Page 22 of Till Death Do Us Part

“But,” Rosa continues, “you became too independent, Pippa. Too confident in your own skills. Some might say cocky. And while it is amazing that you can handle yourself, you’ve never had to.”

“That isn’t true,” I argue, though it’s weak.

“Isn’t it? You’ve only ever gone against targets and boxing bags. You don’t even know self-defence, Pippa, not beyond throwing a single punch. Yes you know how to handle a bunch of weapons, but what good does that do if you’re overpowered? How do you plan to fight off a 200-plus-pound man if he has you cornered? You got lucky today, Pippa. Lucky that he didn’t know you were armed, but you won’t always be so lucky. What happens when the next guy comes and you can’t arm yourself in time? What then, Pippa?”

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. The fact he was stupid and underestimated me is something I’ve thought about, and maybe the next guy won’t be, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go willingly. “But—”

“There are no but’s, Pippa. I hate Papá for making you believe you do not need anybody. You continue going around on your own, half-cocked with your weapons and you will get yourself killed.”

“Rosa, I won’t get myself killed,” I tell her, making a promise I can’t keep. There’s no guarantee in this life, and death comes when it comes, no matter how much you may wish to fight against it.

“Just let them guard you.” She sighs again, her voice laced with sorrow. “Please, Pippa. You can’t do everything alone, and you don’t have to. You’ve stepped into something that is way out of your skill range. Don’t be stupid, okay?” Before I can respond, she rushes off. “Love you, sweet girl.”

“I love you too,” I reply, though the line goes dead before she can hear the words. Locking my phone, I burrow my head into the pillow, closing my eyes. My room smells of vanilla and citrus, thanks to the new candles I bought today. It’s a familiar smell, the same as my bedroom back home, but the usual comfort doesn’t come when I inhale deeply.

Rosa’s words swim through my head, berating me as I try to settle. I’m not stupid enough to believe the Bratva are not dangerous, but Papá has always taught me to handle myself. I know how to fight. I know how to kill, if necessary, but has he set me up for failure?

He always told me I do not need others to fight my battles, that I cannot trust others to have my back when push comes to shove . . . but is he wrong?

Can I trust the men around me to have my best interests at heart?

The answer is laughable, really.

Of course I cannot.

While I know little of Mafia life and what it means to be in the Mafia, I know they will only protect their own interests. For now, I might be high on that list, but that is not to say I will remain there forever.

I slide out of bed, moving into the closest to grab a pair of purple satin pyjamas. I strip quickly, slipping the nightwear on and sliding into a pair of fluffy slippers. It is only seven p.m. but the library is calling my name.

For the rest of the evening, I lose myself in fictional words. At least in somebody else’s head I can pretend my life isn’t a mess. Whatever comes next, I will deal with tomorrow.

Including the new temptation of a bodyguard, who I would rather have hovering over me than standing at my back.

The knock sounds at my bedroom door, far later than appropriate for anybody to be making a social call. I glance down at my pyjamas with a sigh before tossing the duvet to the side and sliding out of bed.

Another knock, louder this time, has me rushing across the cold hardwood. I wrap my hand around the shiny knob, twisting it before pulling the door and coming face-to-face with Antonio.

He stares at me blankly, devoid of emotion when I step aside and motion for him to come in. I was not even aware the man knew where my bedroom was, let alone had any plans to visit me inside of it.

I quickly look over the room, wincing when I spot my underwear from earlier tossed on the chair. I have had no visitors in my room, not since Margo first showed me around, so I have had no reason to keep on top of making it tidy and put together.

I stand awkwardly by the door, toeing the floor while Antonio walks around. His eyes linger curiously on the few bits of décor I added this afternoon after shopping. It is only a few candles and some throw pillows, but this space feels more like mine now.

More like home.

“Is everything okay?” I ask quickly, grimacing when he snaps his gaze to mine. There is something different about him this evening—I cannot say what, but there’s something in his eyes and the hard set of his jaw that sends a violent chill passing over my body.

“I’ve been thinking about our marriage.”

“Okay?”

“We need to have a discussion around children,” he tells me, dropping down on the edge of my bed. With his crisp black suit and leather shoes—Italian, no doubt—he looks out of place against the rumpled pale pink bed sheets, another addition from today. “I know I said we could wait a while before the topic came up. However, after today, I’m not sure waiting is in our best interests.”

I highly doubt my best interests are of any consideration to him, he is only thinking about his best interests. That much is clear when he next speaks.

“My enemies seem to be closing in on you, and if you were to pass before giving me an heir, well that wouldn’t be a good thing, would it?”

“I have no plans to pass any time soon, Antonio.” I chuckle dryly, trying to brush away the knot forming in the pit of my stomach. We have only been married for just over forty-eight hours and already the topic of children is weighing heavily on my new husband—all because he seems to think I will die.

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