Page 138 of Mafia and Gold Digger

It’s not hurt that I feel. No, this is something else. Something deeper and thornier. Something that wraps around my heart and squeezes until the organ struggles to even beat.

“Fuck, Em,” I mutter, leaning against the banister, trying to remain composed.

I stride down the hall toward the guest room. I try the door and stop, pounding my fist against it. “Open the goddamn door, Emerald!”

There’s no response, and not a single sound comes from the room. Fucking perfect. I march back to the master and grab the spare key, using it to unlock the door to the guest room.

Throwing the door open, I’m standing in an empty room. She’s not here. The bed is made, and her laptop sits on the dresser. And although Emerald has been spending a lot of time in here lately, there’s hardly anything that gives me any clue of where she is now.

My eyes narrow. “Where the hell did you go?” I mutter, scanning the room once more. The closet door protests as I yank it open, nearly ripping it from its track in the process. Her spare clothing lines the hangers. More dress boxes and various shopping bags are scattered on the floor. I dig through them, throwing them behind me onto the bed after I rifle through them, looking for a clue. For something.For anything.

“Fuck!” My hand braces on the shelf in the closet, and I lean my head against it.

Leave it to Emerald to make me lose control like this. To feel like this.

I shove from the closet and turn to the mess I’ve made and freeze.

My eyes narrow as I look at the heaps of stuff I tossed onto the bed.

There among some dresses is a…

Onesie.

Not an old one—it doesn’t belong to Jaspar or Giulietta from when they were younger. No, this one is brand new.

I slump onto the edge of the bed, my hand slowly scooping up the soft material.

Fuck. Me.

The room spins. My chest heaves. And I can hear my breathing turn ragged.

My fist curls around the tiny pastel outfit, my eyes glued to the small item in my hands, my mind galloping at a mile a minute.

Is this why she ran?

Why the hell didn’t she tell me?

But the moment I ask that question, I already know the answer.

It’s been staring at me right in the face since I watched her take off down that aisle.

It’s me.

It’s always been me.

Not enough.

Not emotional.

Not capable of feeling something like love.

I’d let myself believe the delusion for too long. The tension between Emerald and I these past weeks only proves it. I’m never going to be what she wants or needs. I had to manipulate her into marrying me in the first place. And just when I thought that for once, someone could find me enough, could live with the fact that I can’t offer them comfort, solace, or emotional support, she turns around and runs.

My hand tightens around the fabric, wrinkling it in my grasp, my lip curling into a snarl as I stare at the baby onesie.

Veneti men don’t feel.

It’s a weakness.

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