Page 103 of Of Murder and Matrimony

Ettore’s eyes popped wide, his mouth hanging open with the fear of death. To a man who thought himself a god, dying without fanfare was the worst possible punishment.

I backed away, holding the knife out in front of me in case he tried to attack me again. I’d just reached the door when it flew open, the wood splintering and showering over me. Diego stood in the doorway, the promise of retribution on his face.

“Olesya!” He deftly took my knife and wrapped his arms around my waist, pushing me back into the corner as men I didn’t recognize rushed into the room and surrounded Ettore in a wall of suits. My father-in-law seemed just as stunned as I was.

A much older gentleman in a black suit followed them, his hair nearly white and glowing in the moonlight filtering through the window. And Dante called me a ghost.

“Buonasera, figlio mio.” I might not have understood the Italian, but I could hear the sarcasm dripping from the older man’s words.

For the first time, I heard fear in Ettore’s voice as he shakily answered, “Arturo.”

“Surprised to see me?” Arturo mocked in a thick Italian accent, glancing down at Ettore’s bloody leg. “I see somebody has tried to claim my right.”

“It’s not fatal,” I assured him when he pinned me with shrewd, knowing eyes.

Ettore blustered. “But you said—”

“I lied.” I shrugged, and Diego muffled a chuckle by tucking his chin to his shoulder.

“You must be the doctor.” Arturo left Ettore on the floor and advanced on me. I shrank back against Diego and nodded.

I relaxed when Diego whispered, “This is Dante’s grandfather on his mother’s side. He runs the family in Calabria.”

“Are you okay, carina?” Arturo asked, ignoring Ettore’s bloody body and looking me over, reaching out as if he were going to check me for injuries myself.

“Yeah, fine.” I shuddered at the sight of blood on my hands as I raised them in front of me. I was used to healing people, not harming them.

“You can fix his leg?” Arturo asked, but it sounded more like a command.

I nodded. “I have the supplies in my clinic at the back of the property.”

Arturo spoke to one of his men in Italian, and the man left the room, presumably to fetch my supplies. I didn’t ask whether the man knew what he was looking for.

“Where’s Dante?” I shivered with the adrenaline coursing through my body, and Arturo shrugged off his expensive jacket and offered it to me.

“Your husband is on his way,” he reassured me, slipping the coat over my shoulders when Diego removed his arms. Instantly, I was enveloped in warmth and the scent of old-school shaving cream and mint. It offered a small amount of comfort.

“Come on,” Diego urged me to sit in the chair by the window. “Breathe for me, okay?”

It was then that I realized I was hyperventilating. Diego knelt before me and held my hands; his eyes locked on mine as he set the pace with a deep breath. I tried to match it, and my panic slowly abated.

Arturo’s man eventually returned with supplies, dropping them unceremoniously to the bed.

“Restrain him,” Arturo instructed, and two of the men wrestled Ettore up from the floor, tossing him onto the bed and kneeling on his shoulders and hips to hold him down despite his swearing protests. Arturo nodded to me. “Please proceed.”

I handed the coat off to Diego and sorted the supplies, arranging what I needed. When I reached to clean the wound, Arturo stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“That is unnecessary.” He pointed to the suture kit. “No anesthetic. Close it enough to stop it from bleeding so much.”

I didn’t argue with him. Instead, I ripped open the suture kit and pinched the slippery sides of the wound together as I maneuvered the needle, careful not to pierce myself. Ettore grunted as the needle pushed through his flesh but barely twitched. I’d never worked on somebody without at least a local anesthetic, but I found it didn’t bother me nearly as much as I thought it might.

After the ninth suture, I tied the knot off, put everything back in the package, and stepped away from the bed. “What will you do with him?”

“Do not worry about him,” Arturo reassured me. “My men will take care of all this, and I will speak to your husband.”

He turned and gave curt orders in Italian, and for the first time, I saw the ruthless mafioso underneath the grandfatherly façade. I shuddered as the men filtered out of the room, dragging Ettore between them.

With the others gone, Arturo patted my cheek gently and leaned in to kiss both sides of my face.

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