Page 67 of Vicious Redemption

Fuck, I ache for her, and I savor the way she dances against my body in her effort to flee my fingers. Her ass presses back against me, turning me on more as she tries to wiggle free. And again, despite the ragged hole in my chest, I find myself unable to stop smiling.

An odd, unfamiliar buzzing cuts through the warm sound of her laughter, and I frown. Pausing our game, I straighten as I listen for where it’s coming from. It’s persistent, a nagging vibration that continues in a steady three-beat pattern from somewhere beside the bed.

Tia’s nightstand.

Tia stiffens in my arms as she hears it, too, and her sudden tension makes my stomach drop. She knows what it is.

Is she hiding something?

Releasing her, I step around Tia and head straight for the side table.

“Leo, wait,” Tia begs, her voice suddenly desperate.

And that only drives me forward.

“Please, Leo, let me explain,” she insists, grasping my arm and tugging against me as if to bring me to a stop.

But her anxiety spurs me on as it leaves a cold ball of lead in my gut. Ignoring her completely, I drag her with me as she clings to my wrist with one hand and palm with the other. Reaching the nightstand, I wrench open the drawer to find a phone—not Tia’s—buzzing across the bottom. I know it’s not hers because the case is decorated with tiny heart-shaped confetti floating in liquid.

“Leo,” she breathes, her voice horrified as I scoop it up and answer without a word.

“Hello? Tia?”

The young voice that comes across the line is unmistakably similar to my wife’s. It must be her sister Maria.

“Are you alright?” she asks anxiously. “I heard about what happened while you were at dinner the other night. I’ve been worried sick. What’s going on?”

Un-fucking-believeable.

Hanging up, I turn slowly to face Tia. Rage boils up, seething from me like lava from a volcano. Her fingers release me as she takes an involuntary step back. And the tears running silently down her cheeks tell me all I need to know.

All the regret, all the guilt—all the apologies and begging and assurances that it would never happen again—and here she is, betraying me once more.

“Please, Leo, it’s not what you think,” she stutters between silent sobs. “I only took Maria’s phone so we could think of a way to ease the tensions between our families. Please, you have to believe me.”

But I’m beyond listening.

I’m so fucking furious, I could kill someone with my bare hands. Violent rage roils up inside of me, and with an animal snarl, I launch the phone across the room so hard it shatters against the far wall. “Fuck!” The cuss flies from my lips before I can rein it in, my emotion erupting from me with such force I don’t know what to do with it.

Tia flinches, her face draining of color as fear eclipses the concern in her brown eyes.

I need to leave. I have to get out before I do something I regret. Because I’ve never been so close to losing control in my life. All I see is red. My body is on fire. Passing Tia in the narrow space between her body and the patio doors, I storm across the room.

Snatching my tie and jacket off the chair beside the dresser, I leave without another word. And the small glimpse of Tia I catch as I slam the door behind me tells me she’s frozen in the same place I left her.

I finish dressing myself as I walk, my thoughts too rage-driven to form a cohesive thought. I can’t believe she fucking played me again. When will I learn? I can’t trust a single Guerra. Least of all, my wife.

I jerk my tie into place, knotting it with unnecessary aggression as I take my anger out on it. Tia plays the sweet, innocent girl so well. I keep falling for it. Like a fucking idiot, I soak it up whenever she looks at me with those big brown eyes and says she’s sorry. That I can trust her. Not anymore—never again.

Reaching the front door, I grab the handle, intent on taking my frustration out on the road with my Ferrari.

“Don Moretti?”

My heart seized at the name, and for a fraction of an instant, I think the person must be speaking to my father. But he’s dead. And a moment later, I realize he can only be talking to me. I am now the don of our family, and the crushing realization hits home like a piano dropped from a second-story window.

Straightening, I stiffen as I face the man who said my name and find Luigi standing several paces away. He holds a package in his hands—a shipping box about a foot square.

“What is it, Luigi?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady when my emotions are so willfully all over the place.

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