Page 38 of Wedlocked

I didn’t miss his double meaning, and though it wasn’t smart of logical, that part of me that rebelled against authority swelled like a tsunami inside me, erupting then in a globule of spit that I made sure splattered across his face.

He swiped it off with one hand and drew back his other hand, swinging hard. His fist cracked against my face and knocked me off the bed, wrenching my wrist and making my ears ring as blood spurted from my nose.

I looked up at him, rage burning through me. Yet my words were cold and filled with contempt. “Ethan will kill you for this.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Because if you tell him, I will murder your beloved brother the first chance I get.”

I fisted my hands and shook my head. “You wouldn’t dare,” I hissed. “It would start a turf war that would see everyone butchered. It would be the end of both our families.”

He stood and brushed down his already immaculate jacket. “Who said your family would ever find out it was me who killed Salvatore? It’s not the first ‘accident’ that’s seen a member of your family eradicated. I’m certain it won’t be the last.”

Bile rose in my throat as the truth dawned. “That was you in the pick-up that killed my mother, wasn’t it?”

He shrugged. “I was the driver, yes. Unfortunately your mother was just a casualty. It was your father who was meant to have died that day.”

Whatever else he might have said became white noise as I emptied the contents of my stomach onto the floor, heaving over and over with no end in sight. When I’d finally finished, the tips of Lorenzo’s shiny shoes were close to the vomit. I looked up, his shadowed face vaguely satanic with his amused smile.

“Have fun angelo thinking of a way to explain your puffy face and vomit to your husband. Don’t forget…your brother’s life depends on your lies.”

I wanted to yell, to scream and tell him to never call me angel ever again, not in any language. Only his son had that right. But then Lorenzo walked out of the bedroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Leaving me battered and broken.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ethan

Dawn was breaking outside as I rode the elevator up to my penthouse while my stomach dropped to my toes. I’d been wrong to leave my wife on our wedding night, but I hadn’t trusted myself. My need to inflict harm had been far too strong.

Instead I’d escaped under the guise of overseeing a drug shipment that any one of my capos and their soldiers could have been tasked with.

I blew out a heavy sigh as the elevator pinged and its doors opened. Despite my wife’s uncertain future, I wanted nothing more than to respect her now, in this moment. That I hadn’t done that, not by a long shot, bothered me deeply. I should never have left her alone last night, not any night. That I’d also left her in the dark—my own biggest fear and phobia as a child—was hypocritical beyond belief.

But then, she knew I was no saint. My actions tonight would only confirm that. I might want to respect her, but I couldn’t do that when I also needed her to fear me. There were too many people who wanted her dead. And no one had that privilege but me. Our time together would be short enough.

I strode through the living and dining room and headed to the bedroom, my dick already hardening at the thought of seeing her again. Huh. Seemed my body had its own ideas on how to make it up to her.

Then I opened the bedroom door and flicked on the light in the still shadowy room, and my breath died in my throat.

What. The. Fuck?

I hadn’t been frozen with this much fear since I was a boy and my father had shoved me under the stairs and into pitch darkness. But seeing my wife slumped on the floor with her head hanging low, her arm pulled tight behind her and a pile of sick puddled near her feet, I was once again that helpless and terrified little boy.

Then she looked up, her face bruised and one of her eyes swollen shut, the other eye all too vacant.

I surged toward her in a run, crouching beside her and reaching out to gently cup her face. “What happened? Who did this to you?” I snarled, desperate to know the truth.

When she continued to stare blankly at me, as though all her fight and spirit had disappeared along with her mind, I dropped my clasp on her face to retrieve the key out of my pocket and unlock her cuff that restrained her. It opened up and I pulled her arm free, then bent to lift her against my chest, carrying her straight to the shower where the hot water would not only clean her, but hopefully revive her, too.

It wasn’t until I’d soaped her all over, then toweled her dry before choosing a random dress for her that a little of the light had returned to her eyes.

I sat her on the couch in my private sitting room, leaving her for a moment to pour her a drink. If the shower had half-revived her, then a whiskey should fully bring her back.

She took the proffered bourbon and gulped it down, and I took her empty glass and asked, “Are you ready to talk to me now?”

She scrubbed a hand across her eyes. “There is nothing to tell you. I-I felt…ill suddenly. I couldn’t use the bathroom, obviously, so I had no choice but to retch violently on the floor, hitting my head on the edge of the bed.”

She was lying, but I couldn’t force the truth out of her. And I wasn’t about to call on the services of my enforcer, Valentino. I didn’t want anyone touching her let alone torturing the truth out of her. I could do that all on my own if I so desired, and I most definitely didn’t desire that.

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