Page 34 of Of Murder and Matrimony

Only, he didn’t just wrap it around me. No, he wrapped his arms around my back and drew me near enough that my lace-covered breasts, nipples hardened in the cool air, brushed against his white dress shirt, leaving wet spots behind. I clenched my fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

After what seemed like an interminable length of time where I focused on drawing the next breath and not passing out, Ettore adjusted the towel and wrapped it around to my front. His long, cold fingers tucked the corner between my breasts, and I closed my eyes, willing my churning stomach to settle.

He didn’t have to use words to tell me I was in danger. Every movement, every breath, screamed like a warning siren.

Ettore looked down at his shirt, his smile feral. “Look what you’ve done, naughty little bride. Run along inside and find your husband.”

I didn’t hesitate, gripping the towel at my chest and darting away without stopping for my clothes and shoes, blocking out his rumbling laughter. My wet feet slapped over the stone path as I raced toward the house, trying not to think about what I saw lower; the growing bulge in the man’s black suit pants that hinted like father, like son, was truer than my rebelling stomach wanted to believe.

I shoved through the first door I came to, the one leading down the main hall. I was still running when I smacked into a hard chest, bouncing off and nearly falling until warm hands steadied my shoulders.

“Mrs. Neretti,” Diego’s alarmed words washed over me. As soon as I was steady, he yanked his hands away. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

My chest rose with each heaving breath as I looked up into his concerned face. I could barely find air for what I wanted to say. “Ettore. At the pool.”

Diego frowned, his brow furrowing and the corners of his lips turning downward. “What happened?”

“He—” It was then that I realized I was about to tell this guard that his boss—the fucking mafia Don—had frightened me. What would I say? That he was mad and made me get out of the pool, where he offered me a towel and told me to go inside? It sounded crazy when I thought about it. And what would he do? Storm out there and fight for my honor, only to be killed for insubordination?

No, I couldn’t tell Diego. He looked upset enough to confront the family patriarch. “He startled me, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?” He crossed his arms, studying my face.

I tried to school my expression. “Completely. I just panicked because I wasn’t expecting anybody else to be out there. I’m fine now, I promise.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m going to go upstairs and grab a quick shower.” I pointed toward my room. “I’m a little embarrassed. Could you get my clothes for me?”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Diego grunted. “And Mrs. Neretti?”

I stopped and looked over my shoulder, meeting eyes that were far too assessing for my liking. “Yes, Diego?”

“You might wipe those tears from your cheeks.”

Shit. His dress shoes tapped against the hard floors, echoing through the hall as I nearly ran upstairs, swiping my fingers across my cheeks. I was crying. It was becoming an all-too-common occurrence in my new home.

Chapter Eleven

All the fucking work and no… well, not much play. It didn’t make me dull; it set me on edge.

My wife hated me, and my father secretly despised handing over the empire to my younger, more capable hands.

He didn’t see it that way.

I got the feeling he was beginning to resent my deeper involvement in the family business. Talk about micromanaging. He’d started insisting on Friday meetings where all the capos paraded through his office, giving him updates they’d already reported to me.

He’d taken a fucking bullet to the leg—a through-and-through—and hadn’t even lost the limb. It was nothing compared to what Niccolò had faced, but my brother seemed more determined to recover from his devastating injuries than my father.

No, Ettore Neretti wanted to pile all the responsibilities on my shoulders while he sat back and smoked cigars and sipped whiskey. I had half a mind to call up Seamus O’Connor and tell him to stop sending cases of that shit to our house. It was some part of our alliance, the exchange of alcohol—Irish whiskey for my father, Neretti wine from Calabria for the O’Connors.

I tried to ignore the sallow color of his skin and the tendrils of acrid tobacco smoke that drifted from the end of his cigar to the ceiling of his office. He wouldn’t meet where I did the majority of my work, instead insisting on meeting in his little-used office downstairs. It was a stupid farce where he pretended to pull the puppet strings, and I couldn’t say a damn word about it.

Clenching my fist in my pocket, I leaned against the wall and listened to the capo explain how protection collection was going. I already knew, and I’d mentioned it to my father earlier in the week. That wasn’t good enough for the Don.

If he knew my thoughts, he’d probably give me a hole in my leg to match his. They were leaning more toward patricidal as the days passed, my mind losing touch with the dangerous reality my body lived in.

My heart began to pound, and my palms turned clammy as sweat dampened my brow. I couldn’t lose it now. Not in front of my father and his men. I inhaled through my nose, counting before I let the breath out slowly. It was a trick I’d learned one night when my anxiety sent me searching on an anonymous browser.

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