Page 72 of Vicious Heir

“There’s a storage locker. Everything’s going there, and I’ll sort it all out later.”

“Okay, that’s easy then. Should I get rid of the obvious trash?”

He hesitates. Then he nods. “I trust you.”

For a moment, we stand there looking at each other. Our last conversation plays through my head. The stress was breaking him then, and I’m not sure it’s much better now.

But he needs my help. I can set aside my feelings for a little while. Packing is the least I can do.

I get to work. Everything that isn’t worth keeping for later gets tossed in a black garbage bag, while the rest is carefully packed into boxes. Breakables are covered in paper and bubble wrap.

I throw myself into my task. After a half hour, I catch him standing nearby and staring at me with this odd look on his face, like he’s not sure if I’m really there. I smile at him and raise my eyebrows. “Take a picture,” I tell him. “That’ll last longer.”

He laughs. It’s not even funny, but he leans back against the barren bed and holds onto his stomach. I grin at him and wonder if he’s finally gone insane.

“You okay?” I ask when he finally gets it together.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He kneels down next to me. The piles of stuff are mostly gone, but he has the closet emptied out. All that mess is next. “You don’t need to help, you know. I haven’t exactly given you any reason to.”

“Maybe I don’t need a reason.”

“Lucy—”

“We don’t have to do this.” I gently place an old 1988 Phillies World Series mug into one of the boxes. “I get it, you’re busy. You’re fighting a war. You’re running an empire. I’m fine.”

He seems bothered by that. “You don’t have to be. You can be angry.”

“Do you want me to yell at you?”

“Maybe a little bit.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, bud. Not happening.”

“Bud?” His eyes narrow. “I’m not sure I like that.”

“Too bad, pal.” I cross my arms. “Buddy. Chief. Bro.”

He licks his lips, and I catch a glimmer of the old Adriano, the man I first married. The one with the wicked mouth and the darkness. The man who slipped out of his mask and showed me glimpses of who he really is beneath the bespoke suits and the brutality.

But he turns back to the mess. “We should get to work,” he says softly.

I don’t argue. Side by side, we go through everything. The movers are getting closer and closer, and we only just finish by the time they make it back into the bedroom. Adriano insists on helping carry out the last few boxes. I drift after them, watching from a distance as he tips the men generously. Their enormous moving truck rumbles down the street, and my husband comes back to me, sun drifting through his hair.

He walks up the steps, and I expect him to slip past again. He’ll disappear into his office, and the last hour we spent in companionable silence will fade along with him. I’ll go back to feeling abandoned and worthless.

But instead, he holds out his hand.

I stare at that callused palm. Symbols are tattooed on his knuckles: a cross, a skull, a five-pointed star.

I reach out and awkwardly grip him like we’re old work colleagues.

He pulls me forward. I yelp in surprise as I run into his muscular body. His arms wrap around me, and I tilt my head back to look into his eyes, and that’s when he buries my mouth with his.

Fuck, it’s unexpected. It’s soft and wet and tastes like gum.

And it’s good; it’s so good. It’s the kiss I’ve been craving for months. The kiss I’ve needed so badly all this time. I push into that kiss, open my mouth for his tongue, let him invade me, take me, as his arms tighten their grip on my body. I whimper into him, feeling pathetic and weak and soft, but not caring. Becausethis is all I’ve wanted. Him, my husband, back in my arms. Back in my life. Treating me like I’m a woman worth keeping.

The kiss holds and holds, and he finally breaks it off with a deep breath in through his nose.

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