Page 142 of Married With Malice

The murmur of female voices draws my gaze to the top of the grand staircase. A memory stirs and I flash back to the night I stood in this very spot and waited to escort Anni to her prom.

On that night, she descended the staircase as haughty and untouchably gorgeous as a grand duchess. I watched her with teenage amazement, utterly spellbound, even when she glared my way with venomous dislike.

The night didn’t end the way I’d hoped but I still treasure that memory of Annalisa walking down the staircase.

Now she gets all of my nights.

She holds my heart in her hand and she can do with it whatever she likes.

Anni has ditched the bathrobe and looks more comfortable in an oversized hoodie and leggings. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail. There’s a sling on her right arm to keep her shoulder immobile. After placing an ice pack on her cheek, the swelling on her face has receded a bit. She moves cautiously, escorted by her sisters.

When I see her injuries, the twist of agony in my gut is real. My job, from now until forever, is to love and protect her. I’ll never fail again.

Anni is halfway down the stairs and giggling over something Sabrina said when she sees me watching at the bottom. She lights up with a brilliant smile.

I wait for her on the bottom step and coil my arm around her waist to steady her. “How do you feel?”

“Tired and sore. But grateful.”

She tips her face back and waits for a kiss. She gets one. She gets them all.

Sabrina wrinkles her nose and sniffs the air. “Is someone actually cooking…hamburgersat a time like this?”

“What better time is there?” I say.

Daisy beams. “Exactly!”

Rapid footsteps come from the corridor. Anni’s mother appears. She seems nervously excited as she motions to her daughters.

“Girls, your uncle is here.” She claps her hands at Sonny. “What are you waiting for? Open the door right now.”

There hasn’t been much time to ponder what to expect from Vittorio Messina but the man who walks in definitely missed his calling as a community theater Count Dracula. From head to toe he’s swathed in black Armani. His black hair is slicked back and untouched by grey. Thick gold rings decorate most of his fingers and he’s tall enough to meet me eye to eye.

He embraces his sister first. They greet each other in Italian, kiss cheeks and then he holds her at arm’s length. His features harden into ferocity when he notices the damage to her face, courtesy of her late husband.

Though my Italian comprehension is rather lackluster, I can pick out words and phrases in their brief conversation. Vittorio is pleased Albie Barone is dead. He’s also swearing to take care of his sister and his nieces.

He didn’t come alone. There’s a whole entourage of expensively dressed men standing by and awaiting instructions.

Anni’s mother points upstairs. Vittorio nods and snaps his fingers. Two of his men rush to his side. He fires out orders so rapidly that I can’t be sure what going on but I believe it has something to do with the dead body hanging out in Anni’s old bedroom.

I glance at Anni, knowing that she likely understands more than I do. She’s listening patiently without any signs of worry.

Sonny, meanwhile, believes there’s plenty to worry about. He retreats an inch at a time and keeps looking from Vittorio’s men to us and back again, wondering whether he’s going to live to see tomorrow.

He’ll be fine, but I have no problem with letting him sweat it out for a little while.

Four members of Vittorio’s crew proceed up the stairs and now Anni’s mother turns to us. Anni told me she hasn’t seen her uncle in well over a decade. Her mother speaks the names of her daughters with pride while I try to gauge Vittorio’s mood.

Lately I’ve acquired more skills when it comes to measuring the intentions of men. I don’t miss the way Vittorio’s shrewd black eyes assess us one at a time. Those eyes linger on me for the longest, judging my worth the same way I’m judging his.

“And this is Luca Connelly. Annalisa’s husband,” says Anni’s mother.

Vittorio isn’t the type to offer a handshake. He stares, waiting for me to blink first. When I don’t, the corner of his mouth quirks.

“You look like your brother,” he says in mildly accented but perfect English.

He gets credit for catching me by surprise. “You’ve met Cale?”

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