Page 42 of Broken Innocence
With our inconspicuous beginning, I’ve been determined to woo her with date nights and orgasms. A slice of normal in an otherwise unconventional life. We’ve even spent a few Sundays with her parents at their house for dinner. They’ve thawed considerably since our first meeting, but I’m not sure we’ll ever have a close relationship.
“Did you enjoy your meal, Butterfly?” I signal our waiter for the check after our dessert plates are cleared.
“You know I did,” Eden says, sharing a private smile with me. Her moans of delight had been a highlight of the evening, leading to a secret game of light caresses under the table.
She likes to pretend I’m the bad influence in our relationship, but my wife has a naughty streak she only lets out for me.
My Butterfly spreads her wings with each new day.
Gently guiding her toward the exit with a palm to her lower back, we collect our jackets from the coat check and step out onto the sidewalk. I texted our driver that we were ready to go, and he pulls up to the curb as the valet waves goodbye.
Our driver ducks his head while opening the back door, and an itch forms on the back of my neck, but I dismiss it. There’s no reason to be paranoid. The man is Blackthorn, one of our security detail.
“Everything alright?” Eden can always tell when something is on my mind, and I never imagined how comforting it’d feel to be known so well. My brothers are good at deciphering my moods, but it’s not the same.
This is Eden.
This ismy wife.
“Yes, it’s fine.” My hand cups her bare knee and squeezes. Her burgundy dress has tempted me all evening with its deep vee and peeks at her lush thighs.
Settling in the backseat, I inhale a slow and steady breath through my nose before releasing it through my mouth—reaching for the previous calm I felt at the restaurant.
The drive home is thirty minutes without traffic, but this is Friday night in Boston, so cars line the road, keeping us from speeding toward evening plans involving my face buried in my wife’s pussy.
When the driver takes a right turn instead of left, that gut warning reemerges. Stronger and unwilling to be sidelined again. “You were supposed to go left back there,” I say, leaning forward.
“Change of plans, sir. You and your wife are expected at the D’Amora estate.”
The fuck?
Eden straightens beside me, confusion clouding her eyes. “Your father?”
Brows knitting as my mind races to piece together the endgame here, I shake my head in bewilderment.
“If Enzo wants to see me, tell him to set up an appointment rather than playing games while I’m out with my wife.” I’m regretting leaving my weapons at home. Sure, I could reach out and break the man’s neck with no problem, but that would leave Eden and I at the mercy of a runaway vehicle. One going nearly sixty miles per hour as the driver picks up speed on the highway.
I’m not willing to risk our lives on such a slim chance of survival.
But once we reach Enzo’s? We’re screwed.
I’ll only have my hands to protect Eden.
Reaching into my coat pocket, I withdraw my phone to text an SOS to my brothers, but the driver clucks his tongue and lifts a gun into view. The barrel points at my chest, never wavering despite us rapidly changing lanes.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Growling, I drop the phone in my lap and glare at the man. Hat pulled low. A number tattoo on his neck. That’s probably what I noticed was off when the car appeared at the restaurant.
The Blackthorn soldier who originally chauffeured us downtown didn’t have a tattoo there. I wonder what happened to him. If this guy killed him before stealing his place in the driver’s seat.
The D’Amora man grins to reveal a row of chipped teeth. He must have been someone’s punching bag over the years, or maybe he reveled in getting his ass kicked no matter how many teeth got knocked loose or cracked. It’s obvious he’s enjoying his rush of power over us.
The signs overhead show we’re headed toward Weston as downtown Boston morphs into suburbs then mansions surrounded by trees and iron gates. I recognize this route. Enzo has a colossal estate hidden in the dense forest, in addition tohis Beacon Hill brownstone. If memory serves, Enzo also bought Fabian a property out here.
A tentative, pink-tipped hand slides over my thigh, but I keep my gaze forward. Our driver keeps a sharp eye on us through the rearview mirror, halting Eden’s progress toward my cell. By the time her fingers manage to tilt the phone to hide its light, we’re pulling into a winding concrete drive. Lights glow from inside the modern monstrosity of gray stucco slapped onto a flat rectangular frame.
“This isn’t Enzo’s house,” I mutter under my breath.
