37. Salvatore
37
SALVATORE
I’m not sure the dissolution of my parental rights has the wanted effect because Ivy looks downright nauseous for the remainder of the morning as she rests on the living room sofa, surrounded by Olivia, Abri, and Layla.
The other women attempt to include her in whatever obnoxiously loud conversation they’re chuckling and chattering about, but the tension in Ivy’s smile and the anxiety in her eyes are dead giveaways she’s not in her usual sassy, happy place.
“We should get back to Baltimore,” Bishop mutters from the opposite side of the dining table. “There’s a little girl who won’t talk to me for a month if I’m not home in time to take her to the park this afternoon.”
“Our transport is already on standby.” Matthew focuses on me from beside Bishop. “But first, I want details on your next move.”
“What next move?” I drum my fingers on the table. Restless. Annoyed.
“Don’t play dumb, Salvo,” Remy mutters from the seat beside me. “It’s not like you wouldn’t have some sort of plan up your sleeve.”
I actually don’t.
Nothing of substance anyway.
Decision-making used to be a sport—destroy an enemy asset, order a hit, frame someone for a crime—but the variables have changed now Ivy’s carrying my child.
It’s like I’ve been leashed, no longer able to kick the hornet’s nest from fear the backlash will come back to sting her instead of me.
“I’m going to listen to Lorenzo.” I shrug. “We’ll sit tight for a while and hope things cool down.”
Bishop scoffs.
Remy frowns.
Matthew narrows his eyes, as if attempting to see through my words to the hidden motivation beneath. “ You’re going to sit tight?”
“That’s what I said.”
Remy and Bishop continue to stare as if my statement is a puzzle that needs to be deciphered while Matthew leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re worried about her.”
No shit.
“Of course I’m fucking worried.” My attention gravitates back to Ivy, like it has all morning. She looks uncomfortable, her usual ball-busting exuberance hidden under a slightly paler shade of beautiful.
I need to speak to Flores about pain management but that fucker has extended the time between her vital checks to four hours and hasn’t been seen since breakfast.
“You know you’re not alone in this, right?” Remy’s attention skewers my periphery from the seat beside me. “We’re in this together.”
“ We ?” I drag a droll look to Bishop. “Does he speak for you, Butcher ?”
“No.” His jaw ticks. “But your sister does, and unfortunately she’s already made it clear we’re team baby-daddy so get used to seeing my pretty face, motherfucker.” He pushes from the table. “Just don’t go making any rash decisions because I’ll still happily kill you for dragging me into unnecessary danger, and make it look like an accident.”
I roll my eyes as Matthew and Remy follow him to their feet.
“We need to take off, too.” Remy claps me on the shoulder. “But I meant what I said. We’re in this with you.”
I’m not sure what’s more unsettling—having support from my brothers or the sinking sensation in my gut that has me wanting to believe them.
All three men move toward the women, and I begrudgingly follow, my jaw tightening at the discomfort gnawing at me whenever anyone stands closer to Ivy than I do.
They say their goodbyes—the women hugging Ivy after she woodenly stands, my brothers offering far more subtle farewell cues.
“Try to enjoy bunkering down for a little while longer. You need to take the time to heal.” Matthew turns to me. “And once Lorenzo has gotten over his anger and?—”
“Uncontrollable resentment,” Bishop cuts in.
“—frustration.” Matthew grates. “I’m sure you two can figure out what needs to be done.”
I jerk my chin in acknowledgement, not wanting to talk business in front of Ivy. She’s already been through enough, and the thousands of fucking pregnancy websites I’ve scrolled through all state she needs to distance herself from stress.
“I’m going to keep my brother informed on what’s happening, too,” Layla adds solemnly.
Ivy frowns and glances at Olivia as if waiting for an explanation.
“Cole Torian,” I offer. “He’s in the same business, but on the opposite side of the country.”
“He’s an intimidating and powerful man,” Abri says. “Very scary. Very cutthroat.”
Layla chuckles. “Although factual, those attributes work in our favor because he’s on our team.”
“Are you sure about that?” I meet her gaze. “He’s not exactly my biggest fan.”
“To be honest, before yesterday nobody was.” Abri beams a viperous smile. “But in this situation we need all the help we can get.”
“He’s good people… for the most part.” Matthew steps forward and claps my shoulder in farewell. “Once this blows over, we’re going to sit down and have a chat about what actually went down between you and our parents.”
“Can’t wait,” I mutter.
“I want in on that conversation, too.” Abri approaches, surprising me with a hug that feels far too fucking sincere. “I’m sorry I lashed out yesterday. I’m glad you offed the bitch.”
I stiffen at the unexpected approval, my hand patting her back awkwardly. “Yeah… thanks.”
Olivia and Ivy murmur quiet farewells, their embrace long and painfully heartfelt as I pull away from my sister.
“I’ll call you.” Olivia squeezes Ivy’s hand. “Make sure you rest, okay?”
“She will.” I approach as my siblings walk for the hall. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Olivia stares down her nose at me. “You’d better.”
You’d better watch your fucking mou ? —
Ivy’s hand finds mine, her fingers squeezing in a silent plea. I grind my teeth. Force a smile.
“Of course,” I grit out.
Ivy snorts, her restrained chuckle dancing down my spine. “I’ll be fine, Liv. He’s a teddy bear.”
Olivia rolls her eyes and mutters, “Teddy bear, my ass,” under her breath before walking toward a smirking Remy waiting at the archway to the hall.
Ivy’s still smiling when the front door clicks shut, her features softened, her gaze distant and fixed on the floor—lost in thought.
I can picture her just like this—head bowed, face lit with tender joy, smile infectious—only it’s our baby she beams down at. A tiny bundle of dark hair and dark eyes that mirror her perfectly.
“Have my child, Ivy.” The words slip free before I can temper them.
She snaps out of the trance, her startled gaze pinning me.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. All I get is shocked bewilderment and the faintest hitch of her breathing.
“Have my child,” I repeat, stepping closer, needing her to concede.
“I heard you the first time.” She shuffles backward. “I’m just trying to figure out how I can demonstrate your need to back off without relying on bodily harm.”
A smirk tugs at my lips, the hollow threat making my dick hard. “Consider the demonstration unnecessary.”
“I hope so.” She gives me an evil glower, then painstakingly shuffles from the room.
Time moves in fits and starts after that.
The days blend in a mix of calm and chaos, a rhythm I can’t seem to break even when I try.
The highs are there—the way her stare lingers on me when she thinks I don’t notice, and how mine does the same every time she withdraws into her own thoughts. It’s in the brush of our fingers when I pass her a drink. The soft, begrudging gratitude when I make her a meal.
But the lows cut deeper.
I catch myself slipping, my patience fraying with how she keeps her plans for the pregnancy to herself.
I demand answers. She shuts me down with sharp words and sharper eyes.
Then nightfall comes and we slip into a wordless ritual—her body curling beside mine on the sofa, her warmth nestling close as we watch television, her silence a language I’ve come to understand as a cautious offering, one she only seems willing to give in the dark.
She lets me thread my fingers through her hair, never acknowledging the intimacy, not even when I follow her to bed, worship her with my hands, my mouth, my body, taking my time to unravel her until she falls asleep with my name on her lips.
If I were honorable, I’d tell her to leave. I’d demand Lorenzo’s blessing, set her up in some quiet corner of the world, and never look back.
Instead, each day is spent plotting a way to keep her by my side, where I could maintain some semblance of control. And with every new morning, I know I’m one step closer to not giving her a choice in her future.
Every fiber of my being—stitched together by monsters and hardened by violence—yearns to bend her to my will. To carve my mark upon her soul. To make her as addicted to me as I am to her.
I cook for her in Catarina’s absence. Help her bathe and tend to her wounds once Flores deems she no longer needs to be monitored.
I devour each moment she allows me in her presence—every sassy reply she volleys, every contented sigh she doesn’t mean to give. And with every passing day, I pretend I don’t feel this thing between us growing, tightening, sinking its claws in. Because I know damn well she doesn’t want to slip any further under my spell than I am under hers.
Problem is, it’s too late.
For both of us.
There’s no going back from this.
I’m tied to her. Bound. Shackled. Consumed. In ways that would ruin lesser men.
And once she finally realizes, it’ll be too damn late for me to allow her to run.