Page 53 of Bloody Vows
“That was your preferred type, if I recall.” Enzo gives me a knowing look, as if the fact that he remembered what kind of wine I like to drink connects us in some way. I suppose it should make me feel good, that he noticed. A lot of men wouldn’t bother. But I don’t feel anything. Only a knot in my stomach, reminding me that by being here, I’m crossing a line.
One that could come with far more severe consequences than just locking the door to my bedroom.
We order food to go with the wine—linguine with shrimp for me, veal for him—and make small talk until the waiter disappears. Then Enzo leans forward, his expression growing serious.
"I'm glad you agreed to meet with me, Simone. I wasn't sure you would."
"I'm curious what could be so important that you'd risk my husband's displeasure." I look at him, considering. “You have business interests here in Miami. This meeting could ruin them. Make an enemy of my husband and Konstantin.”
Something dark flickers across his face at the word "husband," and I file that reaction away for later consideration.
“Business isn’t for you to worry about,” Enzo says, and I feel my teeth grind together. “But that's exactly what I wanted to discuss. This marriage… it's not what your father intended."
I let out a sharp breath. "My father's intentions died with him."
"Did they? Because I remember my conversations with him, Simone. I remember the plans we made, the future we discussed. Your father wanted you to marry into a family that understood the traditions, the legacy. Not some Irish upstart who thinks he can waltz in and claim what doesn't belong to him."
“He has claimed it, though.” I’m not trying to needle Enzo, not intentionally. But if I’m going to consider anything he has tosay, I have to make sure that he’s considered the ramifications. That he’s taking this seriously. If not, then we could both go down in flames. “My marriage is legal in every possible way. Binding. What my father might have preferred is irrelevant now.”
"Is it?" He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "You don't seem happy, Simone. You seem… strained."
I pull my hand back, not liking the familiarity of his touch. "My happiness is my own concern. And it’s never been a part of marriage negotiations.”
That seems to sting Enzo. His mouth turns down slightly. “You don’t think you would have been happy with me?”
“I was thinking about my father’s wishes,” I say carefully. “My happiness would have come later.”
Ever the traditionalist, this seems to mollify him. “We could still make this right, Simone,” he murmurs, his voice dropping.
My pulse quickens. Not from Enzo, but from the thought of freedom.It wouldn’t be freedom for long,my mind whispers, but I ignore it. True, I’d trade one shackle for another. But Enzo isn’t Tristan. Enzo is polite. Sophisticated. Malleable. I could manage to convince him that it’s for the best that he visit me one or two times a month to make an heir. I could live my life mostly as I please, suffering his attentions in bed occasionally and making up for it the rest of the time with shopping and vacations and luxury.
And I wouldn’t miss Tristan’s touch. Or our fights. Or the way he makes me feel. Not at all.
I clear my throat, banishing Tristan from my mind. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
Enzo glances around the restaurant, then leans closer. "I'm suggesting that this mistake can be corrected. Your Irish husband is powerful, yes, but he's also reckless. New to the game. It wouldn't be difficult to arrange… an accident."
My blood runs cold. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect that to be the answer. I’ve never thought of myself as naive… but violence didn’t occur to me. How else would I be liberated from Tristan, though? Divorce is an impossibility, and he’d never let me go willingly. "An accident?"
Enzo waves a hand, as if the details are unimportant. "Nothing crude, nothing that could be traced back to us. Perhaps a problem with his business interests, a deal gone wrong. These things happen in our world, Simone. You know this."
I do know this. I've grown up in this world, seen how men disappear when they become inconvenient. I’ve seen seats at the dinner table that were occupied by one man one week replaced by another the next, in his same position. But hearing Enzo discuss Tristan's murder so casually, like we’re talking about the weather, makes my stomach churn.
"And then what? I become a grieving widow?"
"For an appropriate time, yes. And then you marry me, as your father always intended. I take over the territory, the business interests. We build the empire your father dreamed of, the way it should have been built. By Italians, for Italians. Konstantin will go along with it, once I present it to him as your father’s true wishes."
I swallow hard. “I doubt that. Konstantin and my father didn’t end on good terms.”
“Then we present it as yours.” Enzo sits up, his smile proud, as if he’s thought of something particularly unique. “You agreed the first time to marry Konstantin’s choice. Now, it’s your turn to choose. You want the man you were meant to marry all along.”
The waiter appears with our food, and we fall silent while he serves us. But I can barely look at the linguine, my appetite completely gone. Enzo, meanwhile, cuts into his osso buco like we're discussing vacation plans instead of murder.
"You're talking about killing my husband," I say quietly once we're alone again.
"I'm talking about freeing you from a marriage that should never have happened. Look at yourself, Simone. You're a shadow of the woman I met six months ago. He's breaking you down, making you into something you're not."
"You don't know anything about my marriage." My vehemence surprises me. Why am I defending Tristan, a man I hate? I should be asking Enzo how he wants to pull off the murder, not fighting to explain a marriage that I never wanted.
