Page 55 of Bloody Vows
"Of course. This isn't a decision to make lightly." Enzo nods, though I can tell he’s a bit disappointed that I haven’t immediately agreed to his schemes. “But don’t take too long, Simone. The longer this situation continues, the harder it will be to correct."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that every day you spend as his wife raises the risks of this becoming more difficult to untangle. And if children come into the picture..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. A pregnancy would complicate everything, make any kind of separation exponentially more difficult.
I consider telling him that Tristan has only fucked me once, on our wedding night. But somehow that detail feels too privateto share. And even that once could have been enough to get me pregnant. There’s no guarantee that I’m not already carrying Tristan’s child.
“What if I’m already pregnant?” I blurt out, and I see Enzo’s jaw tense.
“Then we’ll arrange for you not to be,” he says calmly. “Another man’s heir would make our plans much, much more difficult. The complications would extend into the child’s adulthood, and if he or she were ever to find out their true parentage…” He shakes his head. “Better to nip that in the bud than to deal with problems later on.”
He’s right, of course, but the casual way he says it sends a chill through me. I swallow hard, not wanting to let him see how his suggestion affected me. I shouldn’t care. If Iampregnant, which is highly unlikely, it would be Tristan’s. I want no part of having a child with him… but something in me resists the idea of ending that pregnancy, regardless of how unwanted I know it would be.
I glance at the time. “I should go,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “My security is going to start getting restless. I said I was having lunch with a friend. I don’t want this meeting getting back to Tristan.”
“Of course not,” Enzo says smoothly. “But, Simone?”
I draw in a slow breath. “Yes?”
He catches my hand as I start to rise. "Think about what your father would have wanted. Think about the legacy you're meant to protect."
I nod mutely before extracting my hand and heading for the restaurant’s entrance. Vitto and the others are waiting outside, one of the guards smoking a cigarette, looking more casual than I know they are. I’m well aware that they’re on alert at all times, but someone else might not even notice them.
Vitto calls for the car and opens the door for me when it arrives. I slide in, my heart pounding. I got away with it. I met with Enzo, and we discussed the possibility of ending my marriage.
Not just ending it, but killing my husband. Myhusband. The thought is insane, but so is everything else that’s happened since my father died and Konstantin gave me that fucking ultimatum.
The drive home passes in a blur. I stare out the window at the familiar streets of Miami, trying to process everything Enzo said. He's right about one thing—this marriage isn't what I’d been prepared for. I wasn't prepared for the way Tristan looks at me like he wants to devour me, the way he makes my body respond even when my mind rebels. I wasn't prepared for the intensity of our fights, the electric tension that crackles between us, the way he makes me feel things I didn't even know I was capable of feeling.
Enzo is offering me what I wanted. A calm, traditional marriage where I'd be respected but not challenged, comfortable but not passionate. Apeacefulmarriage. One where, once I gave him the requisite children, I’d likely be mostly ignored while he went in search of a woman more to his taste, except for when I needed to hang off of his arm at parties.
Is getting back the life I expected a worthwhile justification for ending a man’s life? And not only Tristan, but whoever is framed to take the fall for it. Can I be as cold-blooded as the men in this world? Is that what it will take to have a chance at what I was promised before my father blew our entire life apart?
I'm still wrestling with these questions when we pull through the mansion's gates. Home. Except it doesn't feel like home anymore—it feels like a beautiful prison. Like all the comfort and safety I once found within these walls has been taken away from me.
By Tristan.
That hatred slithers through me again as I walk up the steps, Vitto following behind me. We step inside, into the cool marble interior of the entryway, and I expect him to split off, to go off and handle whatever duties he has to do for the rest of the day.
Instead, he comes up next to me. Something in his demeanor has changed, become more formal, more distant.
"Mrs. O'Malley, I need you to go straight to your room."
I turn slowly to face him. "Excuse me?"
Vitto’s face gives nothing away. "Your room, ma'am. Mr. O'Malley's orders."
"Tristan isn't even here. What are you talking about?" I narrow my eyes. “You’re not going to give me orders in my own home.”
“It’s Mr. O’Malley’s home. You are his wife.” Vitto doesn’t budge. “I’ll follow you up. You’re to stay there and not leave the room until he returns. Meals will be brought up to you.”
Cold dread settles in my stomach. “Why would he do that?”
“You’ll have to ask him when he returns. I spoke with him, and this is what he directed me to do. Upstairs, ma’am.”
I run through my options in my mind. Stay here locked in a stalemate with Vitto… until at some point, he’ll undoubtedly force me upstairs. Run… where? To do what? I doubt Enzo would shelter me from Tristan; at this point in the plan, to do so would be suicide. He needs Tristan dead and me playing the grieving widow before he can step in without great risk to himself and his—our?—plans.
Vitto must have seen something. Suspected something. Disobeyed my instructions to stay outside. I draw in a slow breath, pretending to be outraged instead of frightened.
