Page 52 of Forbidden Sins

“That tour of the gardens, then?”

She forces a smile and accepts his hand, and the two of them head out of the dining room and down the hall to the doors that lead out to one of the garden paths. I follow them, as I’m supposed to, wishing that Estella would spare a glance for me even once, and knowing that she’s wise not to.

Every step still fucking hurts. I grit my teeth, determined not to let how much pain I’m in show as I follow at an appropriate distance. I don’t want Vito asking questions, and I don’t want Estella to know how much it all still hurts.

Vito is speaking to Estella in low tones as we walk out into the warm evening. It’s still light out, that soft, early evening summer light that only happens this time of year, and my chest aches as I watch them. I’d give anything to be the one walking with Estella right now, enveloped in the romantic warmth of the oncoming night, close enough to her to touch. Seeing Vito with his arm entangled with hers, his gaze sweeping over her with a possessive eagerness, makes my jaw clench and my hands curl into fists.

She’s going to be his very soon. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it without endangering us both.

We pass by the rose lattices, and I see Estella tense ever so slightly, see her lips pressing together as she nods at something Vito is saying. I hang back a little further, making sure that I’m out of their line of sight, and I watch as he leads her to the edge of the fountain, stopping just at the edge. A bit of the spray catches in Estella’s hair, drops glittering in the dying sunlight, and I feel my muscles tense as I see Vito capture her chin between his fingertips, leaning in for a kiss.

I can’t fucking watch this.Anger burns through me, stoked by the helpless despondency that I see in Estella’s eyes, the way I see her body go rigid with the desire to fight him off. At the last moment, I see her plant her hand against his chest, pulling her face away from his grip as she slides away from him.

Anger flashes in Vito’s face. He’s a man who doesn’t like being denied—I knew that already. No man like him tolerates waiting for the things he wants. He grabs for Estella’s arm, and I step forward, about to intervene before I hear her speak.

“Our wedding day will be so much more special if we wait until then,” she says quickly, her voice light and breathy, as if she’s denying herself something, too. She’s a better actress than I imagined. Her eyes widen, and she catches Vito’s hand in hers before he can reach for her face again. “It’s only a few weeks. It will mean so much more.”

Vito’s jaw tightens. “I’m not accustomed to being toldno,bella.” He reaches for her again, his hand curving around the back of her neck as he leans in, towering over her. “You want me to wait to touch you? Fine. But once my ring is on your finger—” A smile curves his lips, and he lets his gaze drift over her, slow and lingering on all the parts that I want to murder him for daring to look at. “You will never tell me no again, Estella. I will have mywifewhenever and wherever I please.”

Fear flashes in her eyes. “Of course,” she whispers, and I step forward, unable to bear her helplessness and her fear a moment longer.

“I believe Mr. Gallo wished for a supervised visit in the gardens to prevent any… inappropriate closeness before the wedding.” I meet Vito’s angry gaze without flinching.

Vito sneers in my direction. “What business is it of yours?” he snaps, and I smile coldly, enjoying the feeling of once again being secure in what I’m doing.

“I’m her bodyguard, Mr. Bianchi,” I reply flatly. “Her safety is my business. And her father asked me to escort the two of you to ensure her safety—including not allowing her to be touched by a man who isn’t even yet her official fiancé, let alone her husband.”

The look in Vito’s eyes promises consequences for the way I’m speaking to him. But I won’t have to deal with them yet, and for right now, that’s all that matters to me. That I’m able to stop him from touching Estella.

Vito lets go of her, stepping away from her and closer to me. “Antony mentioned that you would be coming with her when we’re married. He made it very clear that your continued employment as her bodyguard was a part of the agreement,” his eyes narrow. “That doesn’t mean I can’t make your life a living hell if you interfere with my household. Do you understand what I mean? When she is my wife, she will bemine. To touch in whatever way I please. Your job will be to protect her from outside threats, not from me.”

His meaning couldn’t be clearer. I glance toward Estella, whose eyes are now wide with fright, and I wonder if telling Antony about this conversation would change anything. If he would believe me.

He would have, I think, before what happened in the garden. But whatever trust there was between me and my employer isnow shattered. Vito will deny this conversation, and Antony will think that any argument I or Estella have is only because of what we feel for each other.

That was a consequence that I didn’t imagine when I gave in for those few sweet moments to what I wanted so badly. And now, I have no idea what to do about it.

“Don’t look at her,” Vito snaps. “Look at me. Do you understand me?”

I nod tersely, because there’s nothing else in this moment that I can do. But as I take a step back, watching as Vito returns to Estella’s side as if nothing happened, all I can think is that I have to find a way out of this for her. For us both.

If I don’t, then the promise I made to her is meaningless.

And it’s the one promise I can’t bear to break.

17

ESTELLA

The crystal chandelier above the table in the formal dining room casts fractured light over the three of us assembled there—myself, my father, and Vito—as fractured as I feel right now, as if I’m cracking apart on the inside, piece by piece.

This is the third dinner with Vito that I’ve endured, and I don’t know how I’m going to sit through a lifetime of them.

I sit up straight as I’ve always been taught, my spine a perfect, precise line. To my right is Vito, and to his right, my father at the head of the table. I’ve barely eaten in three days, but I still have no appetite as I look down at the veal cutlet on my plate, dressed with a cherry demi-glace and surrounded by tender roasted vegetables and a creamy risotto.

Vito, on the other hand, is eating hungrily. His knife cuts through the steak with a surgical precision, sending red juices spilling out over the plate, and I momentarily imagine grabbing my own knife and driving it into his chest.

I picture his red juices spilling out over my hand, warm and still pulsing with life, the shock in his eyes.

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