39. Graham
39
GRAHAM
The glow from the TV flickers against the walls, painting moving shadows across the living room. Some comedy Francesca picked is playing, something light and ridiculous, but I haven’t processed a single second of it. My attention is elsewhere.
On her. Always on her.
On the way she’s curled up on the couch beside me, one leg tucked beneath the other, a pint of ice cream balanced on her knee. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, exposing the bruises Giovanni left behind.
Every time my gaze snags on them, the anger surges back, hot and volatile.
She shouldn’t have to cover them up. She shouldn’t have to explain them away. She shouldn’t have to deal with that bastard at all. And once Sentinel and Oracle do their job, I’ll be well-equipped on how to eliminate him from her life altogether.
People assume there’s only one way to take someone out at the knees: physical violence. Broken bones, shattered kneecaps, the kind of brutality that leaves a man crippled and bleeding on the ground. And I won’t lie, the primal, vicious part of me itches for that. To feel Giovanni’s bones crack beneath my hands, to watch him crumple and beg for mercy he doesn’t deserve.
But that’s not the only way. It’s not even the most effective way.
Physical wounds heal. Bones knit back together, bruises fade, blood washes away. But there are other ways to destroy a man. To take everything he values, everything that gives him power, and grind it to dust. His reputation, his influence, his wealth. All the things men like Giovanni Baldini hold so dear.
That’s where the real damage is done. The kind of soul-deep destruction that leaves a man hollowed out and impotent. And that’s exactly what I plan to do to him.
Francesca’s soft laughter pulls me from the violent spiral of my thoughts. She’s watching the movie, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as she dips her spoon into a pint of ice cream. Salted caramel with pieces of chocolate-covered potato chips.
I watch as she brings the spoon to her mouth, pink lips wrapping around the silver utensil. Her tongue darts out to catch a stray drop of caramel at the corner of her mouth at the same time her gaze slides to mine. Like she knew I’d be watching.
It makes me feel exposed but I don’t pull my attention from her. Instead, I reach for her, running my knuckles along the ridge of her shin, needing the contact. Needing the reminder that she’s real and here and not some fragile thing that’s going to slip through my fingers.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and dips her spoon back into her ice cream. “Rocky Road or mint chocolate chip?”
It’s such an abrupt shift from the storm inside my head that I blink at her, my brain short-circuiting for a second.
“What?”
She grins like she’s got some secret, but it’s softer than usual. “You heard me, husband. Choose wisely.”
I shake my head, mouth twitching. How she manages to pull me out of the darkness with nothing more than a flash of her smile or the lilt of her voice should be studied. “Not even a contest. Mint chocolate chip is trash.”
Her gasp is so dramatic, she nearly drops her spoon. “This might be grounds for divorce. Sorry, husband, I don’t make the rules.” Her teeth rake over her bottom lip like she’s smothering a grin.
I chuckle and drag my hand over my jaw. “I recant then.”
“Phew, good answer.” She huffs, but there’s a teasing spark in her eyes. The moment is light, easy, but I can feel it. The way she’s testing the waters. Like she’s waiting to see if I’ll keep playing, or if I’ll push back.
I lean in slightly, mirroring her energy. “Alright, what else?”
She hums in thought, tapping her spoon against her lips. “Hm. Okay. Books or movies?”
“Books.” It’s easy enough. Truthfully, I’ll take either of them. But my wife owns a bookstore, and I’m a fast learner.
She feigns shock, clutching her chest. “Wow. You mean all those nights you spent hacking into my Kindle weren’t just for fun?”
I smirk. “Oh, they’re fun, sunshine.”
Her laugh is soft, her body tilting toward mine. I let my hand settle against her knee, absently tracing patterns against her skin. “Black Sabbath or Led Zeppelin?”
She stares at me, her nose scrunching up a little. “Taylor Swift.”
I laugh, my hand encircling her ankle and dragging her toward me. “That’s not how you play the game.”
She giggles as I pull her closer, until she’s practically in my lap. Her laugh turns into a soft gasp when I skim my fingertips up the back of her calf. “It’s my game. Who says I can’t change the rules?” she murmurs, her golden eyes sparkling with mischief and something warmer. Something that makes my heart thud heavily against my ribs.
I lean in, my nose brushing hers, our breaths mingling. “Alright, Francesca Carter, I’ll allow it.”
She inhales quickly, all traces of her amusement gone. I pull back, concern heavy on my brow. “What’s wrong?”
She wets her lips. “Nothing. It’s just, that’s the first time I’ve heard that.”
“Francesca Carter.”
She shivers and pulls back, putting space between us. Her gaze goes distant, staring aimlessly over my shoulder. Then she exhales slowly and sets her ice cream down. “I was worth twenty percent.”
I go still, taking advantage of the opportunity to study her. Fresh-faced and serious, features composed and hands curled tightly in her lap.
“My parents signed away my life for a merger with Baldini Holdings. In exchange, they got twenty percent equity in one of the biggest private holding companies in the country.” She lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been caged inside her for too long. “It’s millions. Tens of millions even.”
Something fractures inside me. It’s one thing to know she grew up in a world that didn’t value her for the incredible person she is. It’s another to hear the number. To know she was sold off like an asset on a spreadsheet.
A sharp fury coils in my chest, tight and unyielding. My fingers twitch, itching to tear something apart in her honor.
She takes a shuddering breath, blinking rapidly against the sheen of tears in her eyes. “My happiness, my well-being—none of that mattered. I didn’t matter. I was a bargaining chip, something they could use to advance the family. They never saw me as a person, just a means to an end.”
Her voice is quiet, but not weak. There’s a thread of defiance beneath it, a steeliness that makes my chest ache.
“Francesca.” Her name is a low rasp, dragged from some deep, aching place inside me. “I don’t give a fuck what number they put on you.” My voice is rough, unwavering. “They don’t get to decide your worth, sunshine. You’re worth more than they’ll ever know. And that’s their loss. You don’t belong to them anymore, remember?”
Her breath catches, something shifting in her expression. She stares at me for a long moment, her golden eyes shimmering with emotion. Then she exhales shakily and crawls into my lap, straddling my thighs.
My hands automatically go to her hips, steadying her as she settles against me. She loops her arms around my neck, her fingers playing with the short hairs at my nape.
“You’re right,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t belong to them anymore.” She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I belong to you.”
And for the first time in hours, some of the tension inside me lessens. It’s fucked up, and I know I should correct her. Remind her that she belongs to herself, despite how badly I want to call her mine. But I’m feeling selfish. So I swallow those words down, drowning them underneath layer after layer of crushing expectation.
It’s a sobering and terrifying realization. I never imagined being someone’s safe place before, but nothing has ever felt so right either.
I inhale sharply, my grip tightening on her hips. “Francesca.” Her name tumbles from my lips like a prayer, rough and reverent. She’s giving me something precious, something I’m not sure I deserve, but god, do I want it. Want her. All of her.
She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, her eyes molten and full of promise. She doesn’t look away. I don’t either.
The space between us is quiet, heavy with something unspoken. And I know— I know —if I touch her right now, if I pull her into me, something will break open between us.
Instead, I run my thumb along her jaw, just once, and let my hand fall away. “Your turn,” I say, voice rough, trying to steer us back to something lighter. Something that won’t make me want to hunt down her parents and burn everything they’ve ever built to the ground.
“Okay.” She exhales a slow breath and slides out of my lap, leaving her legs sprawled out over me. “If you weren’t hacking for a living, what would you be?”
The question catches me off guard.
I lean back against the couch, my palms on her thighs, holding her to me. “Cybersecurity isn’t just hacking,” I remind her with an arched brow. She just grins like she was fucking with me on purpose. It’s building security networks, following patterns, helping people, and stopping bad things before they happen. “I liked baseball when I was younger.”
Her brows lift slightly, surprised. “Like, liked liked? As in, considered going pro?”
A slow smirk tugs at my mouth. “What’s with the double liked?”
She nudges my knee with hers. “Just answer the question, husband.”
I glance at the TV for a second, then back to her. “Scouts came to a few games in college. I had offers.”
Her lips part slightly, and I hate that I like how impressed she looks. “Why didn’t you take them?”
I roll my shoulders, adjusting the way I’m sitting. “Baseball was just . . . a thing I did. Not something I ever wanted as a career.”
Baseball was predictable and mathematical. A numbers game. I liked that about the sport. But I never actually wanted to play.
She tilts her head, considering. “I can see that. You don’t like the attention.”
That gets me. My chest tightens for a second, because yeah. My mouth twitches into a rueful smile. “You’re not wrong.”
She hums, studying me for a long moment. “So cybersecurity, that’s your passion?”
I shrug one shoulder, suddenly feeling exposed beneath her gaze. “It’s what I’m good at. What I’ve always been good at.”
She nods, something thoughtful passing over her expression. “But is it what makes you happy?”
The question lingers in the air between us. Is it what makes me happy? I’ve never really thought about it like that before. Cybersecurity, hacking—it’s always just been what I do. What I’m good at. I never really stopped to consider if it makes me happy. There’s satisfaction in that, sure. But happiness?
I exhale slowly, my gaze drifting over Francesca’s face, tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the fullness of her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I never really thought about it in those terms before. I enjoy it, but I’m starting to realize there might be other things in life that bring me happiness.”
Like you.
The way you sing Broadway songs to the plants when you water them. The way you call your dog a thousand strange nicknames with affection. The way your eyes light up when you glance at me because you’re being funny and you’re waiting for my reaction. The noises you make when you fall apart underneath me.
The way you fit so perfectly into my life that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you go.
I don’t say anything, keeping the confessions safely behind my ribcage.
She hums like she knows I want to say more but isn’t going to push me. I’ll add that to the list of things that bring me happiness too.
She shifts, leaning closer. The scent of vanilla and sugared lemons clings to her skin, seeping into me like a slow burn.
“I used to think I’d be a librarian.” She exhales, her fingers skating idly over my sweatpants-covered calf. “When I was little, I’d sneak out of our private tutoring lessons and hide in the library.” Her eyes flick to mine, cautious but open. “It was my favorite place in that whole house. Books don’t care who your parents are, you know? They don’t care about money or bloodlines or whether you can hold a conversation about Bordeaux vintages.”
A small, humorless smile curves her lips. “I used to imagine myself behind the desk, in charge of all the books. People coming in and asking me for recommendations. And I’d get to decide which ones to display, which ones to highlight. Which ones deserved attention.”
I watch her, my chest tight, waiting for her to keep going.
She exhales a soft laugh, shaking her head. “It sounds silly now.”
“It doesn’t.”
Her breath catches.
I hold her gaze, letting her see it—the truth of my words, the way I see her. “You own a bookstore, Francesca.” My voice is quieter now. “You made it happen anyway.”
She blinks, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. And then she looks down at her hands, her fingers curling slightly. “Not the same.”
“No,” I agree, tipping my head toward her. “It’s better.”
A small sound leaves her throat, almost like a scoff. But her lips press together too tightly, like she’s trying to hold something back.
Before I can say anything else, she breathes out, “I’ve never told anyone that.”
The admission rocks through me. It’s small in the grand scheme of things. A childhood fantasy, a secret dream. But the weight behind it? The fact that she’s never told another soul? It feels like she just placed something fragile and important in my hands.
I nod once, slow. “Thank you.”
Her throat bobs, her fingers twisting in the blanket. “For what?”
“For trusting me with it.”
A shaky exhale leaves her lips. She looks away, then back at me, and there’s something soft and unguarded in her expression.
And before I can stop myself, before I can think better of it, I reach for her again. My palm finds the side of her neck, my thumb tracing over the delicate skin behind her ear.
She leans into me, and something settles inside my chest.
“Take me upstairs, Graham,” she whispers, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of my neck. “I don’t want to talk anymore. I don’t want to think about anything but you.”