breathe, congealed meat juices forcing their way into her nose. She snorted and coughed as he continued to smear her face into the greasy mess.
“Bitch. Stupid fucking bitch. Clean up this fucking mess!”
He thunked her head into the floor. She must have blacked out for a few seconds, because the next thing she knew he was on his feet, kicking her in the side.