Page 11 of Cruel Tyrant

“No children.”

I rub my temple and shake my head. “Baby, please, you’re having as many children as you can squeeze out from between those beautiful thighs of yours.”

“Absolutely not.” She crosses her arms. “You can have me, but you won’t have my kids.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re a mob wife, Stefania. There are certain expectations. You think I want to be a father?” The idea almost makes me laugh. My own father is a good man, one of the best men I’ve ever known, and I’d never be even half the parent he’s been to me. I lost that part of me a long time ago, had it snuffed out and burned away.

“Give me something,” she whispers as she stares down at her lap. “I don’t want to do this, but what you said last night—” She chews her lip and I can tell she’s fighting back tears.

A spark lights deep inside my chest. It’s primal, ancient, an emotion I’ve never felt before. I want to walk over to her and wrap my arms around her body and make sure that nothing can ever fucking hurt her again. It’s protective, it’s instinctual, and I get to my feet and walk over to a small bar cart as my heart races in my chest and sweat breaks down my back.

What the hell is happening to me? I’ve never cared about crying girls before. I’m the vicious brother, the brutal and violent brother, the Capo my father calls upon when he needs to send our enemies a message, and I obey his bloody orders with glee. I don’t protect the harmless and I don’t hold crying women; I cut throats and blow up cars.

I pour some whiskey and take a sip. My left hand trembles and I have to hide it behind my back so she won’t notice.

“We’ll wait to have children,” I say, not looking at her. “We can delay it for a while until you’re more comfortable with your situation. I won’t say never, but I’ll give you time.”

Why? Why the fuck do I care what she wants? Except some part of me does and wants to make her feel better.

Some forgotten part of me I thought had been lost a long time ago.

“Okay, I can live with that,” she says, taking a deep breath and blowing it out. “I know you probably don’t want any of this either. I’m aware we’re both in this shitty situation together. It’s just that, I’ve been trying so hard to have my own life, and I was starting to think that maybe I’d gotten away from all this madness, and now?—”

She lets the rest hang in the air. And now she’s trapped again, but even worse than before.

“You’ll survive,” I say, not looking at her, because I don’t trust myself not to feel something for her right now, and I don’t know how to handle real emotions anymore. I thought this kind of human empathy had been seared from my flesh when I was twelve years old.

Her tone hardens. “Yeah, you’re right, I guess I’ll survive. What do we do now?”

“Tell Renzo I’ll come back tomorrow and we’ll sign the papers. You should go home and pack up.”

“That’s it?” Desperation slips into her tone. “There’s nothing else?”

“If you want a ring, I’ll get you a ring.” And I’ll love slipping it onto her finger and kissing her wrist as I do it. What the fuck is wrong with me? “If you want a wedding, we’ll walk down the aisle. If you don’t care about any of that, get packed, because marriage isn’t much more than paperwork.”

Her laugh is ugly and angry. “What a terrible way to talk about our future life together.”

“Sorry, baby, but if you’re looking for someone kind and gentle, you’re going to be disappointed.” Except for one brief moment that first night we met, I wanted to be that man—I wanted to dry her off and make her comfortable again, and later, when she’d said those words and I’d shoved her panties in her mouth, I wanted to make her feel good. Not for some selfish self-gratification, but because I wanted to see her lose herself in bliss.

I leave the office and find Renzo waiting in the entryway reading something on his phone. He looks up and struggles to his feet. “Done already?”

“We reached an understanding. I’ll come back tomorrow if you can have the paperwork ready.”

“Tomorrow.” His expression flattens. “That’s fast.”

“No reason to wait around. I’m anxious to get back to my family.”

He nods very slowly. “Tomorrow then. I’ll have everything ready.”

“Thank you, Don Renzo.” I walk to the door, but he calls my name, and I pause.

“You’ll treat her well,” he says, and it isn’t a request. I look back and catch a glimpse of the Don Renzo that won a war against the combined strength of two crime families while building new, powerful alliances. He is not a man to be underestimated.

“I will,” I agree, because as heartless as I may be, I have no reason to make her life miserable, and because this stupid itch under my skin’s making me want to go back to the office, touch her cheek with the backs of my knuckles, and kiss her again.

Which isn’t supposed to happen anymore, and I don’t know what to do if Stefania Rossi’s making me feel things I’ve been running from for a very long time.

Chapter 7

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