Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Madi
“ Y ou’re going to wear out the carpet,” Roman says gruffly, gesturing to the stretch of floor I’ve been pacing. If I’m not pacing, I’m sitting on the couch while my leg bounces furiously.
“What happened to the guy who was following me earlier?” I ask Roman. I know enough to know Roman is one of Sam’s men. So when he pushed me into a black sedan behind the van that kidnapped Adrian, I quickly realized that it was Sam who had taken my new husband. Maybe not my cousin himself, since he’s still locked up in Orleans Parish Prison, but someone on his orders.
Adrian’s loyalty lies with my side of the family, my mom and uncle Damien, so Sam kidnapping him means he’s trying to get him to switch sides. A dangerous game.
“Don’t worry about it,” Roman tells me. I’m assuming he’s dead, then, whoever he was. I didn’t get to learn his name, but I knew he was just a kid. A big, scary kid who probably spent a lot of time punching other kids, but still, he couldn’t have been much older than me.
“They’ll kill him, ya know?” I stop my pacing to face Roman.
“Not tonight,” he says.
“But eventually.” I don’t know why the idea bothers me. I should want my husband dead. Not that long ago, I was begging John to get me out of this fake marriage. There was nothing more I wanted than to not be married to Adrian Russo. And yet, the idea of Sam finally offing my husband only makes my stomach sink. He doesn’t deserve to die .
“Not if he does what he’s asked.”
“And what is he being asked?” My hands have landed on each of my hips as I stare down Roman.
He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “Listen, if I were you, Madi, I’d encourage him to do whatever Sam asks. It’s better for everyone in the long game.”
“And if he doesn’t? If I can’t get him to listen? Then what happens?”
“You’ll be safe,” Roman says. “Sam won’t do anything to hurt you.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”
This must surprise Roman, his dark eyes lifting to assess me. After a moment, the corners of his lips tilt into a smile and he nods. “This is good.”
“What’s good?” I’m getting frustrated with this conversation, my heels tapping on the floor, my body looking for any way to release the anxiety that’s building up.
“You care for him,” he states, matter of fact.
“I don’t-”
“It’s not a bad thing, Madi,” Roman cuts me off. “If you care for him, maybe he cares for you too. And if he wants to help end this war for you, even better.”
“Adrian can’t end this war!” I throw my hands down, hitting my hips with a slap.
“No,” he agrees. “But he can get Sam out of prison, and Sam can end this war.”
The opening of my front door ends Roman’s sentence. Adrian comes through the threshold with a limp, holding his left arm to his chest. There’s blood seeping down the side of his face from a gash at his hairline. The way he’s holding himself tells me he’s in pain.
He looks at Roman and then to me. An exhale leaves his body, and his face seems relieved to see me, a fact that surprises me. Even more surprising is the realization that I’m also relieved to see him.
I don’t love him. I hate my husband.
But seeing him dripping with blood has my stomach wound up in knots.
“I’ll get a first aid kit,” I tell him, rushing off. I’m positive I saw one in the downstairs bathroom, and I run over to grab it.
“I’ll be watching,” I hear Roman tell Adrian, patting him on the shoulder before leaving. Adrian watches him leave, and when I return to the living room, he’s bolting the door behind him.
“What did they do to you?” I ask, ushering him to the couch. He winces as he sits down, his back leaning against the plush velvet.
“It’s nothing, I’m fine.” He tries to shoo me off.
“Shut up,” I say, barely refraining from rolling my eyes. He recoils when I bring the wet washcloth to his forehead, pressing it over the wound. “Where all are you hurt?”
“Madi, I’m fine. Honestly.”
“You’re a liar,” I spit at him. “Just tell me so I can help you.”
He stills at that statement, his head turning slightly so he can look at my face. His dark brown eyes search mine.
“I was worried about you,” I whisper, surprising myself with the admission.
“I’m sorry,” he says genuinely. “I was worried about you too,” he adds with a heavy breath. “When I couldn’t get ahold of Rocky, and then you weren’t answering your texts…” he trails off, closing his eyes, as if he’s trying to hold in his feelings. “I was afraid something happened.”
Something swells in my chest. “I didn’t realize he—Rocky, I mean—I didn’t realize he was gone, to be honest. I guess I’ve gotten good at ignoring my enforcers. When you came to the bar, then-”
“I had been looking for you.”
It’s not that big of a deal, I try to tell myself. I’m basically his property, the investment he made for his future. Of course he was looking for me. If I die on his watch, my family would be pissed. That’s it. That’s the only reason he cares.
“When you weren’t responding to my texts, I started to spiral.”
“Sam would never hurt me,” I tell him.
“No,” he nods, agreeing with me. “I guess not. But…there are others who would. People who would use you as an opportunity.”
“What do you mean?”
He moves his elbows to his knees, exhaling with a groan.
“Adrian, you’re hurt. Should I take you somewhere?”
“No.” He waves a hand towards me. “No hospitals.”
His words trigger a memory in my subconscious. My father sitting on the couch, groaning in pain as my mother dabbed at a wound with a wet washcloth. No hospitals.
My hands shake. I’m in a cycle. A vicious cycle where I repeat all of my mother’s mistakes. I wring my fingers, tugging on the joints as the memory assaults me.
“Madi?” Adrian’s voice breaks through the chaos in my brain, and I find his brown eyes watching me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I turn my head and avoid my gaze, trying to reset myself as I tremble, leaving the nightmares behind.
“Madi.” Adrian reaches out, his warm hand resting on my arm as he stares into my eyes. “Tell me.” He seems sincere, genuine even, as he waits for my response.
I try to laugh, try to let the sound leave my lips as if this is all a funny recollection. But the sound is harsh, painful even. “I just remembered something.” I test out the words, but my stomach feels sick at the thought of telling Adrian anything about my childhood. What happens in this house stays in this house. I can practically feel my father’s hands gripping onto the edges of my t-shirt as he shouts the words at me.
“What?” Adrian asks.
“My father.” Saying the title increases the sensation in my guy, like a lump of clay has settled down there, heavy and overwhelming. “He used to say that when he got hurt. No hospitals.”
“I’m sorry.” Adrian is quick with his apology. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay, you wouldn’t have.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thinking over what he’s going to say next. “How often did he come home hurt?” Adrian asks.
This time, I do laugh, a rough sound escaping my lips. “I don’t know,” I say with a slight shrug. “Often.”
“Geez,” Adrian hisses. “That must have been hard.”
How did we get on me?
“It’s fine.” I shake my head, trying to shake away these thoughts. “I’m fine. But you’re not. Please, let me get you cleaned up.”
Adrian stares at me for a long moment. I feel naked under that gaze, like he’s seeing into a part of me I didn’t mean to expose.
“Okay,” he finally says. “But tell me something,”
“Like what?” I ask, opening the first aid kit and pulling out the disinfectant.
“Tell me about your childhood,” he says seriously, gaze locked on mine.
My childhood.
My heart thrums quicker. Thinking about my childhood as my anxiety spiking. “I…I don’t know what to say,” I mumble, looking down at the bottle of disinfectant in my hands.
Adrian puts his hands on mine, uncapping the bottle and urging me to work as he continues. “What was it like? Were you happy?”
He braces himself as I dab at his wounds, getting them all cleaned with disinfectant. “Sometimes,” I answer. “I was happy around my grandparents; they had a lot of love to give us. And my cousins were always my safe space. Lily watched over me and Lana like a protector. And so did Sam and John, but it always felt like there was this divide between us.”
“What do you mean?” he asks as I open the band-aids to begin covering the open wounds.
“My mom and my Aunt Carlotta, Lana’s mom, always felt estranged from Aunt Cosetta and Uncle Junior. Like it was the older kids against the younger ones.”
“Because Junior was always the heir to take over the family?” Adrian asks.
“Bingo. My mom thought it should be her because she was the oldest. And when that didn’t work, then she pushed for my father, but Nonno would have never agreed to that. So finally, she wanted Marcus. But Nonno had always planned for it to be Junior, ya know.” I finish applying the bandages, but they do nothing for what I suspect are bruised ribs from the way he’s cradling them. “I should get you some ice.” I try to stand, but Adrian reaches for me, pulling me back down to the couch.
“No, stay.”
Nodding, I sit back down next to him, my skin tingling where he touched.
“Sounds like a lot of fighting,” he says, sounding solemn, going back to my family.
“It was.”
“I’m sorry you went through that.”
Something aches in my chest at his words. No one has ever apologized to me for my family. Most people get scared when they find out my lineage, like they might die just from being close to me. But no one other than Lana has ever commiserated with me.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “Your turn. Why did you become a lawyer?”
Adrian leans his head back, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully for a moment. “My dad was killed in prison,” he says finally, and my breath catches, not expecting that.
“Jesus,” I hiss. “I’m sorry, I had no-”
“You wouldn’t have,” he interrupts, ending my apology, like I did with his earlier. “It was a stupid charge. A good lawyer would have gotten him out on bail. But he had a public defender who was overloaded with cases. And then he was killed before he even got to trial.”
“That’s horrible,” I say, reaching out to place my hand over his while guilt claws its way up my throat. I practically accused him of being a money-hungry mob attorney. And that’s not even close to the truth.
Adrian shrugs with a shake of his head. “I like to think I can help men like him. That with me on their side, they won’t suffer the same fate.” For a brief moment, his eyes find mine, something lingering behind the shiny orbs.
All I can do is nod.
That’s the kindest reasoning I can think of for becoming a defense attorney.
Later, after I’ve gotten him ice and settled into bed, I lie next to him, rethinking all the ways I’ve completely misjudged my husband.