Page 56 of Married With Malice

Oh Luca, what have they done to you?

While growing up, there were many reasons for me to dislike Luca Connelly. From his insufferable pranks to his fondness for verbally provoking me every chance he got, my list of grievances was long.

But what I’ve never seen from him is cruel violence.

He’s not cut from the same cloth as the killers who surround us.

They’ve molded him into one anyway.

Tonight I hate them all for that. His uncle. My father. Thecaposand the underbosses, all the way down the ladder to the soldiers. The whole fucking hierarchy.

They should burn in hell for putting that bleak look in his eyes.

Luca strips off his bloody clothes and drops them on the bathroom floor as he steps into the shower. An odd sense of déjà vu washes over me as I pick up the pile.

The last time I scooped his clothes up off the floor, I threw them into a fire. Funny how history repeats in a roundabout way.

The new backyard landscaping features a lap pool and a large entertainment patio with both an outdoor kitchen and a mammoth stone fireplace. Powered by gas at the flick of a switch, the fireplace roars to life with dancing flames.

I suppose the temperature is near freezing and I’m wearing a thin robe but I’m too wired with adrenaline to feel anything as I toss Luca’s clothes into the fire. They burn quickly. When every item is reduced to ash, I switch the fireplace off and the flames disappear.

Upstairs, Luca is finished with his shower. He sits on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers. The cut on his face is bleeding again. His ravaged knuckles look painful. On the right side of his ribcage there’s some discoloration, evidence that he absorbed a powerful blow.

His head was bowed but now he looks up. He hasn’t had a haircut since our wedding and loose pieces of damp black hair fall over his forehead.

“Stay there,” I tell him. “You need those cuts cleaned off.”

I can feel his eyes on me as I wash my hands thoroughly and rummage through the bathroom cabinets for the first aid kit. He hasn’t moved an inch when I return.

His knuckles are raw and will likely hurt for days but the cuts are more like shallow scrapes. I cover them with antibacterial ointment and move on to the gash on his face. Luca submits to my amateur doctoring without complaint.

An intense tenderness tightens my chest as I tend to his injuries. The closest comparison is the way I feel when Sabrina or Daisy is sick or hurting. Yet even that is not quite the same.

The bleeding has slowed. It doesn’t look like he’ll need stitches. After cleaning the small tear in his skin with an alcohol-soaked wipe, I dab on some antibiotic ointment and reach for a bandage.

“Do you like this nightgown, Anni?” he asks as I peel the paper tabs off the bandage adhesive.

It’s the first time he’s spoken since he left the kitchen. It’s also a strange question to ask. I don’t get the impression that he’s high. There’s also no evidence of a concussion.

Carefully, I press the bandage to the cut over his brow. “Why do you want to know?”

He unties the loose knot holding my robe together. Underneath, I’m wearing a red satin nightshirt with white buttons running down the front. It reaches mid-thigh and it’s not outrageously sexy but it’s not frumpy either.

Luca’s hands surround my waist. He slides his palms down my hips and pushes his hands beneath my nightshirt. In an instant, my nipples tingle and harden against the smooth fabric.

His breathing accelerates as his hands explore. “Because if you tell me you like it then I might not tear it to fucking shreds.”

Rolling the robe from my shoulders, I let it drop down to the floor. “No, I don’t like this nightgown. I hate it. I’ve always hated it.”

That’s not remotely true. This is my most comfortable sleepwear but fuck it. I want him. I don’t care what he’s done tonight or how messed up our relationship is. He’s the only man on earth with the power to make my body feel as if it can fly and ignite all at once.

If this is what he needs right now, he can have it. It’s what I need too.

Luca shoves his knee between my legs and pulls me down until I’m straddling his muscular thigh. The desolation is gone from his eyes, replaced with a glimmer of hot mischief.

“I thought you’d say that,” he whispers and moves my hips back and forth until I’m grinding on his thigh.

A low moan leaves my lips. My head tilts back and I brace my hands on his broad shoulders.

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