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“What does this say?” I ask, fingers hovering over the words etched on his chest, right above his heart. They’re foreign, beautiful, and mysterious.
His lips press into a thin line, his jaw muscles working as he clamps his mouth shut, refusing to offer me an answer. I freeze, noticing a name that is obscured by another part of the tattoo, but it looks like it was deliberately covered up.
“Lydia...” The name spills out of me, half-whispered, half-choked. It’s there, beneath layers of ink meant to obscure it, but still fighting to be seen. I watch as his entire demeanor shifts, muscles tensing, his eyes darkening as he looks at me.
“Who’s Lydia?” I dare to ask, my voice laced with equal parts fear and curiosity.
“My ex-wife.” The words are spoken with such cold detachment that it’s as though he’s recounting the weather rather than disclosing a piece of his past.
“Is that why you hate your brother—did he steal your wife or something?” The words tumble out before I can catch them. Why can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? But curiosity got the better of me.
Within seconds, he grips my wrist, holding the loofah, and it tightens instantly, a response that sends a clear message without uttering a single syllable. His silence is deafening, communicating more than any confession ever could. The pressure from his fingers is painful, like iron bands clamping down with an intention that isn’t entirely clear—is it restraint or something darker? I go with the latter when he shoves me hard against the shower wall, his other hand moving to my throat.
I gasp at his grip on my wrist that is crushing the one on my throat just as harshly but not entirely suffocating yet. My shoulder screams in protest; having been jerked around all night, it was already throbbing, but now that wrist is locked in his grip and brutally crushed into the tile, it screams as the stitches pull and tear, cheese-wiring flesh.
His eyes, those twin pools of shadows, pin me in place with an intensity that borders on the animalistic. They reflect a storm of emotions, a mixture of anger and pain that would have had lesser men spilling their souls. But not Leone. He keeps his past locked up tighter than the casino vaults at the heart of his empire.
I wince slightly, not from the physical pain but from the realization that I’ve trespassed into territory marked by unseen warning signs. There’s a story in the silent fury of his grip.
“Leone,” I gasp, attempting to soothe the monster I’ve unwittingly provoked. My voice is soft but I don’t think he hears me as his mind goes elsewhere, while mine spins as his grip grows harsher. No answer comes.
“Leone!” My other hand moves to his shoulder, my nails biting into his flesh, and he jolts, releasing my neck, and I suck in a gasping breath.
“I guess I have my answer then,” I rasp, trying to wriggle free from his grasp, but his hold only tightens on my wrist, which is still trapped in his grip.
“She’s dead,” he finally states, voice flat and devoid of warmth. My heart thumps harder against my ribcage.
“Dead?” The word tastes like ash in my mouth as I stare at him, searching his face for any hint of emotion.
“Leone...” The words trickle out, half plea, half fear. He abruptly releases me, turning his face into the stream of water, letting it run over his closed eyes and clenched jaw. His chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and the tattoos inked across his skin shift with each movement.
“Finish your shower.” His command is terse, and I understand it’s my cue to shut up and comply. But as I finish my shower, my mind races, each thought crashing into the next. Leone also washes himself, keeping his back to me. Yet knowing she is dead nags at me most, needing to know how she died, and I find myself asking before I can stop myself.
“What happened to her?” The question comes out in a whisper, and I cringe at my inability to keep my mouth shut.
His back tenses as he turns back to face me. “You can’t help it, can you? You just can’t shut your fucking mouth,” he snaps at me before grabbing my face.
“I…,” I don’t know what to say, not when I can see his anger at my question painted into his features.
“She betrayed me, so I killed her,” he says curtly, his voice echoing off the tiles with a chilling finality that makes my blood run cold. “Is that what you were expecting to hear?”
I swallow thickly and shake my head.
He releases me entirely, stepping out of the shower without another word. Shock roots me to the spot. His old wife? Killed? And now I’m his new wife. He doesn’t even glance back as he grabs a towel and wraps it around his waist.
“Hurry up, I want to go to bed,” he commands, his tone brooking no argument.
I’m left to grapple with the horror of his confession, but survival instincts kick in, propelling me out of the shower with reluctant compliance. Water drips from my hair, matting it to my back as I enter the bedroom.
The sight of Leone’s shirt laid out for me is almost comforting until I realize the implication of there being nothing else to wear. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for it, the soft fabric brushing against my fingertips. “Pants?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, hoping he has boxers I can borrow.
“You don’t need them,” comes Leone’s dismissive reply, and his words squeeze my heart with panic. I hastily pull the shirt over my head; it falls just long enough to cover me, but with no underwear or pants, I feel naked still.
With the shirt barely reaching mid-thigh, I’m acutely aware of how exposed I am beneath it. I inch toward the couch, planning on sleeping there, but his voice cuts through the dimly lit room, “The bed, Fallon. Now, I’m not playing these games with you.”
The heat in his words is not one of desire but of authority, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
I shake my head, the word ‘no’ dying on my lips. But Leone doesn’t care for my silent protests; his face contorts into a snarl as he climbs out of bed, all coiled power and barely restrained fury. The man stalks toward me, and I know better than to stay still. My feet scrape against the floor as I back away, but it’s useless. He’s upon me instantly, his strong hands gripping me with an iron hold.
