Page 123 of Devil's Tulip

Christ. What the fuck is going on?

I grab my phone and open the tracking app—something I should have fucking done the moment I got home. I go to the little picture of Gianna and tap on it. When I fixed the clasp of her necklace, I added a little extra treat for myself: a tracker. And thankfully, she hasn’t taken the damn thing off since.

I check her current location—in my house, exactly where she should be. I scroll up to the history, going as far as this morning when I left for work. She stayed in her bedroom for hours. Then, around mid-afternoon, she went outside the house, then to the living room for only a few short minutes before leaving the house again—leaving the compound entirely.

My jaw clenches as I follow the tracker’s path straight to Aldo’s place, where she spent three damn hours before returning home—at almost the same time Aldo showed up at thecommissionemeeting with this ‘evidence’.

Something doesn’t fucking add up.

I’m being set up. This is all Aldo’s twisted plan.Gianna’s desperate words come back to haunt me, and I fist my hands.I’m being framed. I’m innocent.

Lead fills my stomach as I storm out of my office, taking the stairs two at a time towards the back where I’ve imprisoned my own wife. My wife, who was telling the truth all along.

I slap my palm against the security panel impatiently and rush through the door the instant it slides open, down the hallway to the last room, where I find her curled up into herself on the thin mattress, shivering violently.

My heart lurches painfully as I yank the door open, cursing as a gust of freezing air hits me. What the fuck? “Why is it so cold in here? Didn’t Lorenzo turn on the heater?”

Gianna looks up at me wordlessly, her face pale as death, teeth chattering audibly.Fuck.I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her trembling shoulders. Then I wrap my arms around her and scoop her up, carrying her out of the freezing hellhole.

Lorenzo’s fucking dead as soon as I see him.

“Wh–what’s going on?” Gianna asks, her voice small and uncertain as I carry her out of the hallway and towards the stairs.

I don’t say anything—I can’t push the words past the thick lump in my throat and the agonizing ache in my chest, and she doesn’t ask me again. I take her to the bedroom—not her room, butours—where I gently place her on the bed and cocoon her in thick blankets. Then I watch her intently, waiting for her shivering to subside.

Finally, she meets my gaze, those golden eyes still holding that heartbreaking confusion. “What is it, Michael?”

How could I have punished her for something I knew deep within me she didn’t do? Just for the sake of my reputation? Fuck that.

I run an agitated hand through my hair and, instead of answering her question, I counter with my own. “Who’s the man in that picture with you? Where do you know him from? When did you meet him?”

She sighs, her gaze dropping from mine, and I hate losing that connection with her more than I’ve hated anything. “I already told you—I don’t know him. But you’re not going to believe me, are you?” Her voice is hollow, resigned.

I silently will her to look back up at me, and only when she does do I say, “Try me.”

“Well, Michael, I’ve never seen that man before. I have never and would never cheat on you. I don’t even remember being on that bed at all—much less naked,” she says emphatically, but then her eyes go distant, unfocused, and whatever memory surfaces makes her whole body shudder. She goes even paler, her eyes haunted by ghosts I can’t see.

What happened this afternoon? What did that bastard Aldo do to her?

“What is it?” I demand, even though I have no right to. “Tell me everything.” I need to understand how it all went so catastrophically wrong.

“Aunt Marie came here today. I was stupid enough to let her in. Thought I was being the better person—showing her kindness she never once showed me.” Her mouth twists in self-loathing. “Well, turns out she didn’t need it. She drugged me, stuck a needle in my neck. Next thing I knew, I woke up at Uncle Aldo’s place somehow. I suspect she had help.”

My heart shrivels as she speaks, while simultaneously, a deadly rage builds inside me. The fucking audacity of that family—after everything they’ve done to plot against us, they still dare to pull this shit?

As she finishes her story, her lips tremble and hot tears spill down her ashen cheeks. The sight of those tears—tears I caused—breaks something fundamental inside me.

I go down on my knees in front of her and reach beneath the blankets to find her hands, clutching them tightly in mine. “I’m sorry.”

Gianna stares at me, lips parting in surprise, so I force myself to repeat the words. “I’m sorry.” I bow my head and press my face against our joint hands over the blanket. This is only the second time in my life I’ve apologized to anyone, and the first time was to her as well. She’s the only one I’ll ever go on my knees for, the only one I’ll ever humble myself to apologize to.

And while I know it’s not nearly enough, I’ll apologize a thousand times and spend the rest of my life making it up to her.

“I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions,” I continue, my voice rough with guilt. “When I saw that picture… I just—my mind snapped back to the past. I saw nothing but red. Stopped thinking logically. Even though I knew deep down you couldn’t have done what you were being accused of.”

She hesitates before asking gently, “What happened in the past?”

I stiffen, the old hurt clawing its way up my throat. I’ve never talked about this to another living soul, and I expect it to be excruciating to articulate these memories. But to my surprise, the words flow easily. I shouldn’t be surprised, really. It’s always been easy to talk to her. She makes it easy just by being herself.

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