Page 93 of King

“I’m serious. I’ve been going over and over everything in my mind. They’ve made no demands for money, no demands for territory or power. This is personal. It’s about me. They want me dead.”

Santino closes his eyes for a moment and brushes his hand through his hair.

I should tell him everything. He deserves to know.

“At my wedding - they sent a bomb.” I say, feeling the weight of my confession as it lifts slightly off my shoulders. A burden I no longer have to carry along.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, disappointed that I didn’t trust him with this earlier. But it wasn’t about trust.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Dad, we’re in this together.”

I nod.

“Did they get the bomb into the estate?”

“Yes, but it was picked up by one of the scanners - and we got rid of it before any harm could be done.”

Santino is thoughtful for a moment.

“It is a very personal thing - to send a bomb to a wedding. If this was about business, it would be a bomb at one of the warehouses, not at your home.”

I nod again - he understands.

“Someone is trying to kill me.” I sigh, accepting the truth.

Santino sets his empty glass down on the desk. He leans forward and looks at me with an intense stare.

Narrowing his eyes, he asks. “Are you sure it isn’t your queen?”

I open my mouth to defend her, but nothing comes out. No words spring to my lips, no denial, no eagerness to convince my son he’s wrong.

I don’t know anymore.

Santino stands up. He places his hand on the desk, leaning forward, looking down he quietly says. “I think you just answered me. Your silence says more than your words.”

He walks away and I stare through the empty door into the dark hallway beyond it.When did he get so wise?

With a heavy heart I walk to my bedroom, to where Zina is lying in my bed, fast asleep. The woman I openly invited into my heart.

She’s lying on her side, facing where I would be lying, her hand stretched out to touch my pillow. Her face is sweet, doll like and innocent. Her luscious lips are parted as she breathes softly. Her hair, dark and silky, is spread out over her pillow in waves that frame her face.

My heart aches, because I love her.

The blankets have slipped down, off her shoulders, they are knotted around her legs as though she has been restless in her sleep. She isn’t wearing anything and my eyes trace over her gorgeous breasts, the delicate curve of her waist - my cock stirs as I watch her. I am a voyeur, secretly admiring her beauty.

Day after day I want to pull her close to me and brush my hands over her body. I want to kiss those perfect lips and thread my fingers through her hair. I want to hold her, and whisper to her - telling her how special she is.

But I can’t.

There are things blocking me from allowing myself to express anything towards her but silent distrust.

The suspicions I have are too intense to ignore.

Everything I tell her, every moment I share with her is a risk I’m too wary to take.

She is my weakness. She always has been.

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