Page 64 of Broken Vows

STEPHANO

I’ve warmed up on the treadmill, and now I’m going at this punching bag as if it’s his face. Sweat drips into my eyes and blinds me, but I don’t stop. I hate how Gigi Trapani always thinks the worst of me. This is what it means to be born into a Mafia family. Nothing can scrub you clean.

Her choice of words baited me to retaliate, but seeing the spark of jealousy in her eyes was like seeing a lighthouse in the dark. She cares. She sees those other women as competition or a threat—as if—and I hate how it made her doubt me.

And then, I had to taunt her by not telling her how things stand between me and the women who work in our clubs. It’s the first thing I’m going to tell her when I get home. In that moment where I really only wanted to fuck her on the kitchen counter, I had to leave to come beat out the age-old rage our conversations last night about Mom and Don Scalera unearthed. If it weren’t for those standing appointments I had this morning, I would have been at the gym hours ago.

Everything from last night felt undeserved. From her feeling safe with me, to her holding me and pressing that kiss to my back. Actions speak for themselves. It’s as if she knew what Ineeded more than I knew myself. In the night, when she stirred in anguish, I held her close. I bet she doesn’t know she has nightmares and whispersCarlaandFrancoin her sleep, getting more agitated at the mention of his name.

“You’re sparring today? With a human?”

The gym’s general manager has been eyeing me from a distance ever since I stalked in here an hour ago, too pumped for human interaction.

“Not a good idea, don’t you agree?” I huff back. When I’m in this mood, I’m dangerous. The flip. Fuck. Gigi even has a name for it.

“Two regulars are here, who’ve both been wanting your blood for days now. You’ve been a bit absent the past two weeks. You can fight both and walk out of here with a clear head.”

And a clear conscience, for what it’s worth. I wipe at my mouth with my gloved hand. “Fuck. Why not.”

When people know you, theyknowyou. This manager has overseen my gym since it opened seven years ago. He gets me. And the guys who sign up to fight me know what they’re getting into. No holds barred.

——

Two hours later, I’m about to take the stairs to my apartment, my head clear. I’m aching all over, having pushed my limits today, but that’s what happens when you fight the best. I’m going to have bruises, but it comes with the territory. The security detail we’ve installed to watch the street signals to me, and I nod. A package arrived, and it’s been verified.Good.

It’s not one package, but several in different sizes. As instructed, the delivery guy didn’t ring the doorbell, and Gigi must be home, unaware. Tony must be there too; I did let himin earlier as I walked out. I wade through the boxes to the door and open it wide, then pull the packages in one by one. It’s only when I look up that I notice Gigi sitting by the dining room table, her face buried in her hands, and Tony hovering by her side like a helicopter mom.

“Tried to phone you, boss,” he says. “She’s been like this since she opened her laptop.”

Fuck. I haven’t checked my phone since I stripped my suit jacket in the gym. “What’s happened?”

Gigi sniffs and glances in my direction, then shakes her head as she sobs again into a fold of tissues.

As I walk over, I indicate to Tony, and he gets the message to see himself out.

“Angel.” I touch her shoulder, and she sags back.

“They’ve come for me, Steph. They’ve come for my business.” She faces her laptop screen to me, and I sink into a chair. “Read it. Shit. It’s in Italian. Do you read Italian?”

“Sort of.” I pull the laptop closer, glancing through the lines, trying to make out the gist of the situation even though my reading Italian is at the level of an eight-year-old. Once Mom died, we read it less and less at home.

“There’re articles on several UK sites as well. Accusing my business of selling forgeries. It’s all fabricated, but I’m done for. They’ve basically killed everything I’ve worked for overnight with a few choice articles. I can’t fight this now. Not from here and not while I’m in hiding. You know I can’t.”

She shoots up and paces the room, caged. I toggle through the tabs she’s got open on her laptop, and my heart sinks. Each article is damning and clearly an orchestrated attack designed to make her retaliate and reveal herself.

This is good. They still don’t know where the Trapani women have fled to.

“God!” she cries out, her hands in her hair. At some point, she lost the ponytail because she’s tugging at her loose strands as if she’d pull it all out. “I worked so hard to get out, to get away, and this is what this sick life does. It pulls you back in and destroys everything good and pure and honest, then it just fucks you over until you die.”

I get up and pull her into my arms. She fights me, but as if she knows it’s futile, she almost collapses against my chest and fists my shirt as she presses her face tight into me. There’re so many words I can throw out there to appease her, but I say nothing because they’re meaningless.

I cup her head and hold her close as she weeps for a life she must realize now is long gone. She left it behind the night she chose to flee with her sister, and there’s no going back. In reality, it was ripped from her when Franco Fiore chose to make her his wife—she just didn’t know it.

“My inbox is flooded with emails from clients who want to know if the accusations are true. A few even suggested they will get professional evaluations done to check that I haven’t sold them fakes.” She sobs into my chest. “I buy from Christie’s, for fuck’s sake! And all the other reputable auction houses in Europe. They’re going at me as if I run my own bloody crime ring.”

Not a bad idea,but I keep it to myself. Every word she says is true. This life sucks you in and spits out nothing but your bare bones at the end of it. If you’re lucky enough to dodge the acid pit. Or the promession plant in Matteo’s basement.

“Have you responded to anybody?”

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