Chapter 14
Mario Luciano
My heart twists and I stand frozen in uncertainty as Valentina tries to hide her sniffling as she kisses my scars.
She could be acting, but my soul reaches out to hers, wanting to comfort her and downplay my suffering so she’ll stop crying.
My doubts grow, but I cling to my need for vengeance.
If anyone could tug at my heartstrings, it would be this little liar.
Except she has been brutally honest, even when her safety is at stake.
I snarl, turn off the water, grab her nape, and push her out of the shower in front of me. Afraid I won’t stop if I touch her again, I yank a towel off the warming rack and shove it into her arms before taking my own and drying off.
She towels dry, and although she’s graceful and sexy as hell, there’s no artifice or attempts at seduction in her movements. I toss our towels back onto the rack and guide her toward the sinks.
She gives a long blink as she studies the products on the shelves lining the mirror. When she makes no move to take anything, I select the bottle of lotion that irritates my skin the least and move it to the counter.
“Put it on,” I demand.
She fills her palm with enough lotion to cover her entire body.
I take what I need for my arms and step back.
Confusion mars her brows when I smear it over my skin.
She looks between my arms and her hand several times before laughing.
What starts as a giggle morphs into a full-belly laugh, and she braces her arm on the counter.
I never in a million years would have fathomed my stolen bride laughing hysterically while we stand naked together after our first time having sex. I stare at her, dumbfounded and aroused, until concern gives way to fury.
Even when I tangle my hand in her hair and pull her head back, she continues chortling.
“I’m sorry. I thought you meant put the lotion on you .
This—” she lifts the hand full of lotion, “—is enough for two of me. Fucking hell, it’s not funny, but I can’t stop laughing.
” She leans her head back against my hand, completely disarming me with her trust, and blinks tortured eyes up at me.
“Were we always this terrible at communicating?”
Her question cleaves my soul in two because I don’t have an answer.
I scoop half the lotion out of her palm and straighten her onto her own feet again. When she uses the counter for balance, I note the lines of exhaustion around her eyes and her uncoordinated movements.
After lotioning everywhere I can reach, I take the leave-in hair conditioner, hairbrush, and the hairdryer off the shelves.
“Mario?”
My cock stiffens as she says my name in her soft, sweet voice.
I grunt in acknowledgement.
“Will this irritate your back?”
I meet her gaze in the mirror. She holds the bottle of lotion. I shrug.
“I can… is there a cream or ointment I can put on your back for you?”
The concern in her clear blue eyes punches me in the gut. If she hadn’t lied to her father, I wouldn’t have these scars, but if she didn’t know her father attacked me because of them—which is what all her recent reactions point to—then her guilt may be genuine.
“No. There’s nothing,” I lie.
Tears glisten on her lashes, but she nods and returns the lotion to the shelves. Guilt slices deep in my chest, but I push it away and slide the hair product to her.
She works a dollop into her locks without even glancing at the bottle but pauses midmotion and looks up. The accusation in her eyes tempts the beast within me.
“This is what I always use. So were the shampoo, conditioner, and soap.”
I lean my face into hers and smirk.
“I told you I was always watching you, didn’t I, paperotta ?” I growl.
A flurry of emotions flips through her expression. She surprises me when she relaxes her shoulders, nods, and continues threading her fingers through her wet hair.
“Does that mean you also know I dye my hair?” she challenges.
I pause and study her scalp.
Of course she dyes her hair. She looks stunning as a brunette, but she had naturally light golden blonde hair, just like her mother’s, growing up.
Her maid at home never reported hair dye on the grocery list, her salon treatments never included coloring, and I never saw her dying her hair in the hotel room, so I brushed it off.
Why is she telling me this now?
The skeptical part of me demands she’s scheming, even though she looks a hairsbreadth away from passing out from exhaustion.
By the intensity behind her droopy eyes, she has a reason for asking.
“Why does it matter what you do with your hair?” I snarl.
Her unhinged laughter lifts the hairs on my nape.
“So you know everything else about me, but don’t wonder why I dye my hair, wear hideous nightgowns, or sleep with a knife under my pillow?” The humor drains from her face, and she delivers her next words completely deadpan. “Some stalker you are. I’m tired. Goodnight.”
I grab her wrist as she tries to walk around me.
“You are not going to pitch a fit and then go sulk in my bed,” I growl.
She grits her teeth, takes a long, measured inhale through her nose, then pastes on the fakest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Of course not, mio marito . I won’t be sulking; I’ll be sleeping. Please kindly release my arm,” she says in the most saccharine voice possible.
I wrap my hand around her throat. She instinctively grabs my wrist. Her pulse leaps against my digits and her pupils shrink. I open my mouth to warn her, but she drops her fists to her sides and speaks with emotions swimming in her eyes.
“I chose you , Mario. I chose you.” With anger in every gesture, she points to herself and then to my chest as though I don’t understand, “ I chose you .” She takes a deep breath and steps back before holding her arms out beside her.
“This is it. My one decision. There’s no going back.
I have no ulterior motives. I’ve given you everything, and now I’m going to sleep. ”
She turns and stomps toward the bedroom. I don’t try to stop her. Water drips from her hair and rolls down her shapely ass. My cock stirs, but the bruise on her hip and the disappointment hidden in her words dull my arousal.
She stumbles. I reach for her, but she catches herself on the doorframe, sends an angry glare over her shoulder at me, and pushes herself upright. When she shuffles to the bed, gets under the covers, and falls asleep within seconds, I wonder if my hatred blinded me to the truth.
I want to believe her, but I prowl across the space on silent feet and loom over her.
Once I confirm she’s truly asleep, I run my hands over my face and shake my head.
I pull on a pair of sweatpants and toss our discarded clothes into the hamper, fishing out my phone and wallet before separating Pietro’s knife and the pistol I shot my father-in-law with from my chest harness.
I lock the other weapons away in the safe, place the knife and pistol in the bedside table drawer, and join my bride in the bed.
Unsettled from her proclamation, I pull up this morning’s security footage from her hotel room.
I curse myself again for not upgrading to a camera with sound, but her father rarely visited her room, and it seemed a waste of resources with her wedding date drawing near.
Valentina drags herself from her bed. Despondency emanates from her every movement, but she becomes animated when she opens my gift.
Pietro arrives as she’s closed in the restroom changing into the blue panties I gave her.
She steps out of the bathroom, dodges her father’s attempt to brush her hair back, then grabs a plate from the breakfast cart.
Bitterness rises in me. She’s acting like a spoiled brat. If she’s implying her father was worse than me because he wanted to comfort her with the platonic gesture, then she’s more of a drama queen than I gave her credit for.
I stiffen when Pietro grabs her arm and presses his front to her back. He leans down to murmur in her ear.
Valentina whimpers in the bed beside me. I force my muscles to relax despite the emotions churning in my gut.
Violence fills the screen.
He reaches for her throat. She jabs him with the tongs. He shoves her down. She tries to scramble away, but he flips her over and raises a hand to slap her.
Even without sound, I know his words are pure evil by the expressions on both of their faces.
Valentina shifts in her sleep again. I aim the light from my screen at her face. My heart stops at the horror twisting her features. Sweat glistens on her pale flesh.
On my phone, Pietro grabs her face and lowers his hand.
“No, Mamma . Don’t go—” Valentina whispers beside me. Her breaths grow shallow.
Pietro leans down and brushes her hair back, but his expression is threatening. She shakes her head.
My wife whimpers and jerks in her sleep.
He pats her cheek. Sick satisfaction gleams from his eyes as he rises and leaves her staring up at the ceiling. She looks broken and miserable.
“Daddy, please,” she moans with a restless shift between the sheets.
Fury rises in me at the desperation in her voice. I grab her shoulder. She wakes swinging and screaming, the terror on her face gut-wrenchingly raw.
I catch her arm, but she wails on me with the other, slamming the side of her fist against my chest as though burying a knife into me again and again. Horrible memories flash through my mind. Phantom pain throbs through my back.
My mind transports me back to the night my best friend betrayed me. He sunk his blade into me over and over again, piercing my back and puncturing organs with the fury of a man possessed. Past and present blur.
I snap.
My body moves. I tackle Pietro and wrap my hands around his throat like I’ve fantasized about for a decade. His throat is too slender, but I squeeze harder when he scratches the back of my hands.
The world blips. My surroundings change. The back alley becomes silky sheets. Masculine features morph into feminine perfection. Dark brown pupils become blue.