Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Instead of leaving Gino’s straight away and travelling to his Milanese casino as planned, Elio headed up two flights of stairs to the nightclub itself.
The dark, seductive ambience meant he could prop up the bar and nurse another whisky or two in relative peace.
By the time members made it to this floor, they were either amorous or drunk or both.
He’d seen Siena in here a couple of times. Watched her dance. Watched her pretend not to be watching him. He’d seen her in Gino’s Milan club, too. On those occasions, spotting her there had come with a jolt as he always associated her with their home city. Naples was where they both belonged.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Ignored the next buzz too. And the next.
There were so many people in his life connected to the Espositos.
He had to assume that he felt off-kilter after seeing Gino because Gino’s connection was stronger than everyone else’s.
Gino’s connection was personal. He was marrying Siena’s cousin.
Technically, that would make them related by marriage.
Make them family. Until Elio’s divorce came through, that was.
He hadn’t even looked into a divorce. He’d been too busy.
Taking over an empire took a hell of a lot of energy and hours.
It was the same reason he was yet to step into any of the casinos, not because whenever he thought of them, he imagined Siena closing the bar’s hatch and looking at him with such venom before pouring him that cheap whisky.
He couldn’t remember her looking at him with anything like that venom after that. As the days of their marriage had stretched into weeks, the venom had disappeared entirely. She’d even started greeting him with a welcoming smile.
Gino had called her a tough cookie. Elio used to think of her as that, too.
But she was more than that. A whole lot more.
He hated that his last memory of her was with a tear rolling down her cheek.
He’d been the venomous one then, sticking his knife into her with words that had left her as pale and broken as if he’d used a real knife to inflict the wound.
“Pour you another?”
Pulling himself out of his morbid thoughts, he met the barmaid’s stare and gave a sharp shake of his head.
What the hell was he playing at, wasting his valuable time thinking about Siena like this?
Wasn’t it bad enough that he couldn’t stop his mind from going straight to her when he got into bed each night, and that when he was able to sever her from his mind enough to sleep, she invaded his dreams?
He supposed it was understandable. He’d got used to sharing his bed with her. His nights had belonged to Siena.
He would not let her invade his working hours, too, something he was still furiously reiterating to himself as he escaped the nightclub through a fire exit, not bothering to check if his entourage was following him.
He was still telling himself the same thing when he reached the bottom of the iron stairs and stepped onto the pavement.
Maybe he would have carried on telling himself the same thing if he hadn’t been striding to his car and happened to look across the street as his driver opened the door for him, and spotted a figure coming out of a restaurant that looked exactly like Stefano.
Elio stared hard at the figure. Hot, rabid blood pounded loudly in his ears.
“You okay, boss?”
He nodded absently, not even aware which of his men had spoken.
He was also unaware of his legs moving. His attention was entirely on the man he was growing certain with each step nearer to him was the bastard who’d assaulted Siena and who’d conveniently disappeared the night Elio had seized the Espositos’ empire.
He did not doubt Stefano had only come out of hiding because, ten days on since Elio’s takeover, all the Espositos were still breathing, and none of their men or minor family members had been killed, not even those who hadn’t joined Elio’s army before the takeover. All had pledged loyalty to Elio.
Stefano was never going to be given that chance.
But these were only abstract thoughts. Seeing Stefano in the flesh had landed like a red rag to a bull.
This was the bastard who’d assaulted Siena. This was the bastard who’d hurt his wife. This was the bastard who’d dared lay a finger on her precious body.
Stefano saw him coming, but too late. And too late did he see the expression on Elio’s face. His cautious smile of welcome froze and then vanished under the weight of Elio’s fist.
The first punch didn’t knock him down, but the second one did.
The man had barely landed on the hard ground before Elio was kneeling on top of him and slamming heavy punches on the bastard’s face.
There was a distant scream. Shouts. A crowd forming. All just background noise in the red mist that had descended on him and that had his right fist pounding into the bastard’s face over and over.
The faint sound of a siren broke through the mist.
Grabbing Stefano’s collar, he yanked his bloodied face up and snarled into it, “That was for Siena. Touch her or any female again, and I will slice your cock off and stuff it in your mouth. Now get the fuck out of Naples before I change my mind and kill you like you deserve, you piece of shit.”
He staggered to his feet. His car pulled up by the kerb. The siren was getting louder.
The back door of his car was opened. Ignoring the horrified crowd, he strode to it before changing his mind and doing a running kick into Stefano’s ribs.
“Don’t waste your sympathy on him,” he spat at the crowd as he slid into the car. “That man sexually assaulted a fourteen-year-old girl.”
His driver pulled away.
Adrenaline was pumping so hard that his driver had to speak three times before Elio heard what he was saying. “Shall I drive you home so you can change and clean up?”
“No.” He snatched a breath. God, it was almost impossible to breathe. “Take me to my wife.”
* * *
Siena picked at the carbonara she’d made for herself.
How could such a seemingly simple, easy meal go so wrong?
If Rocco’s carbonara was a ten out of ten, Siena’s attempt wouldn’t even be given a one.
The pancetta was burned, the eggs scrambled, the pasta undercooked, and she’d forgotten to add the garlic.
She supposed she could always go to Carlo’s and eat Rocco’s carbonara. She was reasonably confident neither man would be tempted to spit in it.
It was the chance of bumping into Elio there that stopped her. The odds were high. Too high.
She didn’t know when she would ever feel ready to face him again.
It could be that the next time she saw him would be when he came to extract the price of their deal.
Mattia was still to surface. For all Siena knew, he was plotting to rescue their mother from wherever she was being held.
If any of her brothers were going to do it, it was Mattia.
Of her brothers, he’d always been the closest to their mother, and he had no wife to think of.
If it were a contest between his mother and his sister, he would choose their mother every time.
As Elio himself had put it, when you’ve nothing left to lose, you have no fear, and Mattia had nothing left to lose.
Siena was as expendable to him as she was to their mother and to Elio.
Funny how it was her expendability to Elio that cut the deepest and not the woman who’d birthed her or the man who shared her blood. Just the bastard who’d made her marry him because he considered her deserving of extra punishment for daring to fight for her place in the world she’d been born into.
She picked out the least black piece of pancetta and chewed it with distaste before spitting it into her napkin. Even if she could swallow it, she’d never be able to stomach it.
Anger had been biting at her with increasing intensity for days.
While hiding it in front of Francesca, who kept dropping in to check on her, in private she’d come to embrace it.
Better to be angry than pine for that bastard.
Now, though, staring at the mess that was her dinner, Siena realised it was nothing but a physical imagery of the mess that was her life.
Those blackened pieces of pancetta were Elio’s heart, the uncooked mess of spaghetti and globs of scrambled eggs her ravaged heart.
He’d done that to her. He hadn’t been satisfied with taking everything from her; he’d needed to break her, just her, and her fingers grabbed hold of her pasta bowl before her brain knew what they were doing, and with a scream of rage, she hurled it like a frisbee across the kitchen.
Seconds later, her glass of water followed suit.
It was like she’d been caught in a sulphur cloud of toxic fury.
The burnt pans she’d cooked with were next to be thrown, then the ceramic salt pot and the fruit bowl.
Not even close to being purged, she yanked open the crockery cupboard and began launching the dinner plates, barely taking in the explosions they were making as they connected to walls or floor before the next one was sent flying.
Next went the pasta bowls, and then the dessert bowls.
She had a vague awareness of floorboards within the apartment creaking, but couldn’t stop.
Didn’t dare stop. Every smash, every explosive cloud of crockery detonated with a portion of the pain, anger and grief she’d been carrying so tightly inside her.
She’d just thrown the last of the dessert bowls and grabbed a side plate when the kitchen door crashed open.
In a split second, she registered Elio standing there. A split second later, she’d let loose the plate in her hand, aiming it straight at his face.
If his reflexes hadn’t been so good, he would never have swerved his head away from it in time. It exploded inches from his ear.
She grabbed another plate.
“Siena, stop!” he roared.
“You,” she spat. And then threw the plate as hard as she could.