Page 9 of Torn By Fate

I pressed the scar with two fingers, hard. The pain was both real and not. Some days it hummed like the aftershock of a gunshot; other times, it was only a numb reminder that I’d failed to calculate for her ruthlessness.

That I trusted the wrong woman. That I had allowed myself to be vulnerable to my wife, all the while she had been planning for my ultimate demise with my enemy.

Serafina had aimed for my heart.

She missed. Barely.

She had great aim, almost too good.

It made me wonder if she had really missed my heart or if she had intended for the bullet to land exactly where it did, precisely half an inch away.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

My heart was still beating.

Inhale. Exhale.

I was still alive.

The same hand moved up, from my heart to the chain around my neck. The chain I wore since I woke up from my coma. My fingers dangled around the chain before drifting to the small, round metal that hung from it. It rested in the middle of my chest, right between my two pectorals, always hidden under my shirt.

A reminder that Serafina trusted the wrong man

She trusted Matteo. My wife chose my brother.

My chest rumbled with a low growl at the thought. Fuck, I couldn’t wait to get my hands around her pretty, dainty throat. I wanted to look into her eyes as I fucked the betrayal out of her. To remind her that she belonged with me.

To me.

I was her husband, whether she liked it or not, accepted it or not.

Till death do us fucking part.

I grabbed the glass off my desk, bringing it to my nose. I breathed in the scent of whiskey, enjoying the smell of it before taking a sip. It burned down my throat, and I grinned.

Fuck, it felt good to be alive.

I could still recall the tang of disinfectant, the sticky shroud of blood drying in my ribs, the low voices arguing over whether to call a surgeon or just finish me off right there.

I had been unconscious for most of it, but the body never truly forgot.

It kept a running tally.

It stored each memory within its flesh, carved each betrayal into its bones, and wore every scar like a confession no one else could read.

***

I heard the sound of his boots against the hardwood floors in the hallway before he knocked on my door. It was a short triple rap, then a pause, then two more.

“Enter,” I said.

The heavy oak door swung open without a sound. In the window’s reflection, his reflection materialized. First Rocco’s broad shoulders filled the frame, then I saw his lips tight with a grim line. He stepped inside my office, the weight of him settling into the silence.

“Evening,” he said, his voice a low gravel in the quiet room before he closed the door behind him.

I nodded, eyes still on the dark windows. Rocco carried a folder in one hand. “What have you found?”

He crossed the room in three large steps and set the folder on my desk. “The trail went cold after Casablanca.”