Page 92 of King

The estate has turned into a prison of sorts, for everyone. If you want to leave you get searched, if you want to go somewhere, you are assigned a security escort. When you come back, you get searched again. Everything is scanned, poked at, prodded, questioned - it’s like we’re all waiting for a bomb to go off and we have no idea who’s holding the trigger.

But what upsets me the most is how my husband is treating me.

He is doing everything he can to pretend I don’t exist.

At night, Giovanni sleeps far away from me, on his side of the bed. He hardly looks at me, he hardly speaks to me, and I’m going quietly insane.

No matter how hard I try to reach out to him, he has the highest walls in place, and it feels like I’ve lost him forever.

If I touch him he flinches away from me as though I have a disease. His eyes no longer roam my body with desire - I don’t know what to do to win him back. I’m devastated.

I can’t take much more of this.

TWENTY-SEVEN

giovanni

I’m hiding in my office again. Hiding from her, and her beautiful gaze, constantly turned towards me as though she’s waiting for something. I’m hiding from having to deal with the hurt in her eyes every time I turn my back on her.

My desperation is getting worse by the day. The estate is in lock down, but this can’t be a long-term thing.We can’t live like this.

And my fears are eating me alive.

I’ve never felt fear like this - a genuine, undeniable fear that my life is in serious danger.

Ever since the day I took over from my father, there was always a threat, a constant knowing that any moment could be my last. But along with that threat I felt the respect of my allies, the trust of my business partners and friends - I felt powerful and in control of the word around me - and with that power I had a sense of security.

Right now, that control is gone. I’m in a defensive position for the first time ever, when I’ve only ever played offense.

I sigh loudly, picking up my whisky and taking a slow sip.

It’s past midnight. Another sleepless night, fighting the urge to reach out to her while she shifts closer to me in the bed - another sleepless night wondering if she’s the one trying to kill me.

Santino knocks lightly on my office door, walking in and sitting down opposite me at my desk. I push the bottle of whisky towards him, and an empty glass.

Silently, he pours himself a drink, leaning back in the chair and swirling the golden liquid in the glass.

“How are you doing?” he asks, without looking up.

I wonder how to answer him.

But all I can think of is that I can’t lie anymore. I’ve been trying to stay strong for my sons, but I need someone to confide in.

“I’ve never felt this lost in my life.” I mutter.

“We’ve been under attack before. We always came out fine.” He tries to reassure me.

“This is different, Santino.” I say with regret.

“How?” he looks up at me, his brows knotting.

“This is a lot more personal. In the past - people have come after my business, my clients, my products - this is—” my words trail off.

“What?” He demands, his body tensing.

“I think someone is trying to kill me.”

“Dad—”

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