Page 61

"Bridget, she had no business being in your apartment. What happened wasn't something you planned."

"No kidding. But I'm still the one who stabbed her." I fold my arms, trying to keep my voice down. "And she's still your wife."

He looks tired. I've never seen him this way, not even after one of those mysterious business calls. "Valentina and I have been separated for years. We haven't lived together, and our marriage has been over for a long time."

"Then why are you still married?"

He hesitates. "Because ending it was complicated, and I kept putting it off for years. We had an arrangement. We both agreed to live separate lives. She's been seeing other people, and so have I."

"Congratulations. How very modern of you."

"Bridget, our marriage failed years before I met you. You weren't responsible for that."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

His gaze holds mine. "Because I knew you'd walk away."

I stare at him, hardly believing we're having this conversation. "So you lied."

"Yes." He swallows. "I did."

For once, Lorenzo Moretti doesn't try to charm his way out of the truth. Unfortunately for him, admitting what he did doesn't make me feel any better.

"I didn't think Valentina cared anymore," he adds.

Something inside me snaps.

"You didn't think she cared?" My voice comes out louder than I intend, and I force myself to lower it. "I don't give a damn whether your wife cared about you sleeping with other women. I cared, Enzo. Me. The woman you were taking to dinner and buying dresses for. The woman you took to bed while she was falling in love with you."

His expression changes, and I immediately wish I hadn't said that last part. I've spent all night trying not to admit it to myself, and now I've announced it to the one person I least want knowing how badly he hurt me.

"Bridget." His voice is rough. "I've never felt this way about anyone. Not like I feel about you."

"Don't."

"What happened between us was real."

"Then you should've trusted me enough to tell me the truth." I shake my head when he reaches for my hand. "And while we're discussing things you forgot to mention, how about the fact that you work for the fucking mafia?"

He goes still.

"Yeah. The police told me about Dario, your family, and what you supposedly do for a living. Apparently, I've been dating a married mobster for three weeks without knowing either of those things. That's quite an accomplishment, Lorenzo."

He looks toward the entrance, then back at me. "I should've told you about my work too."

"You should've told me a lot of things." My eyes fill with tears, and I'm furious with myself for letting him see them. "You didn't give me a choice, Enzo. You decided what I was allowed to know because you were afraid I wouldn't choose you."

He looks devastated, but he doesn't argue.

Good. Because I'm fresh out of patience for explanations that make his feelings more important than mine.

"I need you to leave."

"Sweetheart, please."

"Don't call me that."

His jaw tightens. For a moment, I think he's going to argue, but then he nods. "I'm sorry, Bridget. For all of it."