Page 40 of Married to the Enemy

But the tension lingered.

Chapter 26

Barry Trello hated everything about this.

The treehouse groaned under his weight whenever he shifted, the wood old and splintering, reeking faintly of mildew. He’d crammed himself into the little space for days now, and the novelty—if there had ever been any—was long gone. He was cold at night, sweating in the afternoons, and every time he had to relieve himself, he muttered curses as he leaned over the edge like a wild animal.

This was what his life had come to. Peeing out of a tree.

His lip curled as he rubbed his side. His ribs had mostly healed from Vito’s “lesson,” but the memory of that pain lingered. Ghost bruises. Ghost aches. They were reminders of why he couldn’t just march up to the big house and demand an update. No one demanded anything from Vito Calvino and came away whole.

He hated Vito. Hated the man, hated this life, hated every damn moment of this.

Below him, through the narrow slats in the wooden wall, he could just make out movement. The four of them— Evangeline Santini, her precious granddaughter, that crippled kid, and the too-big, too-broad, too-dangerous man—always together. Breakfast together, errands together, evening strolls together. The wholesome family image made Barry’s stomach lurch in disgust.

What did they do in there all day, anyway? Play happy family? It couldn’t last. No group of people could live in each other’s back pockets forever. They’d get sick of each other. Sooner or later.

He just had to wait it out.

He leaned his head back against the rough wood, eyes closing as fantasies flickered in his mind. He could leave. Walk away. He still had money—stashed in places no one could trace. With a few wire transfers, he could vanish. Another city, another state. Or maybe not even the mainland. A small island somewhere warm. Hammocks and rum drinks. Pretty women who didn’t ask questions. Surely Vito’s power didn’t stretch all the way out there, did it?

Barry’s hand drifted back to his ribs, rubbing the spot out of habit. No way would he risk another sample of that man’s brutality. Barry knew too much about what Vito had done at the nursing home, and Vito had a long reach. Even on an island, Barry might wake up one night with a knife to his throat.

No. Patience. That was the key.

The four of them couldn’t stay glued together forever. Eventually, cracks would form. The girl would get sick of the giant’s scowls. The old woman’s health would fail. The boy would realize he was a burden. And when the bonds snapped—when they were no longer one happy little unit—Barry would be ready.

All he had to do was wait.

So, he stayed in his cursed perch, surrounded by bugs and leaves, reminding himself that patience would pay off.

It had to.

Chapter 27

The night air was cool, laced with the scent of budding trees and damp earth. Raffe stepped out onto the stone terrace, walking to the middle of the area as though he were simply a man taking a breath. In truth, he was scanning the yard, ears tuned to the smallest shift in the shadows.

He lifted his glass of scotch to his lips, using the movement as an excuse to look around, to survey the trees and shrubs. Unfortunately, he didn’t see anyone.

But, he did hear her footsteps before she spoke.

“Thought I’d find you out here.”

Mia.

She crossed the stones and leaned against one of the columns, her arms wrapped around herself. Her hair glinted under the porch light, messy from the long day, and her eyes—those incredible eyes—were sharp, probing.

“You should go inside,” he urged gruffly, keeping his gaze on the yard. “It’s cold out here tonight.”

She didn’t move. “Why are you so secretive, Raffe? Why won’t you tell me about your past?”

Slowly, he turned to her. For a long moment, he just looked at her, taking in her soft beauty, the long hair that shimmered in the moonlight, the enticing figure that was slowly driving him insane because he knew he couldn’t, shouldn’t, touch her.

“Why don’t you tell me why you were in Europe for so long? Why didn’t you know your grandmother was being drugged?”

The words landed like a blow in the soft silence of the night. “Drugged?”

“I suspect it,” he said flatly, adding a shrug as he sipped his scotch. “Her transformation that day in the courtroom and then how she appeared later, when we brought here back here.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “After eating several pieces of fried chicken, Evangeline was a different person.” He swirled the glass of scotch, appreciating the dim light that hid his expression. And hers. “In less than twenty-four hours, Evangeline morphed from slouched and frail to vibrant and eager. Even slightly mischievous. I’ve been around drug issues many times. You can’t explain her transformation without something being done to her chemically.”