Page 92 of Bloody Vows
When I do see her, usually at dinner or in passing in the hallway, she's polite but cold. She answers my questions about how she's feeling with clinical precision, updates me on her doctor's appointments like she's giving a business report—both the ones she went to and the ones that are scheduled. She doesn’t argue with me. She doesn’t fight me. She answers my questions and gives nothing more, but she doesn’t complain or shout or tell me what she thinks of me.
She's giving me exactly what I thought I wanted: a wife who knows her place, who doesn't challenge me or make me feel things I shouldn't feel. But instead of relief, all I feel is a gnawing emptiness that grows stronger every day.
I tell myself it's for the best. This is how mafia marriages are supposed to work. Cordial, respectful, focused on the practical matters of building a dynasty. There's no room for messy emotions or romantic entanglements. But I miss the sound of her sharp tongue. I miss her fighting with me, just because it means that she’s feelingsomethingtoward me. I miss the feeling of her body under my hands, the look of the fire in her eyes.
I miss my fucking wife.
The breaking point comes five days after I saw that test. We're sitting at opposite ends of the dining room table, eating in silence as we have for the past week. She hasn’t argued about having dinner with me. She hasn’t argued about anything at all. Now she’s picking at her food, barely eating anything.
“You should eat more,” I tell her, hoping she’ll snap back at me, retort something sharp and cutting. “The baby needs more calories.”
Simone cuts a bigger piece of her steak, putting it in her mouth, and somehow that feels like a loss instead of a win.
"I'm going for a walk after dinner," she says suddenly, not looking up from her plate.
I set down my fork, immediately on alert. "No."
Now she does look up, her dark eyes flashing with the first real emotion I've seen from her in days. "Excuse me?"
Something that feels very much like relief washes over me at the bite in her words.There’s my wife.I meet her gaze, almost eager for a fight, just to see her shining through again. "It's not safe. Not with Sal still out there, not with everything that's been happening. Maybe if you stick to the estate, but…"
She interrupts me, her voice flat. "I’m going down to the private beach. I'll take the guards with me. I just need some air, Tristan. I've been cooped up in this house for days."
"The answer is no," I say firmly. "It's too dangerous."
Her jaw tightens, and for a moment I think she's going to fight me on it. I want her to, want to see that fire again, even if it's directed at me. But instead, she just nods.
"Fine. May I be excused?"
The formal politeness in her voice is worse than if she'd screamed at me. I nod, and she stands, leaving her barely touched dinner on the table as she walks out of the room.
I sit there for a long time after she's gone, staring at the empty chair where she'd been sitting. This is what I wanted, I remind myself. Distance. Control. A wife who doesn't challenge me or make me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
So why does it feel like I'm losing everything that matters?
An hour later, I'm in my office going over security reports when one of my men knocks on the door.
"Boss? Mrs. O'Malley left the house about ten minutes ago."
I'm on my feet before he finishes the sentence. "What do you mean she left?"
"She told the guards she was going for a walk on the beach. Said you'd approved it."
Fury and fear war in my chest as I shoot to my feet in an instant, grabbing my gun. She lied to my men, manipulated them into letting her leave. She's out there alone, pregnant and vulnerable, with Sal and his people still hunting for any opportunity to strike.
“You didn’t fucking think to double-check with me?” I snarl, and the man flinches back visibly.
“She said you thought the baby needed some fresh air. That she’d take three guards with her as long as they kept their distance. That you said it was fine, she even said they could check with you if they needed to?—”
“So why fucking didn’t they?”
“I—” The man stutters, and I have to rein in my temper to keep from going to find whoever it was that allowed her out of their sight and kill them where they stand.
“Get whoever let her go to me, now. They’re fired, and I’m going to tell them so myself.”
The man is stuttering in agreement and apology, but I don’t bother listening to it. I’m already heading out of my office and down the hall to the back entrance of the house, the quickest way down to the beach where my wife has gone.
The night air is cool against my face as I step outside, but I barely notice. All I can think about is Simone, somewhere out there in the dark, possibly walking into a trap. The thought of anything happening to her, to our child, makes my vision go red around the edges.
