Chapter 15 #2
Frowning slightly, he quickly slips into the loving husband act and slips an arm around my shoulders, holding me close against his side. My insides melt and go haywire at the same time, the familiarity of him causing a deep ache in my heart. I miss this.
“How about a kiss?”
It’s Marco suggesting it, not the photog. His hand finds my chin. He turns my face and leans down to me, an easy smile on his lips right before he plants them on me in a slow, sensual, holy-fuck-level kiss.
“Whoa, lucky lady!” the photographer says lightly as she snaps a few pictures.
We’ve walked down an aisle of paparazzi, apparently, because suddenly there are cameras everywhere, snapping left and right.
Marco plays right into it by lacing his fingers through mine, kissing the top of my head, stroking my upper arm.
I’m trying my best to keep up with the pretending.
But each time he touches me, my mind spins. His affection feels so real.
We mingle like a real couple. Touching. Laughing.
Cooing at each other. We browse the after-race buffet line and share hors d’oeuvres, after which Marco feeds me cotton candy.
We drink champagne, make small talk with people, and meander while we put on such a good show that I start to second-guess whether it’s really an act after all.
Marco leaves me with some of the other racing wives at the edge of the crowd to go talk to the third-place driver, one with whom he shares a friendly rivalry.
The second he lets go of my hand, my heart starts to pound, panic rippling through me.
The women around me are gossiping, talking hair and Vegas and new shoes. I’m completely unprotected.
And Pietro could be anywhere. Or worse…my uncle. What if someone spots me?
Slipping away from the women, I weave through the crowd, scanning bodies and faces for Marco’s familiar dark hair and broad shoulders. I’m about to pull out my phone and call Frankie for help when I finally spot my husband.
He’s talking to Jessica. I’d recognize that vile laugh anywhere.
“Hello, Karina,” a smooth voice says behind me. I’d know that voice anywhere.
Uncle Sergio.
The second his heavy cologne wafts over me, ice caresses my veins, casting a shiver so hard down my spine that my leg muscles weaken, and my knees nearly buckle.
“Easy there.”
His thick, rough hand grabs my elbow and supports me. Pulling breath through my nose, I hold back a scream and resist looking at the man next to me. I won’t do it. I can smile and pretend that I’m fine, but I will not look at him. If I do, the world will see what a fraud I am.
“You look lovely,” he says, menace in his tone. “So healthy. And alive.”
“Thank you,” I grind out.
“Oh, come on. No need for that attitude. We can play nice in front of all these people.”
Play nice. It’s a signal, a sign, a warning. Play nice in public because if we were alone right now, somewhere without all these eyes, then what? What would he do to me?
“It’s unfortunate what happened at the cabin,” he says. “You remember Piedmont, don’t you? That lake you begged to go swimming in? It’s where I’m going to throw the pieces of your loser husband after I fillet him with my own hands.”
Holding my head high, I suddenly laugh as if he’s said something remarkably funny. Time to turn this around on him.
“Always such a comedian, Uncle Sergio. It’s so good to see you.”
I look at him then because I want to. My gaze is hard and steady, a complete opposite to the smile I’m wearing. His craggy, pockmarked face has aged in the short time I’ve been gone, and he reeks of violence. I can’t wait to get away from him, but I’m not going to run.
“That’s right, smile for the cameras while your husband cozies up to his whore.”
I roll my eyes good-naturedly and laugh again. “Where did you come up with that one? So original!”
“Karina.”
Another warning. One single word to nearly collapse my veins with fear.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be collecting my wife now,” Marco says from behind us.
He slips his arm firmly through mine and eases me away from my uncle.
I grip him almost desperately, so glad that he showed up when he did.
We don’t wait for my uncle to respond as we walk away.
When we get out to the parking lot, where we’re finally free of the press of bodies, Marco pulls me close and I can’t help but tremble.
“Hey,” he says gently, rubbing my arm. “It’s okay.”
“I wish you meant that.”
His arms loop around me, bringing me against his chest. “I do mean it. You’re okay.”
He presses a kiss to my mouth, and I let myself fall into the comfort of his nearness.
“Hey, man!” a voice interrupts. “Found you. Afterparty. You’re going, right?”
Someone slaps Marco on the shoulder, fracturing the tender moment. Marco spins to the man I don’t recognize—the third-place driver, maybe—and shakes his hand.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Marco says.
The man gives me a nod and then claps Marco on the shoulder again. “See you there.”
“What afterparty?” I ask, once the other driver is gone. Marco never mentioned it.
“Karina!” Frankie shouts.
I turn around and spot her heading in our direction with Dante at her side. As if on cue, Donovan pulls up in our private car and Dante opens the back door, waiting for Frankie to climb inside before gesturing for me to join her. But I don’t budge.
Marco waves impatiently at me. “Get in the car. Donovan will take you home.”
Wait, what? “But—we’re supposed to be a couple. Shouldn’t I go to the party with you?”
He waves me off like I’m his little sister and not his wife. “Dante’s going with me, so we’ll have plenty of Bellanti presence there. Your assistance is no longer necessary.”
“But—”
“This isn’t up for discussion,” he says. “My ride is here.”
A limousine pulls up just then, painted with metallic blue and green accent stripes in Marco’s racing colors. One of the tinted windows rolls down. Jessica’s head pops out and she smiles winningly at Marco.
“Let’s go, babe!” she says.
Dante lets out a long-suffering sigh, but Jessica’s words hit me like a punch to the gut. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Really, Marco? This is how the night is going to end?” I hiss.
He has the grace to give pause, maybe even briefly reconsider. But then he shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah. It is.”
“I’ll sit up front,” Dante says, clearly annoyed but not wanting to get involved.
Marco waves at him, and then, without a look back at me, he gets into the limo, slipping in next to Jessica. She wiggles her fingers at me out the window in an obnoxious, gloating wave.
All I can do is stand there, heartbroken, as the limo speeds away.