Chapter 24
CARMELA
“ H ow was your day?” my husband asks.
Ettore Gallo couldn’t give a damn about my day, but he likes to play the part of a loving husband when the mood takes him.
It’s dinner time, and just the two of us are seated at the formal dining table. A threat has been posed, and Christian is lurking in the shadows of the room just in case a would-be assassin manages to get past the dozen heavily armed men patrolling this fortress of a home.
“What the fuck are you doing back here, babe?”
I’ve been unsettled all day. Watching Christian leave an innocent man covered in blood twitching on the floor of my favorite coffee shop will do that to you.
Babe? Why does he continue to keep calling me that where someone might hear? What does he get out of it?
“It was pleasant,” I say, summoning a vague smile.
“Good,” Ettore says, waving the maid over to refill his wine glass. The bottle is right there within easy reach. He could pour some for himself. My father used to pour his own damn wine.
My father wasn’t a pig.
“And get a takeout coffee for Mrs. Gallo.”
Maybe Christain’s calm during a pressurized situation should comfort me. It doesn’t. They should send him back to breaking fingers or whatever he does when he’s not watching me. He’s dangerous to have around me. Dangerous for my health.
“You smell aroused.”
It was just Christian playing mind games, toying with me, and trying to get a rise. He likes to do that. I imagine he is exemplary at interrogation.
He likes the edge of danger. Thrives on it. Maybe I do.
Or did…
Maybe I’ve reached the point where I might break if I take much more.
“Fine,” I say again. “Other than when Christian put his hands on me.”
I freeze, regretting the words the moment they leave my mouth. Why did I say that?
I feel Christian’s presence like a force of nature where he lurks to my left.
My husband puts his knife and fork down.
“Report.” The snapped order is not directed at me, but I still jump.
So stupid, Carmela.
“A man approached her in the coffee shop,” Christian says. His tone is neutral. “He was being persistent. I took him out the back. She followed and saw me. She started hyperventilating. I either put my hands on her or let her hit the floor.”
This game I have just thrown myself and Christian into is possibly a deadly one.
I’m not usually this reckless, and I’ve no idea why I’m being so now
My husband nods. “Make sure she doesn’t see such unpleasantness again.” He smiles at me and reaches to squeeze my hand, which should be a comforting gesture but really is not.
“Yes, sir,” Christian says.
Ettore picks up his knife and fork and continues his dinner.
I do the same although I need to choke every mouthful down.
This can’t be it.
What did I expect?
CHRISTIAN
The rest of their dinner was very civilized on the surface after Carmela dropped her verbal bomb.
Bitch. I can’t believe she ratted me out to Ettore. Then again, what took her so long? She’s responsible for my brother’s exile. She probably gets off on wielding her power. She gets off on violence, that’s for sure.
I know Ettore. I’ve been his wife’s bodyguard when she needs to go somewhere and shadowing his enforcer for the rest of the time for long enough to anticipate his plays. So when I get the call to report to Bosco’s club where Ettore still has an office, I have a bad feeling it won’t be just a chat.
Jero is waiting for me at the entrance. He stares at me for a beat too long. “Keep your hands down and let it happen.”
The ants start crawling under my skin. “Right, got it,” I reply, sarcasm dripping from my voice.
His next look is indecipherable before he turns around. I fall into step beside him. When we reach the stairs, we head down, not up to where Ettore keeps his office.
Fucking great. At least he doesn’t stop at the medical room, so hopefully, I’m not about to lose a finger… or my left nut.
A laugh wants to bubble up. I shove it back down.
Jero stops at one of the doors, opens it, and shows me inside.
It’s empty except for Peter and his sidekick, Bo. The ceiling has a single strip light in the center, the floor is plain concrete, and the walls are dark gray.
Peter is Ettore’s head of security and is generally wherever his boss is. Bo is just another grunt like me and does what he’s told.
Peter and Bo give me the nod.
I nod back.
This is business, nothing personal.
Jero’s cell dings. He takes it out of his pocket and checks the screen before slipping it back. A few minutes later, the door opens, and Ettore enters.
He’s been alright to me. I’d say he even likes me in his own weird-as-shit way.
But his hot younger wife just blithely announced that I’d put my hands on her, and he’s not the kind of man who will let that slide.
He’s still wearing his suit, dark hair swept back—he looks exactly what he is: a wealthy don and a powerful man.
The door shuts with a dull click. He walks over to stand in front of me.
I maintain eye contact even though the ants are marching up and down between my shoulder blades.
“You understand why you’re here? Why this needs to happen?”
“Yes, sir.” If she looks like she’s going to faint again, I’ll let the bitch hit the floor.
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t see unpleasantness.
” I’m going to make it my personal mission to fuck with her mental welfare any and every chance I get.
“Ensure there are no reasons why I need to touch her.” I’m going to wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze until she can’t breathe the very next time I’m left alone with her.
“Good.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes lightly. “You’re a good soldier. I appreciate you. But, even for you, I cannot let this pass.”
Guess I should be lucky he likes me…
“He’s still young,” Jero says. “He won’t let you down again.”
“I know he won’t.” Ettore steps back before walking over to the far wall, where he puts his hands into his pants pockets, all fucking relaxed.
Dick .
Jero motions to me. “Take your jacket off, mate.”
I undo the button, shrug out of it, and hand it over to Jero.
Okay, then. Hands down. Keep my hands down. That’s going to be easier said than done.
Peter and Bo take out a pair of leather gloves and casually slip them on—just another day in the office.
I kind of know what to expect, but also, I don’t.
I’ve fucked up and touched Ettore’s woman.
Yeah, if only he knew… For the most part, I believe Jero has my back, but we’re all just passengers on this ride, aren’t we?
They’re going to beat me. The important question is, at what point will they stop?
Peter and Bo look to Ettore. At his nod, they turn back to me.
Peter lands the first punch to my gut. I’m braced for it, but it still sucks the wind out of me—the second blow lands in the same place.
I lock my jaw, clench my fists at my side, and stare at a point on the wall opposite.
I’ve taken a punch before, plenty, to be honest, and administered far more.
It feels different when you’re on this side of the equation, though.
What I did to Carmela in the back room of the coffee shop sure as fuck doesn’t warrant this punishment.
None of that matters in this world of made men. We play by our own rules.
Keep my hands down.
In my mind, I picture Carmela, her pretty face flushed as I slam her up against the wall. My fingers are biting into her throat, but her pupils are blown with arousal, and she pants for breath because she gets off on that shit.
The blows keep coming.
My stomach is one big ball of roiling agony, and the rest of me is hurting like a motherfucker… which is when Bo steps in and directs his fist at my face.
I taste blood. It’s mine. It’s Carmela’s. It’s both a poison and an aphrodisiac on my lips.
The pain spreads outward from the points of contact until it engulfs everywhere. My right eye is swelling, and more blood pools in my mouth.
I don’t remember falling to my knees, only the awareness of being here. My stomach clenches involuntarily, and I heave up bile.
“Enough,” Ettore says.
I sway on my knees, breathing through the torment. Blood drips from my nose in a steady stream, splattering against my white shirt and onto the concrete floor. I’m on fire. My stomach lurches again. I swallow down the bile. Heaving hurts like crazy, and I really don’t want to do that again.
Highly polished Italian leather shoes enter the floor space before me, careful to avoid my vomit.
Ettore Gallo. I fucking hate this man. If Dante said the word, I’d slit his throat in the night, no problem. But Dante’s got a plan. I trust my brother and would do anything for him, even put up with Carmela and her bitch ways.
I lift my chin slowly and meet his eyes. He leans in and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s over. You’re forgiven.”
“Thank you, sir. I won’t fail you again.”
He releases me and turns to the right where Jero is waiting. “Get him cleaned up. Peter, you will drive Carmela tomorrow.”
The fuck he will?
My head whips around too fast for my pounding skull, and my gut clenches painfully again. Thank fuck everyone is focused on Ettore, and they don’t notice. The door opens and closes as he heads out.
Peter steps forward to help me up. I wave him off. “No offense but fuck off.”
“None, taken,” Peter says dryly. “You did well. Most lift their hands at some point. Ettore would have been paying attention to that.”
I’m too fucked up to work out what that means. “Jero told me not to.”
I push up to my feet. It fucking hurts. I think I’m going to throw up again, but somehow, I stave it off.
“Everyone fucks up at some time,” Jero says.
“You’re telling me this is normal? That he was looking for an excuse?”
Peter shrugs. Bo’s face is downright sympathetic. Jero’s lips are a thin line.
“Everyone lifts their hands,” Bo says, turning from Peter to Jero. “What does it mean that he didn’t?”
“It means he’s a nutter,” Jero says, handing over my jacket. “Come on, mate.”
CARMELA
I go to bed alone.
Ettore returns in the early hours of the morning, smelling of perfume and whiskey. Maybe he thinks fucking other women is a punishment for me? He would be sadly mistaken if that were the case.
The bed dips as he sits down beside me. The curtains were left open, and the grainy early morning sunlight casts his profile in stark relief. My husband is not an unattractive man, on the outside at least.
Beneath lurks a monster.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. A familiar sense of danger sets my heart pounding too fast in my chest, and I push up to a sitting position, fidgeting to adjust the neckline of my nightgown.
The other woman or women, supposing they have done more than fawn all over him, were merely a prelude to the main event.
“Why do you do this to me, Carmela?” He turns to face me with a haunted look. “Why do you make me crazy?”
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. We have done this often enough for me to realize there is no correct answer. There was a brief, na?ve time when I thought I might find a way to make this work—friendship, if not love.
We hadn’t yet married when he erased any such hope.
“Did you enjoy taunting your husband?” he presses.
“No, of course not, Ettore.” My breathing is unsteady, making the words come out in a rush. “I never would.”
“The thought of another man touching you, even through necessity, incenses me.”
My eyes feel too wide.
My nerves are stretched tight.
“Admit it, you did it on purpose. Pretended to faint. Ah, the games of women. Was I not giving you enough attention?”
I shake my head. The world is sliding, taking me with it, and while my mind scrambles for the magic solution, for the right words or actions, history and experience tell me there are none.
“I don’t believe you, Carmela. Was it a test of me?”
He lunges, fists my hair, and drags me from the bed. “I swore to your father I would protect you.” My knees hit the floor with a thud, and my scalp burns. “Even from yourself.”
He pushes me down, his greater weight and strength holding me with ease. My young adult notions of masculine strength offered a sense of comfort and protection. Now, it anchors my vulnerability.
“Please…”
My plea only incites him. The relief as he releases my hair is brief before the back of his hand smacks into my cheek. The pain arrives in an explosion. My head thuds back against the floor, the thick carpet offering minimal cushioning from the blow—my vision swims.
“You let another man touch you again, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”
I taste blood. My blood. But I am already flying, leaving the earthly confines of my body, my mind reaching for an alternate reality where it’s Christian’s blood I taste as we share a tumultuous kiss full of hate and burning need.
Reality intrudes when Ettore pushes into me. The pain of him entering my dry passage threatens to make me hurl.
“Please,” I whisper. Tears trickle down the sides of my face and merge with my hairline. Only I’m not calling to Ettore for mercy. I already know he has none. I’m calling to the man I should have married, who then abandoned me... who I haven’t seen in more than a year.
Dante .
I’m also calling to the last link I have to him, a man who hates me—who has every right to after what I have done—I’m calling to Christian.