Page 67

But Domenico—my husband—removed that leverage like it was nothing and gave it to me, demanding nothing in return. The silence stretches as his heart beats in a steady and soothing rhythm under my ear.

“Don’t do something like that again without telling me,” I whisper.

I expect another argument, so I’m surprised when he simply says, “I won’t.”

Satisfied with that answer, I curl deeper into him. My sobs have quieted to hiccups, then to the uneven rhythm of someone who’s cried themselves empty. Even though I’m still clenching the fabric of his shirt, the grip has changed from anger to something desperate and grateful and terrified all at once.

“Hold me tighter,” I whisper.

When his arms tighten immediately, I let out a small huff. I hate agreeing with him right now, even in my own head. But I do need to get better at saying what I want—or using my words.

One of Domenico’s large hands slides from my hair to the base of my skull, cradling me against him with a firmness that borders on possession. The other arm locks around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest until there’s no space between us, until I can feel every breath he takes, every shift of muscle under his skin.

I am a mess. Snot-nosed, red-eyed, emotionally flayed. And Domenico DeLuca, the man who rules Boston, is sitting on the floor while holding his crying wife.

For the first time since the argument began—since the hospital, since Dr. Morgan, since the moment I realized my life had been rearranged without my consent—I feel heard.

Not placated. Not managed. Heard.

And underneath the exhaustion, underneath the raw, scraped-clean feeling of having nothing left to give, something warm settles in my chest. Small. Tentative. The first green shoot after a forest fire.

Gratitude. For the man who took every blow I threw and didn’t budge an inch.

17

Domenico

Itake Kira’s hand and pull her through the penthouse, past the kitchen where she’s eaten breakfast every morning for weeks, past the living room where she broke down in my arms three days ago, and down a hallway she’s never had reason to explore.

“Where are we going?” she asks, her fingers threading through mine with a trust that catches me off guard.

“You’ll see.”

The gym takes up the entire east corner of the penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows line two walls, the October sky a hard, pale blue above the surrounding buildings. Afternoon light cuts across the floor, warming the rack of weights, the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling, and the padded bench in the corner.

Her eyes go wide. Then narrow. “You have a gym,” she states in an accusatory tone. “And you never told me.”

“Would you have used it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

I’m pretty sure I’d know by now if she’d been itching to go for a workout, and the way she purses her lips is all the answer I need.

Her gaze drops over me, lingering long enough that I notice. “You look different,” she says.

I glance down at the white wifebeater and gray sweatpants. “Different how?”

“It’s… different to see you in anything but your usual suits.” Her eyes flick over me again before she seems to realize she’s staring.

“Do you prefer this?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A faint flush creeps into her cheeks, and she looks away.

I wanted to bring her here yesterday, but Langford called and allowed her to visit her mom. So she spent the afternoon with Paige. Today’s better anyway. She got back from Saint Benedict’s not too long ago, and she seems to be in a good mood.

“What are we doing here?” she asks, fingering the left strap on the sports bra she’s wearing.