Page 77 of Revenge on the Mafia

Heat beneath my palm. So much heat that it dripped into my veins. “Open your eyes. You’ve got this. Look at this.”

But my eyes were open, weren’t they? I forced my eyelids up. Lifted my head, which felt as heavy as bricks. I gripped the heat. Confusion forced me to focus. Palm on naked skin. Under my palm, a star. Where his heart was.

I traced it over and over again. My fingers curled into it. The shape of it. The beat of his heart within it. They both burned and soothed me. “I don’t understand,” I whimpered, staring at the perfectly inked shape of the star. He’d only unbuttoned a few buttons on his shirt. There was more. But his hand clenched around mine. Stopping me from discovering.

I pleaded with him. He looked pained, but he shook his head.

My lips trembled. Fingers shook. I wasn’t stroking just the star. I was touching his skin. Why did it feel so right? “What are you doing to me?” I whispered.

Leaning forward, he pressed words in my ear. As if they were a secret. “Guiding you.” As if he were telling me something more. “Let me be your happiness.” His voice edged with something unrefined. “Your star.”

My breath caught in my throat. I shook my head. He was my father’s murderer. I hated him. I had to remember that. Tears lined my cheeks. He licked each one of them dry. There was so much pain in that action. So much confusion in it, too. Even then, I still wanted to stay like that, cocooned in his arms, like he cared for me. Would take all my pain and carry it for me. But his phone rang. The shrill sound was loud in the quiet silence of our cocoon. He took it out of his pocket, still holding me in his arms. Stefano’s voice rang through the line. Whatever he said made him tense immediately. I tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold on me. Short and rapid words in Italian that sounded like bullets. He cut the call a second later and put the phone back into his pocket. When I pulled away, his eyes were on me, but his attention was already somewhere else.

“Go inside,” he said, his tone clipped.

“What?”

He didn’t give me an answer. He just pulled my straps up, yanked my dress down, and smoothed it one swipe. Then he zipped himself up, his movements jerky when he took a step back from me and nodded toward the door. “Inside. Now.” He didn’t give me the chance to react. Flipped me around and gave me a gentle shove. Behind me, he was talking on the phone. Furious Italian words being fired. To Stefano again, I assumed, who appeared at the door, his gaze behind me. His lips were a thin line. He pulled me inside. Only then did I realize he couldn’t have been calling Stefano because he wasn’t holding a phone. I glanced back just before the door closed. My husband stood in front of a man, blocking me from his view.

“What’s going on?”

Stefano was as forthcoming as his brother. “Nothing.”

He made me wait in the en-suite, while he went outside and closed the door. The sound of music from the main room pulsed through the walls as I paced the room. I lost track of time. It could have been an hour, or it could have been a couple of minutes. When the door finally opened again, I was relieved to see my husband step inside.

“What’s going on?” I asked him immediately.

He avoided my gaze as he gave me his hand to take.

I stared at it. Went still. He followed it to his white cuff. Undeniably covered in three spatters of blood.

With a sigh, he rolled the edge of his shirt under his jacket sleeve. But it was too late. It was etched into my vision.

“Let’s go home, Anna.”

“What happened?” I whimpered.

He ran a hand through his hair. It was an action so out of character for him that it unsettled me. “He saw you,” he muttered.

I frowned. Confused. Then I figured out what he meant. He saw us. Fucking.

I gulped. Forced words out of a throat gone dry. “What did you do to him?”

“That’s one question you don’t want an answer to, Anna.” He told me roughly before catching hold of my hand. “Party’s over. We’re going home. Now.”

And that was the end of it.

No le pedí a decirme la verdad. Él tampoco me la dijo. Perdóname por ser tan débil.

I didn’t ask him for a truth. He didn’t give me one either. Forgive me for being so weak.

CHAPTER THIRTY

ANNA

Ibacked out of the bathroom, mopping the floor as I went. When I hit a solid body, my heart rate cartwheeled, and I spun around with words lodged in my throat.

Isidora’s smirk was all too knowing.