29. Chapter 28 Soren
One guard stands outside our door and I’m told there are ten more around our home. Just knowing they’re there acts as another reminder that my husband is mafia, which means my life will always be in danger.
I remember when Sienna would talk about the dangers of the motorcycle club that she grew up in. It sounded terrifying to me then, and I was happy I didn’t live that type of life. I once asked her how she deals with marrying into organized crime. All she said was since the day Max Mancini placed her on his Throne of Obsession, she has never felt safer. I keep trying to figure out if Soren makes me feel safe. His guards certainly don’t, and this is why I’m trapped in Soren’s house.
I put down the book I’m holding—it’s not like I’ve read anything the last half hour—and look at the clock. Soren is an hour late. I uncurl my legs from the couch, removing my blanket from around my lap, and pick up my phone.
I dial my husband’s number. I don’t even question if he’ll answer because he always does.
“Wife,” he greets in a friendly tone, but he’s breathing hard.
“I was just wondering when you’d be home…” I aimlessly walk around the house, wishing someone was here. I’m lonely.
There’s the sound of scratching from the wind that has me pulling my phone away from my ear for a second then placing it back.
“I’m tying up a loose end and will be home as fast as I can. How about I take you out for dinner?” I glance at the clock, wondering if he means another hour.
“I would love that.” A smile spreads my lips as a gunshot rings out in the background.
“Soren?” My voice is high and my heart stills, scared of what may have just happened.
“I’ll see you soon.” He ends the call immediately, leaving my heart to ricochet off my ribs.
Worry clings to my insides as I stare at my phone, dumbfounded. Soren better come home to me. What if he’s hurt? My heart is racing. My fingers tremble as I press redial on the phone. This time, he doesn’t answer.
I pace in front of the couch, trying to decide who to call. The only person that comes to mind is Jude. I call his number, and like every other time, it goes to voicemail. I should have known he wouldn’t pick up.
It’s not until I reach the door that I realize I have no idea where to go, or what the hell am I going to do. Call an ambulance? Cry over my dead husband’s body? Soren is a smart man, he’s not going to get himself killed. My hand covers my mouth. Dear God, what if he’s dead?
I pace our house for what feels like hours, the once lush, fluffy carpet now beat down and hard. My nose scrunches at the sudden flare of pain at the same time as a metallic taste explodes on my tongue. I pull my thumb away from my mouth, seeing it’s red from me nibbling on it. I’ve pulled a small piece of loose skin off, creating an ugly gouge beside my nailbed.
I call Jude again—no answer—every twenty minutes, alternating between calling him and Soren. Two hours later, I have sent Soren a thousand text messages asking the same question. He always responds. Always.
My stomach swooshes and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
For the first time tonight, I can hear sounds from outside and I run to the door opening it wide. I find four guards with guns pointed into the darkness, but there is no Soren.
“Where is Soren?” I ask. No one looks at me. They ignore my question, keeping their eyes trained on the darkness.
I step further outside and, finally, one guard’s eyes slide to me. “Go inside Mrs. Moretti.”
I want to yell at them and tell him not until I know where my husband is, but the look of his large machine gun has me deciding otherwise.
I step back inside, my ears listening for any sound. Good or bad. I wait for the sound of those guns to go off. What if I’m next?
My fingers thread through my hair, pulling at its strands. I’m making myself crazy. I’m not sure I can handle not knowing any longer.
The sound of our door unlatching has me jumping. I grab a knife from the counter, ready to fight off the intruder, until I see Soren walk through the door.
His suit wrinkled with blood splatter over him and his hands. I drop the knife on the counter, my hands flying to my mouth.
“Soren? How bad are you hurt?” I run towards him.
My hands pat him over and lift his jacket to see if I can find the wound, not caring about the blood.
“I’m not the one who got shot.” He sighs.
I take his hand, leading him toward the bathroom, and turn on the sink. I place both of our hands under the cold water, rinsing the red from our skin.
He grumbles, but doesn’t argue. My trembling hands push off his suit jacket, only to reveal more red on his white dress shirt. One by one, I undo the buttons, exposing his solid chest and six pack before I push the shirt off his broad shoulders and onto the floor with his suit jacket.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, his voice low and rumbly.
I continue with his belt, and his hands fall to his sides.
“I’ve been here the entire time,” I respond.
Soren places his hands on my shoulders and forces my eyes to his deep, dark brown ones. “I love you. You know you can tell me anything, right?”
I nibble at the bottom of my lip. “Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my job.” I glance down, breaking our eye contact.
He uses two fingers to bring my gaze back to his. “Don’t be sorry. All I’m asking is for a chance to be let in. When you’re hurting, I’m hurting. I’m not used to not knowing how to make something better. I’m the idea guy who fixes stuff for my brothers. When it comes to you, I’m at a loss as to what I should be doing.”
Soren has a way of always saying the right things. He pulls down his underwear, his cock saluting me with how high it’s standing, and steps into the warm spray, steam roaming over the bathroom as he pulls the curtain back.
“I was blaming you and my brother for me having to quit my job,” I admit.
Water rains down his face, his fingers swiping it away as he takes a small step back to open his eyes.
“I have a feeling my boss was playing me from the start. He knew who my brother was and that he’s best friends with you. It hurts when I put my faith in others and they do something shitty like use me.”
“Your boss should have never strung you along. And Jude should have kept his nose clean.”
I raise my eyes to Soren. “This isn’t Jude’s fault,” I try to defend my brother.
“I love you. You did right by your brother,” he replies.
He runs a bar of soap over his body, drawing my eyes a small gash on his hips. My fingers itch to trail over it.
“It’s a scratch, I’m fine,” he says when he notices me staring at it. I watch as he continues to wash his hair before turning the water off. I pass him a towel as he steps out.
“Do you want me to wash your clothes?” I ask, looking at all the blood.
“No, I’ll be burning those.”
This is a conversation I never dreamed I would have. If Soren can’t keep himself free from harm, can he honestly keep me safe?
“You want to talk about what happened tonight?”
He shakes his head. “The less you know, the better. I never should have come home looking like this, but after hearing your voice, I knew I had to see you the first chance I had.” If he expects me to let him in, he should do the same for me. I don’t need all the gory details, but some explanation as to why my husband came home covered in blood would be nice.
He presses a kiss to my cheek. “Head to bed. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I hesitate, not wanting to leave him when he looks so sad. This is not the confident Soren I’m used to.
“Are your brothers, okay?” I check.
He nods. “Yeah, the family is good.”
“Okay.” I let myself out of the bathroom and head toward our bed.
It’s way too big for one person, and the covers are cold. All I want is for Soren to come to bed and hold me. I think it’s what we both need.
I wake in the morning with my legs wrapped around his and my face snuggled up to his chest. This is my favorite place. I’m warm, protected, and I never want either of us to leave this room. I peek up, taking the opportunity to study my husband. I still can’t picture him or his brothers as mafia. Maybe the term has changed in meaning over the last few decades. It can’t be like the gangster style the movies have portrayed.
My phone buzzes on the side table. I swallow the sigh that wants to escape my lips and turn over, being careful not to wake Soren. My mother’s number flashes across the screen. I grab my device and quietly head outside the room before I accept the call.
“Hello?” It’s not like my mother to call so early. I’m shocked she’s awake.
“Ginevra?” her tone is filled with worry and sounds frantic. It has me standing taller and pushing the phone harder against my ear.
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately.
“It’s Jude.” She sobs into the phone. What has he done now? My anger at him creeps up and the vision of him breaking the glass plays before me. “He’s dead.”
My heart stills and I bring the phone away from my ear. “What?” I ask, sure I misheard.
“I…I have to identify…his body. I don’t think I can do that.” She sobs, her breaths coming fast and short, making it difficult to understand her.
This could be Jude acting out. “So, there’s a possibility it’s not him?” I hope for the best. Jude can’t be dead.
“Ginevra!” she snaps. “My firstborn is dead.” She cries harder.
Jude can’t be dead. He’s young. My brother is like a cat with nine lives. This has to be a misunderstanding.
Soren walks out of the room, stretching his arms above his head. I watch the motion, remembering all the blood on his hands last night. My stomach sinks and a heavy stone-like feeling weighs me down.
I told Soren that Jude was under investigation. Last night he told me he was tying up a loose end.
My husband killed my brother. I don’t have to ask to know it’s true. I try to compose myself, fearing what might happen if he realizes I know.
“I’ll be there as fast as I can, Mom.” I end the call, fleeing to the bedroom to grab a pair of sweatpants and pull a T-shirt over my head.