The blonde shrieked, scrambling to cover her half-naked body with our sheets.
Luca scrambled for his jeans. “I can explain.”The thick Italian accent I’d once found sexy turned my stomach.
I snatched a porcelain vase from the shelf and heaved it at his chest. He caught it deftly.
He stood before me, a practiced expression of manipulative charm crossing his face. “It meant nothing. She means nothing to me,amore mio.” His hand reached for my cheek, wiping a tear I hadn’t realized streaked down my face.
I pulled back sharply and grabbed another item from the shelf—a gaudy piece of metal art with sharp edges. I palmed the flat end before slamming the jagged points into his side. He yelped as they embedded shallowly into his skin.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
I spun on my heel to head back to my truck. Luca grabbed my forearm, wrapping his fingers around it in a grip that would surely leave a mark.
“Let me go,” I snapped, wrenching hard against his tight hold.
“We need to talk about this,” he demanded. “You can’t leave me.”
Unable to break free, I kneed him in the balls. He crumpled, and I broke away.
“Should have thought of that before you fucked her.”
I marched toward the door as I heard Luca’s phone, sitting on the side table beside his keys and wallet, abuzz with the tone reserved for hospital notifications. I grabbed it, read the message, and threw it at his chest. “Looks like you got a heart for that patient after all. Better get to the hospital before you fuck up someone else’s life.”
“Stop. Let’s talk about this.” Luca’s words came out clipped—more command than plea—as I stormed out the door.
He watched me from the stoop as I leaped into the cab of my truck. He hesitated, looked at his phone, and returned to the house.
My hands shook. What the fuck would I do now? I couldn’t kick him out. He’d bought our home and nearly everything in it. I picked up my phone, automatically thumbing to call my brother. He’d kill Luca. And I’d enjoy helping him.
But, shit. Merrick and Kenna would be well on their way to their vacation in the Ouachita Mountains in Arkansas. My phone pinged. I glanced at the message. Another funny meme from Hatchet.
I watched as Luca tore out of the driveway, followed by his slut waiting at the curb for a ride. I stared daggers at the tall, leggy blonde, and recognition struck. She was one of the hospital baristas who’d served us coffee over the past few weeks.
I keyed the ignition and fired up the truck, throwing it into reverse to back into the driveway. A thrill shot through me as the harlot skittered sideways to avoid tire tracks across her body.
I wasn’t actually going to hit her, even though a tiny part of me wanted to. I glared at her as I slammed the door closed and stepped back into the house. I looked around the large, open space, deciding what to take. The furniture I’d brought with me—an antique hope chest and a river coffee table—was too heavy for me to move on my own.
I sighed, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings and minimalistic decor that Luca insisted was classy. I shot off a text message and ground my teeth as I formulated a plan.
Me: I need your help.
Hatchet: Hiding a body?
Me: Maybe later. I need help moving first.
My phone rang three times before I decided to answer.
“Hey,” I answered, my voice cracking unexpectedly.
“What’s wrong?” Hatchet asked, concern threading his tone.
I bit my lip. “Can you come over and help load a few things into my truck? I really don’t want to talk about it.”
I ended the call before he could question me.
Twenty minutes later, Hatchet pulled in beside my truck on his red and black Harley as I tossed a duffel bag filled with clothes into the back.
“Pretty bike,” I commented, admiring the sleek FXDR model gleaming in the sunlight. “When are you going to crash that one?”
