It still won’t be.
I wouldn’t be that kind of wife to Gianni.
I needed to know what was going on, to understand why the violence was happening and what purpose it served.
He’s just going to have to be okay with that.
I wasn’t going to sit idly by while chaos erupted around me, while men were shot in the next room and I was left pacing the floor, wondering if the next bullet would come for me.
Hell no.
If I was going to be part of this world, then I needed to be part of it fully.
No secrets.
No lies.
No bullshit guessing.
Gianni needed to understand that I wasn’t some delicate flower to be kept in a gilded cage. I would never be content with being the pretty, silent wife who only asked about shopping and dinner parties.
If there were gunshots, if there were screams, I needed to know why. I needed to know who was hurt, who was dying, and why it was happening so close to me.
Because I couldn’t live like this.
Not again.
I had spent too many nights in my stepfather’s house waking up to gunshots and screams—things no child should ever have to hear.
Back then, I had been helpless, a powerless girl who couldn’t do anything but bury her head under the covers and pray that it would stop.
But I wasn’t that girl anymore.
I was Gianni’s wife now, and that had to mean something.
I glanced down at that cut on my palm.
Our marriage had to mean that I had a voice.
A right to know what was happening around me.
A right to protect myself if I needed to.
I forced myself to take a deep breath.
And don’t be shooting people around me.
I frowned.
It’s too much. This is a nice hotel and you’re turning it into the fucking Wild Wild West. Let’s have some decency.
Then, suddenly the suite’s door creaked open slowly, and I froze.
My heart pounded.
Gianni’s figure appeared in the doorway.
Damn.
