Page 1 of Brutal Husband

1

Rieta

“Rieta.Rieta. Open this fucking door.”

Nero’s fist thunders on the locked bedroom door, and his beastly roar reverberates through the house. I whimper and back away into the en suite bathroom, watching the bedroom door jump and rattle as my husband pounds away on it. A piece of flimsy wood stands between me and my enraged, six-foot-three, muscular husband. I’m terrified he wants to get his hands around my throat andsqueeze.

“Open this door. How dare you do this to your husband!”

There’s an almighty bang, and I hurriedly close and lock the bathroom door. I slide down the tiles and hug my knees, trembling in fear on the cold floor.

“You can’t hide from me forever, Rieta.”

I’m not thinking about forever. It’s doubtful I’ll survive until morning.

“The longer you lock me out, the angrier I’ll be with you.Fucking let me in!” The hammering reaches a crescendo. There’sa violentwhomp, whompnoise, even louder than his fists. He must be kicking the door in, using all the strength in his powerful body.

There’s the sound of wood splintering, a crack, and then a bang as if the door has burst open and rebounded against the wall. A moment of silence follows the chaos while I hold my breath.

The beating starts up again, only now it sounds like it’s right inside my head. Nero is hammering on the bathroom door just a few feet away from me. His anger is so unhinged that it’s bleeding into this cramped room and smothering me.

I’ve never known my husband to fly into a rage like this before. Sometimes he burned hot and intense, but usually, he was cold and withdrawn. Right before he disappeared, he acted so aloof, barely aware that I existed. He hurt me with his rejection, not his fists.

That was before he came back from God knows where believing so many lies about me.

Six months ago, my husband disappeared without warning. No phone calls. No notes. No messages for me or his business associates. I notified the police, but they weren’t interested in devoting time and effort to locating a man they’d wished dead long ago. If Nero had gotten on the wrong side of someone and been assassinated, then good riddance to him.

Because of Nero’s line of work—which is highly criminal—I suspected the worst. A rival syndicate had executed him, or the brother or son of someone he’d killed had taken their revenge by murdering him. Every time a body was pulled from the river, or a burned-out car was discovered in scrubland, I waited for the police to come knocking on my door, but it was never Nero.

My sisters lent me their strength, especially Mia. The Bianchi sisters have bad luck when it comes to vanishing men. Mia’s then-lover, Lazzaro, disappeared right after she discovered shewas pregnant, only to reappear suddenly at her side, beaten black and blue with broken bones. He’d been held captive by my uncles on Mom’s orders.

What if Mom had locked Nero away too?

I begged Mom to tell me if she’d done anything to Nero while she swore up and down that she hadn’t. Another scandal was the last thing she wanted after her husband left her for her own daughter. I rarely trust Mom these days, but I eventually gave up suspecting that she had something to do with my husband’s disappearance.

I was left with no trace of Nero. No clues as to his whereabouts.

Then my husband returned out of the blue with no explanation about where he’d been. No acknowledgment that he’d even done anything wrong. He appeared on our doorstep with fresh scars on his body and a newfound energy to rule this house with an iron fist.

To rule me.

Nero used to be a workaholic, but now I’m his single-minded obsession, and the sick thing is, Iwishedfor this. When we were first married, I longed for Nero’s undivided attention. Ours was an arranged marriage, and we only knew each other a few weeks before I was walking down the aisle toward him, clutching a bouquet of happy, optimistic daisies. My name Rieta—short for Margherite—means daisy. Mom said daisies were too ordinary for a high-society wedding, and I should carry roses, but Nero assured me that the day was mine, and I should carry whatever flowers made me happy.

Sometimes he could be tender.

Sometimes.

If I’d known that our wedding day was the last time he would ever smile at me, I would have turned and run out of the church.

The hammering on the bathroom door ceases. I hear Nero take a few deep, angry breaths, and when he speaks, he’s straining with effort to sound normal. “Cara mia. Let me in. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

I get slowly to my feet. I’ll swim through lava before I open that door. I don’t believe a single word out of his mouth, but I’m sick of cowering in fear. I’ll stand on my own two feet as I talk to him.

“I need you to leave, Nero,” I call, my voice shaking. “Go somewhere and cool off. We’ll talk later.”

I don’t want to talk later. I never want to see this terrifying man ever again. For the months he was gone, my nights were gray with fear and loneliness. I wondered if I’d ever feel warmth again, but that misery was bliss compared to the hell I’m living in now.

“Why should I?” he growls.

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