Page 39 of The Forbidden Husband

“You’re evading the question,” she retorted, shaking her head. “What was the dream about?”

I moved toward her and wrapped an arm around her waist, bringing her into me. Somehow, despite what I had done, she didn’t flinch away. “Tell me you’re okay first, Aria.”

“I’m fine.”

The softness in her eyes told me she was being honest.

“I had a dream that someone killed you.” She gasped, her chest rising at the words. “Let’s just go to bed.”

“Talk to me, Enzo. Tell me why it bothered you so much.”

I didn’tknowwhy it bothered me so much. It should have, but I couldn’t get past the way I felt about her. The way she had wormed her way into my head and nested there.

I moved, guiding her back toward the bed.

I never planned to reveal anything significant to her. Not about myself, my businesses, or my family. But she did deserve some level of explanation after tonight.

“My father built our empire and expanded it all through New York. My Uncle Giovanni was on board, and he happily allowed my father to be the boss of the entire crime syndicate for years. He was feared and brutal, and it’s the reason we still have a substantial foothold even in Manhattan and Brooklyn where other bosses reside and do their businesses.” I had to find the line between the story she needed and the businesses we kept from the other rivaling families. “And then he met my mother.”

“Not Lia?”

I shook my head with a chuckle. “My biological mother, Rebecca. They were married within a month, and she was pregnant shortly after that. He loved her fiercely. She held sway in every part of his life, including his businesses. She was everything to my father, especially after having me.”

“Where is she?”

“Dead.” Aria’s eyes widened as I said the words. “She used her influence to coordinate an attempted execution of my father and uncle with the Russians. She wanted to become the boss. But the attack was a failure. The evening ended in the death of Uncle Giovanni’s only son—a five-year-old boy. And he was given the right to kill her. My dad loved her so much that he couldn’t be there to see it happen. That love was a weakness. And in my dream—the dream I often have after a brutal attack—she’sthere. She’s always fucking there, reminding me that I got the same traitorous genetics. I becamethisbecause of her.”

“That’s when your dad stepped down and gave the title to Giovanni?” Aria guessed.

“Yes.”

She placed a hand on my chest and pressed me back. I didn’t fight her as I fell backward and landed on the plush bed. I closed my eyes as her fingers ran circles around my bare chest.

“You dreamed that she killed me.”

I only nodded.

“I am not your mother, Enzo. I know that’s your fear, but I am not her. And I am not going to be hurt by her.”

Heaviness overtook me slowly, and I shook my head. “My dad had a weakness, and people were killed. A child was killed. And because of her, I could have killed you too.”

The truth lingered around us, but she didn’t comment on it. Not even as the heaviness of the truth hung there. Sleep began taking over once again, and I couldn’t bring myself to fight it as she lay close.

“I am not your mother,” I heard her whisper before I fell asleep.

It sounded like a wild plea more than a claim, but I couldn’t bring myself to consider the reason before I drifted into unconsciousness.

Chapter Thirteen

Aria Bianchi

The only sign of discomfort I allowed myself to show was the fidgeting on my finger over my watch as I waited impatiently for a message from my father.

I didn’t know what I expected or wanted from this conversation, but I was hoping for the most favorable outcome. I had gathered enough intel to make a reasonable assessment—he would never be able to stand against Giovanni and all of their manpower. From everything Enzo had told me and everything I had gathered, they had well over double the men that we had, only they were hidden much more effectively.

Now, despite waiting on traitorous communications, I sat at Enzo’s side, surrounded by a huge crowd of Rissis.

Just like at our wedding, the women talked loudly and expressively, and the men around the table didn’t seem to mind as they continued their conversations, slathering butter on the restaurant’s bread and scarfing down bites.

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