Chapter 13
NICO
All eyes turned as we walked back into the ballroom.
The music had stopped, conversations dying mid-sentence.
Heads bowed as we walked through the crowd, and not a word was spoken.
The silence was heavy, oppressive, filled with knowing glances and barely concealed smirks.
Vincent Carminatti looked like he was going to snap the crystal wine glass in his hand, and his wife, Francesca, held on to him for dear life.
Her knuckles were white where she gripped his arm, as if she could physically restrain whatever violence was brewing inside him.
Pulling out the chair for my still blushing bride, she sat, a little more gingerly than earlier.
"Are you all right?" I leaned closer to her as I took my seat close enough that I could smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with something else. Me.
"Yes, I'm fine." Her words were short, to the point, and left no room for further questions.
She looked straight ahead and smiled politely, the perfect mask back in place.
Gently, I placed my hand on her bare shoulder, and she didn't pull away, so I took that as a good sign.
But the change in her demeanor was visible.
The woman who'd threatened Caterina, who'd kissed me with passion, who'd come apart in my arms, was gone.
In her place sat a statue, beautiful and cold. Was it me or her family?
"Nico, I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's something you need to see." My head of security wouldn't make himself known if it wasn't important. He stood at the doorway, his face grim, his posture tense in a way that set my instincts on high alert.
"I'll be back, Emilia." I kissed her on the cheek and watched her wince. The movement was subtle, a slight pulling away, a tightening around her eyes. She didn't pull away, but I figured it was because she knew how to play her role perfectly. Standing, I walked into the house, followed by Antonio.
"This better be good," I muttered as we walked to the security room. My jaw was tight, anger already building for reasons I couldn't quite name.
"It's not good, but it's important." Antonio sat at the desk and punched in a few commands at the keyboard.
The wall of monitors lit up, and I stared at my now wife, before our wedding, in her room.
Every room in my home was monitored, except for mine.
Nobody needed to know what happened there.
Not that anything did happen there, I'd always been discreet when it came to rendezvous, and they happened at one of my hotels, or penthouses in the city.
Never here, in what once was my mother's home, until today, when it became my wife's.
Emilia and her father were having a heated argument.
As I watched, I wished for sound, but I didn't have time to ask for it when Vincent raised his arm and struck his daughter across the face with the back of his hand.
The impact must have been devastating even without audio.
I could see the force of it in how her head snapped to the side and how her body followed the momentum.
I watched my bride recoil and grab her cheek, the same cheek I had just kissed, which made her wince. "Did you listen?"
"Yes. She was asking about what happened downtown.
Demanding that he tell her why he would send men to attack when he no longer had the right to do so.
She also told him he wasn't the one to make those decisions in their family.
Decisions to start a war were hers to make.
That's when he hit her." Antonio dropped his gaze to the floor.
It was too intimate watching her cry in a heap on the floor, surrounded by white tulle and lace.
The same tulle and lace I'd just removed from her body, only moments ago.
She looked small, broken, nothing like the woman who'd orchestrated the Esposito massacre.
"Turn it off," I rasped. I couldn't watch her break on her wedding day. The image of her crumpled on the floor, one hand pressed to her face, the other clutching at her dress, would be burned into my memory forever.
"Please don't take this the wrong way, Nico, but that girl’s got a brass pair on her.
" Anto looked up at me, and I should have punched him, but my almost step-brother wasn't wrong.
She'd stood up to Vincent Carminatti, told him she was the one making decisions, on her wedding day.
Most women would have cowered, apologized, or done anything to avoid his wrath. Not Emilia.
Anger filled my thoughts; if this weren't my home, I would have spilled every drop of Carminatti blood there was to spill.
My hands clenched into fists, my breathing growing shallow.
"Bring the cars around, this party is over. Call the maids and have them pack up the Carminatti’s and rid my home of them.
" I turned without waiting for questions.
Antonio never had questions; he was capable and knew what I wanted, sometimes before I did.
It's why he was in that position. My oldest, most trusted friend had my back without question or fail.
People scurried in the hallways before I even had a chance to get back to the party.
He must have had everyone waiting for my orders.
The staff moved like shadows, efficient and silent.
He needed another raise. Reaching out, I turned the brass doorknob and pulled open the ballroom doors.
My eyes immediately went to where my wife sat, flanked by her parents.
Like they were guarding her or perhaps keeping her prisoner.
She looked up, and her eyes followed my every movement.
There was something in her gaze, a question, a plea, something I couldn't quite read.
"Amore, please." I held out my hand, and she turned in the chair and took it.
I helped her up and noticed the red spot on the white chair cover.
Blood. Proof of what we'd done, of what I'd taken.
She gasped, and I pushed it back in before anyone noticed.
We walked to the table that held the cake.
"You were telling the truth when you said you were a virgin," I whispered in her ear.
She blushed and took a step closer to me, as if seeking shelter.
Reaching for a wine glass, I handed it to her and picked up one of my own.
A light tap with the knife, and everyone's attention turned to me.
The room fell silent, expectant. "We would like to thank everyone for coming out, but we are going to have to cut our evening short.
I've had something come up." A hushed whisper floated through the crowd of people, and I glanced down at Emilia.
Her face was carefully blank, but her hand trembled slightly where it held the wine glass.
"Your cars are all waiting at the front of the house, if you would please make a hasty exit.
" The polite way of telling them all to fuck off.
It was a line my mother used when she was tired of people around her, and it worked.
Even my family had dispersed to their rooms.
The room was clear of people except for Carminatti's, who apparently thought they were above the rest. They sat at their table like nothing had happened, like they owned the place.
"Your bags are packed and being brought to your cars as we speak.
You're no longer welcome in my home." I said without the emotion that was threatening to erupt from me.
I would have been well within my rights as a don to put Vincent down like the dog he was, but this day had already been traumatic for my new bride.
"Please, Niccolò, what's the cause of this?
" Vincent asked, setting his glass down and taking a step closer to me.
His face filled with irritation and murderous rage.
The vein in his temple was throbbing, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding.
I'd studied this man long enough to know he'd never challenge me.
He wasn't that strong; he liked to pick on people smaller than him.
People who couldn't, or wouldn't, fight back.
But why hadn't Emilia fought back? There was more to this.
The way she held her ground on that video until he was out of the room made me believe this wasn't the first time it had happened, and I saw red as I stared at him.
"You struck my wife." I hadn't taken my eyes off the man, but saw a slight frown before he was able to paste back on the aloof smirk he usually wore.
"I did no such thing." He laughed as she shook his head. The sound was hollow, unconvincing.
"I can play back the security footage, or I can remove the makeup my wife is wearing for proof.
Which do you prefer?" Glancing at Emilia, she looked up at me and tightened her grip on my arm.
Her nails dug in slightly, whether in fear or gratitude, I couldn't tell.
Francesca looked unfazed, which confirmed my suspicions, and she was also on my hit list for her indifference.
What kind of mother watches her daughter get hit and does nothing?
"She was my daughter and not your wife at that time. I can do as I please." He held onto the lapel of his suit, puffing out his chest like he was proud of the fact he'd abused his daughter. Like it was his right, his privilege as a father.
"The moment I slid my ring on her finger, she was mine.
Vincent, you were made very aware of my expectations.
Today was a formality, so the heads of the other families had no question who was in control of this situation.
You had no right to touch her, much less strike her.
Now get out of my home." My voice rose until it was a yell, and Emilia let go of my arm and took a step away from me.
The movement cut deeper than any blade could have.
Her father's mouth opened and closed like a cod fish, but no words came out.
No begging, no poor excuses, just silence.
When he finally snapped his mouth shut, his face turned a shade of red I'd seen as I strangled a man, and my palms itched to be wrapped around his neck.
The urge was overwhelming, primal. It would be so easy.
One quick movement and the world would be rid of Vincent Carminatti.
Without a goodbye, congratulations or a smile toward Emilia, the Carminatti family left my home.
Emilia hadn't made a move to see them out, and I followed her lead.
It was like she'd been welded to the spot on the floor, hands clasped in front of her.
The ballroom that had once been abuzz with activity was now as silent as a grave.
"You need to have their rooms swept." Her words were almost silent from behind me.
Turning, I looked at her. "They wouldn't dare." But even as I said it, I knew better. Vincent Carminatti was exactly the type to bug my home, to plant listening devices or cameras.
"They would, and I assure you they did. It wouldn't hurt to check the entire house." She clasped her hands in front of her and looked down at the floor. Like a child waiting for punishment.
"Why tell me this?" I asked, closing the distance between us.
"Because you're my don."
“I’m also your husband," I said, placing my hand under her chin and lifting her head so she would look at me.
She slightly arched her brow but did not try to agree with me.
Reaching for a napkin, I pressed it into a glass of water and, as gently as I could, wiped at the makeup on her cheek.
It hadn't occurred to me that when we'd met, she'd worn very minimal makeup, and today she was dressed up to the nines.
They'd been hiding evidence. Emilia closed her eyes, and I could see the tears forming on her eyelashes as I wiped.
She had a deep purple bruise and a cut on her cheekbone. The bruise was already darkening, spreading across her delicate skin like a stain. "God damn it, fucking son of a bitch, I should've killed him," I whispered.
"Killed him for what?" She asked, her eyes flying open, anger had changed them from dark brown to black.
"For putting his hands on you."
"Are you going to kill yourself also then? Because you put your hands on me without asking." She slapped my hand away and took another step away from me. The words hit like a physical blow. "Good night." She nodded her head and spun on the spike heel of the shoes she was wearing.
Letting her walk away from me wasn't something I intended to allow, and I wouldn't make it a habit. But right now, she needed space to process everything that had happened today. Reaching inside my suit jacket, I pulled out my phone.
Me: Emilia's maid is not to go to her. She's relieved of duty until Tuesday.
Alaina: Yes, sir.
Grabbing the cake, plates, and the knife, I headed to my room. The house felt different now, emptier. My wedding night, and I was spending it alone. But it was the right choice. Emilia needed time, and I needed to figure out how to fix what I'd broken.