Chapter 28
CARMELA
I check my reflection in the en-suite mirror.
My hair’s been blown out into big bouncy waves, the way he likes.
I kept my makeup light. My dress falls to just above my knees, and my heels are exactly two inches—I have gone so far as to segregate all my former favorites in case I accidentally put a pair on.
Two inches… I feel like an old woman every time I slip them on. I swear if I ever escape Ettore’s clutches, I will never wear anything but four-inch heels again.
It’s been a week since the infamous incident where Christian fucked me on the kitchen counter at my father’s brownstone. The event represents yet another moment of sheer lunacy on both our parts.
My husband is a jealous, vengeful man who takes great joy in the demise of other people, while wielding his power with a savage lack of mercy. I’m under no delusions that my father lived a pure life, but he was a good man as far as being a father and husband went.
At least he used to be. Now, he’s a shell.
If I think about the kitchen incident—as it is now known—a lot, I also think about my recent conversation with my father.
“It won’t be forever.”
How I wish I could believe those words, could stay strong for just a little longer.
But it’s getting harder every day to pretend my life will contain some utopian resurrection when the best I can look forward to is Christian’s hate fucks.
The two of us are like warring planets circling, doomed to collide over and over.
One time will be one time too many. We’re getting more reckless.
Well, Christian is, and it’s not like I put much effort into stopping him.
I don’t know if he would stop if I did.
He said he would, but I’ve never once tested him.
My belly dips and my pussy squeezes over the memory of him inside me. Why does the thought of him not stopping arouse me so?
Does he sense I don’t really want him to stop, or does he simply not give a damn?
I’m nineteen. The first eighteen years of my life left me woefully underprepared for reading the intentions of the monstrous and the unhinged.
I exit the bathroom, cross my bedroom, and head downstairs for breakfast. If I’m lucky, Ettore will already have left.
As I reach the bottom of the sweeping staircase, I can hear his voice coming through the small gap in his office doorway.
Depression slips its arms around my shoulders and bares down, adding ever greater pressure with every step.
How can a mere voice fill you with such dread and loathing?
How can it leach the very memory of happiness away?
“I’m delighted with your decision,” Ettore says. “Helena will be thrilled.”
My footsteps slow in the hopes that I can catch more of the conversation. Anything that delights his bitch sister is usually bad for me.
“I appreciate your patience, Ettore. The role of capo was new to me. I felt I needed to prove myself first.”
Dante?
My heart squeezes in my chest. My mind is full of white noise, and I cannot process that it’s really him nor unpick what they might be talking about beyond it involves Helena. I stumble, my heel catching on an imaginary lump in the perfectly laid carpet, and a small gasp escapes me.
The study door opens wider and Ettore steps into the gap. My face feels like it slams through a confused jumble of emotions I can only pray he takes as the pain of my twisted ankle.
“Apologies, I caught my heel in…” I trail off—the memory of him slapping me in the bedroom chooses that moment to resurface. My mouth is suddenly dust dry. My thoughts cartwheel. The mask of fury that came down over him when I lifted my hands to protect my face from the second blow.
“You let another man touch you again, and I will kill you. Do you understand?”
He smiles. But the memories are pinballing around my head so rapidly that it takes me several seconds to realize the moment carries no threat.
He takes my hand, leading me into his office. “Come, congratulate Dante.”
My legs feel numb. Somehow, I put one foot in front of the other.
His scent hits me first. His strong presence next. “I’m a little behind,” I say, unable to so much as glance in Dante’s direction. “What are we congratulating Dante on?”
“His marriage to Helena,” my husband says.
My ankle is throbbing—the pain is the only thing centering me, stopping me from doing something stupid. “Congratulations,” I stammer.
I’m still wearing his necklace. I barely take it off other than when I’m going somewhere formal with Ettore, and when keeping it on would draw questions as to why I never wear my husband’s gifts to me.
I’m wearing his necklace, and he is marrying someone else.
“A wonderful match,” Ettore continues right over me. “My goddaughter will benefit from a strong father figure in her life. Given Helena has been married before, I know she would be happy with a smaller, intimate wedding. The sooner, the better.”
He says more. Dante replies, his voice, unlike Ettore’s, stirs a warm sensation inside me.
I don’t hear a single word.
Ettore slips his arm around my waist and holds me a little too tightly. I plaster on a smile that hurts my cheeks and try to work out how my diabolical life took this turn for the worse.
My eyes lift reluctantly, and steeling myself for the pain, come to rest on Dante.
Thank God Ettore finds something to laugh about then because it covers my gasp.
Past and present snap together like a bow string held taut for too long and suddenly released.
How can he look so similar, so devastatingly handsome, and yet different all at once?
Older.
Harder.
He was always a tall, powerful man, but it’s like he’s shed skin and grown. His shoulders fill out his suit just a little more, his hair is an inch longer, and his eyes are cold enough to match Christian’s when he’s inside me telling me he hates me.
Does Dante hate me? Does he, like Christian, see me as the reason he was pushed aside, forced to become a capo when he appeared very much settled into the role of consigliere?
He doesn’t look at me, nor acknowledge me. It feels like forever and no time at all when he checks his watch and offers his excuses to leave.
“A dinner this weekend,” Ettore says, his arm still looped around me as he walks Dante to the door. “To celebrate. You have been absent for too long, Dante. Now that our families are joining, I expect to see more of you.”
It’s an order, not a request.
Dante must be in alignment or likewise take it as an order because he offers his instant acquiescence.
“Will you be in the city long?” Ettore asks.
“I’ll stay tonight,” Dante replies. “I’m taking Helena out for dinner. Then I must be back tomorrow… I’ve been living in an apartment above the club, but I’ll need somewhere more appropriate for Helena and Peony… I might call in on Cedro this afternoon, if you think that might be appropriate.”
“Yes,” Ettore agrees, all affable now that he has got what he wanted. “He would appreciate the visit.”
The strain of maintaining decorum has my nerves paper-thin and it’s a relief to see him leave.
“Call Helena and offer her your congratulations,” Ettore offers me his parting orders into the strange void left by Dante’s departure. “Maybe you can join her for lunch today. She was good to you when you were planning our wedding. You should do the same for her.”
I didn’t know the situation could get any worse, but with those words it does.