Chapter 18
Mario Luciano
She clings to my shirt as I ascend the stairs and sighs as I stride down the hall.
“What’s wrong, amore mio ?” I ask.
She shakes her head and hides a yawn behind her hand before responding.
“Just tired. I can’t believe it’s been ten days since we got married. It’s never taken me this long to recover before.”
“Is that true, or were you just never given the opportunity to rest?” I snarl.
She shrugs and wiggles deeper into the blankets after I lay her on the bed.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I stiffen as it buzzes the pattern for a message tagged as important.
Pietro continues to make poorer and poorer decisions as he falls prey to my trap. Noah oversees management and sends me regular updates while the people closest to my target text their findings, but I only check when I’m in my office.
I can’t ignore the first message my team marked as important since Valentina walked the George Washington Bridge alone. The outcome of the last message may have been favorable, but luck rarely hits men like me twice.
“Answer it,” Valentina says.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and read the text. Adrenaline rushes through me and I smirk in satisfaction.
Pietro took the bait. It’s time to launch the next stage of my plan.
“You need to leave, don’t you?”
I pull my attention from my phone to my wife and belatedly realize my lips tilt in a grin.
She sighs.
“I do,” I confirm.
“How long will you be gone?”
“A few hours.” I check the time. “I may not be back for breakfast. Lunch tomorrow at the latest.”
She curls onto her side and slips her hand under her pillow. Her forlorn eyes tug at the heart I thought dead long ago.
“I can send—”
“No. Go. I know you’ll come back,” she says.
I study her face. She’s not placating me. She genuinely trusts me and wants me to enact our revenge.
“The house security—”
“Is the best money can buy. Mario, I’m good. Truly. I have your number. I’m safe.” She pauses to yawn behind her hand before continuing. “Go do whatever it is you need to do. Just come back in one piece. Capisci ?”
I open the bedside drawer, take a pistol from my chest harness, ensure she watches as I place it inside, shut the drawer, and kiss her cheek.
“Rest well, amore mio ,” I murmur.
She runs her finger over the length of my jaw.
“ Prendi cura di te, mio marito .”
Joy blooms deep in my chest. I capture her hand, kiss each of her fingertips, and leave the room before I give in to temptation and miss a golden opportunity to torture the man who brutally attacked me and left me to bleed out in a back alley ten years ago.
Valentina’s words play on repeat in my mind.
Take care of yourself, my husband.
Wonder flows through me.
Mia paperotta is waiting for me to come home. I won’t let her down.
I want to worship and care for her for decades. The rest of our lives.
Only after my revenge can we enjoy a peaceful life.
Pietro Denaro must die an agonizing, brutal death.
I fold my large frame into the passenger seat of the car waiting at the end of our front walk.
Noah pulls out into traffic. I meet Eric’s eyes, the bodyguard my wife is most familiar with, through my sideview mirror as we pass his parallel parked car.
He nods, vowing to keep vigil over Valentina while I am away.
Noah catches me up on recent events as I take the extra handgun he always stashes in the glove compartment and slip it into the empty holster on my chest harness.
He quirks a brow but doesn’t comment.
As he turns the final corner, the setting sun reflects off the glass shopfronts and blinds us both.
Glass shatters and metal crunches as a green taxi swerves into our lane and sideswipes the front passenger side of our car. Before the car stops rocking, a second vehicle slams into the back of ours.
Noah’s curse repeats in my mind as his white-knuckled grip on the wheel flashes through my vision. I swing my attention outside the car, searching for the next hit.
One tap equals an accident. Two taps equal a trap. Three—I yank Noah into my lap by his nape as barrels emerge from the lowered windows of a passing car. The pop of gunshots sounds before bullets whiz through the air. Fire streaks through my shoulder. Metallic pings ring in my ears.
We need to get out of the car, but we’re pinned.
A second nondescript silver sedan with their windows down and barrels peeking through the openings follows the first.
Noah fights my grip.
“Stay down,” I yell through the ruckus.
Noah contorts himself, hooks an arm around the back of my neck, and yanks me down on top of him as he wedges his shoulders deeper into the footwell.
My detached mind wonders how the motherfucker is so limber when he has so much bulk.
Several bullets lodge in the back of my seat and my headrest.
The kid saved my life.
Through the commotion, the sound of the green taxi’s manual window rolling down less than a foot away from me catches my attention.
“Move. Get out,” I snarl.
Noah releases me and kicks open his door. He jumps out as he scans the area with his pistol in his hand. As I climb over the center console, he darts around the hood of the car and yells at the taxi driver. He holds the man at gunpoint as I crawl out of the vehicle.
Having no ties to the car since we ‘borrowed’ it from the impound lot and I already took the gun from the glovebox, we leave it behind without hesitation.
Noah tosses me his jacket to hide the wound on my shoulder before we tuck our heads down and blend into the crowd.
A few blocks away, I pull my phone out of my pocket and snarl.
Noah reads my messages over my shoulder and curses.
“He feinted. That fucking coward,” he spits.
I shrug with my uninjured shoulder and thumb out a few messages before tucking my phone back into my pocket.
“It’s not the end of the world,” I say with a grimace. He was bound to do something desperate, but we never thought he’d have the balls to attack us in the streets of the Russo territory.
Did you see the tat on the taxi driver’s neck?” Noah asks.
I nod.
“He must’ve scraped together some funds and hired a gang from another city,” Noah says.
I nod again and skirt around a homeless man too cracked out to scurry away.
“What now, boss?” Noah asks.
I sigh and roll my eyes at the nickname.
“Do you think he ruined the secondary trigger or is it still viable?” he asks in code.
Just because we seem anonymous in the crowd doesn’t mean we’re safe, so we use code.
The trigger is an opportunity Pietro can’t resist. He’s a man on the run, but even a man with no resources and powerful enemies—because without his daughter to smooth things over, everyone sees how much of a snake he is—can be dangerous if they’re desperate enough.
Hence the bullet hole in my shoulder.
From my experience, I know it isn’t serious. Blood oozes down the inside of my sleeve instead of gushing, and the burn indicates the bullet passed through soft tissue without lodging against bone. A thorough sterilization and dressing at home will be enough.
“It doesn’t matter. I want him in a warehouse before the end of tomorrow, no matter what it takes,” I demand.
“It’ll be my pleasure, boss,” he says.
With a mock salute, he steps onto the crosswalk and continues on his way as though we didn’t just survive an attempt to take our lives.
I wander the streets for a while to shake any potential tails before paying cash for a taxi to drop me off a few blocks from the townhouse. With the sky dark and the roads relatively empty after rush hour, the nightlife begins to stir.
I roll my shoulders back, grunting from the pain, and turn down the sidewalk toward home as I’ve done dozens of times. Eric leans forward in his seat when he recognizes me. Not even halfway down the block, I reward his vigilance with a nod. He sits back and reaches for the panel on his door.
The passenger window rolls down.
I prop my elbow on the top of his car.
“Got a smoke?” I ask.
An older man with a potbelly and sour expression with a dog that’s no more than a glorified rat on a leash lumbers by. It’s an odd combination, but after living in New York City for so many years, I don’t question it anymore.
I take a cigarette from Eric but lean back when he reaches for his lighter.
“Nothing’s changed, except you’re back early,” he says. His bald head shines in the light from the streetlamps.
“Yeah, things went sideways. Stay until Gustavo comes to relieve you,” I say.
“Got it, boss,” he says.
Fuck. Noah has everyone calling me boss now.
I toss the cigarette back at him as though he pissed me off and saunter away. When everything seems normal on the street, I turn toward the townhouse and take the stairs with measured steps.
I unlock and push open the door.
An unfamiliar voice comes from the kitchen. I catch the front door and ease it closed. Valentina curses.
I rush forward, pulling out my pistol, and stalk into the kitchen on silent feet.
Valentina sees me from the corner of her eye, screams in alarm, and spills what she has on the stove. The burner gives an angry flare as she jumps back.
She’s the only one in the kitchen. With panic etched on her features, she reaches out and turns off the burner before lunging for her phone.
The phone I gave her not long ago.
I snatch it off the counter before her fingers wrap around it and check the screen. A woman wearing a red apron and standing in front of the stove in a farmhouse style kitchen speaks in the most Southern accent I’ve ever heard.
“What are you doing? You’re supposed to be resting,” I snarl despite the relief flowing through me.
She yanks the phone away from me, turns off the screen, and tosses it on the counter.
A red patch on the back of her hand catches my attention. I grab her wrist.
“You hurt yourself,” I accuse.
“No, you hurt me. I wouldn’t have spilled if you hadn’t snuck up on me,” she snaps.
Her scowl steals the last of my frustrations away. She looks so much healthier than this morning. It feels like a miracle after fearing I’d lose her for so long. I cup her cheek and lean down for a much-needed kiss. It’s been way too long since I’ve tasted her sweetness.
She stiffens and leans away.
“Why do you smell like blood?” she asks.
Fuck. My woman is too perceptive.
She grabs the lapels of Noah’s coat and shoves it off my shoulders. I hiss as the material catches on my wound. Her horrified gasp and wide eyes stun me into silence.
“Mario! Che cazzo?! How dare you?”
She yanks the jacket off my uninjured arm and is slightly gentler with the other before stomping across the kitchen and snatching the shears out of the knife block.
“You fucking stronzo ,” she growls as she marches toward me. She’s so stunning I don’t move to protect myself despite the aggression in her every gesture. I’ll happily take a knife if it means watching her in all her glorious fury.
“I can’t believe you were going to lecture me over a tiny burn when you came home with a gunshot wound.”
She cuts my sleeve and peels the fabric away from my torn flesh.
“Fucking goddamn asshole.”
She slaps my sternum and pierces my soul with her bright blue eyes.
“You should’ve tried harder not to get hurt, coglione .”
I wrap my fingers around her wrist and lift her hand to my eye level.
“You should have, too,” I snarl.
The red blotch on the back of her hand won’t blister, but the tips of her fingers have dark spots.
“How did you hurt yourself here?” I ask as I circle her fingertips.
“I already had those,” she says.
“Since when?” I ask.
“Since daddy dearest decided we needed to remove all traces of Mamma from our lives and burned my favorite doll. I barely saved a lock of her hair.”
The disdain in her voice holds the same fury as mine.
“How did you hurt yourself?” she demands with a glance at my shoulder.
“I didn’t dodge fast enough,” I deflect. “What are you doing in the kitchen?” Whatever she spilled smells sweet. “You don’t need to cook, paperotta . I—” My thoughts dry up when I glance at the counter. The ingredients are food related but not food.
She sighs and hands me her phone.
“Check the search history,” she mumbles.
I pull up her browser, open the search history, and stare at the list.
why does my scar itch after ten years
how to stop old scars from itching
best ways to care for sensitive skin
home remedies for scar pain
best recipe to stop scar itching at home
She isn’t cooking. She’s making a balm for my back.
When I finally lift my head, words burst from her.
“I don’t want you to think their appearance bothers me, and I don’t want to change the way they look. I just want to make sure they don’t hurt you anymore.”
I truly do not deserve this woman. She’s too perfect for me.
I set her phone on the counter, take her hands, and drop to one knee.
“Marry me, paperotta ,” I growl.
She blinks, looks between my oozing shoulder and head a few times, pinches the back of her hand hard enough to leave a mark, and then shakes her head in exasperation.
“We’re already married,” she states.
“ Sì, we are. Marry me again,” I demand.
“Why?”
“For us. Everything at our first wedding was for someone else. Let’s do it our way this time,” I say.
She swallows and blinks shimmery eyes, but by the tiny smirk she fails to hide, I expect nothing but pure mischief from her next words.
“You don’t have a ring.”
She quirks a brow.
“Why would I choose your ring? You should choose since it’ll be on your finger for the rest of your life. We’ll go together,” I say.
“I…” Her thoughts turn inward, and I recall how she told me I may have been a horrible choice, but I was her choice. Hers. One of the first choices she could control in her adult life. I’ll never smother her light the way her father did.
“That sounds amazing. Yes. I’ll marry you again,” she says.
Joy fills me, and I pull her flush against me.
“Mine,” I snarl.
When I cup the back of her head and lean down, she rises onto tiptoe and meets my lips with eagerness. I unleash my hunger and devour her mouth.
She’s mine. My wife. Mia paperotta . My redemption.
My life.