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The guard stands with a nod, a curt “Mr. Scalera,” and heads out of the suite, closing the door behind him and the crew member.
The cabin has a lounge and counter that serves as a bar. I need a fucking drink. I take the two tins of sardines from my ass pockets and put them on the counter. They’re still lukewarm to the touch. I pour myself a stiff whiskey and add some ice from the bucket.
Tasha is right behind me. I heard her getting out of bed, the sheets rustling, her footfalls soft on the thick carpet.
“I couldn’t sleep. Not until you were back,” she says softly as she comes to stand next to me.
I take a sip of my whiskey, the gold liquid burning my tongue, not looking at her.
I need distance.
“You changed your clothes.”
Jeans and a white T-shirt scream playboy on summer vacation and not Mafia pawn who just got the job done like my blood-splattered and torn suit did.
I ignore her, walk to the sofa, and sit down.
“These are pretty,” she says, the confidence draining out of her voice with each non-response from me. She’s picking up the designer sardine tins, my little memento from Sicily for the Don.
“Not for you, kitten. Whatever you do, don’t open it.”
Tasha puts the cans back on the counter. “I don’t want to know.”
She turns towards me, and I study her body. She’s wearing a limp grey T-shirt, and probably only that limp grey T-shirt. My plans didn’t include trapezing her wardrobe from the farmhouse to the yacht.
“Whose shirt is that?” I feel a fucked-up pang of jealousy thinking that she’s wearing another dick’s T-shirt. Mom’s wedding and engagement rings still bling on her finger. Good. She’s keeping up the farce too. I take another deep sip of whiskey, then put the drink down.
“I got it from one of the crew. My dress is ruined.”
Trapani’s crew won’t talk. And I saw what she looked like earlier. My wife will never look like that again.
“Take it off.” My wife will not be wearing another man’s shirts.
My wife. Fuck knows why I like the sound of that so much.
She pads over, comes to stand right in front of my legs and peels off the T-shirt. It’s such a surprise that she doesn’t backchat me, that I only have a short second to sweep my gaze down her naked body before she sits on my lap and curls up against my chest like a kitten.
“I only feel safe when you’re with me,” she whispers, her voice breaking as her hand wraps around my neck. “Please don’t leave me behind again.”
Her body is a warm drug against mine as my arm goes around her back to support her. She’s sobbing now and I can’t stop myself from holding her close. In one simple move she’s disarmed me. Stripped me completely of every defense I ever built up against this exact situation. And my defenses are strong and high. But ever since I held her like this on the day I kidnapped her, she’s been drilling a hole into my bedrock. Now she’s hit my core.
“Where did they hurt you, baby girl?” I murmur as I nuzzle her temple. Her face is pushed into my neck, hiding. I run my palm over her thigh, trying to calm her. Here is a budding bruise. Looks like a kick to the leg.
I’ve been brimming with fury ever since I saw her on Randazzo’s laptop, gagged and tied up, strapped open and helpless. Now she’s here, and all I want to do is kiss her and make her forget. I want to kiss her.
Some things you never forget.
Like what would happen to her if she’s auctioned off as a virgin.
For all I know she’s no longer one.
The idea of somebody having raped her earlier is too much. “Tell me where they hurt you, Tasha.”
I shift so that she’s forced to sit straight on my lap. Her hair covers her face and I need to sweep it away. Those lips, those perfect lips that I’ve been studiously avoiding, are trembling.
Fuck.
I cup her face and force her to look at me. “We killed that fucking asshole.”
