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I digthe tip of my small pocketknife into the inside of Enzo’s suit jacket. The material lifts, and I slide the small recording chip from the fabric.
Doting Wife Rule Number One:You must take care of your husband’s laundry. Wash it after his long day, and be sure to iron and hang it up for when he needs it next.
*Addendum: Feel free to implant a recording device if you suspect the asshole of being shady.
Enzo’s been asleep for thirty minutes, and I have all the time in the world to listen to the events of his day, but I move quickly because I need to know who that call was from. Once I’ve got it plugged into the playback device, I skip through the entire day until I get to the dinner. After fast-forwarding through our talk with Vittoria, Antonio, and Giana and Dante, I finally land on the part when we were eating dinner.
“A little farther,” I say under my breath as I skip ahead.
I hear a door close and Enzo’s voice, and I backtrack fifteen seconds and turn the volume up, looking over at the door to make sure I’m alone in my office.
“Can’t talk long.” Enzo’s voice floats through the speaker as I begin listening to a one-sided conversation of him on the phone. “At family dinner. What can I do for you?” He pauses, and I can only assume whoever is on the other line is speaking. “Yes, Mr. Amato. Loud and clear.”
What the fuck? Mr. Amato?
“Got it, boss.” The toilet flushes in the background, and all I hear are the sounds of Enzo washing his hands and walking back to the table.
Mr. Amato.
Boss.
My husband took a phone call from Gabriel Amato and then lied to me about it.
What the fuck is going on?
10
NICCOLÒ
Darkness surrounds me as I wait for her. The space smells of Evelina and the things she loves. Sandalwood and honey and worn pages of the books she gets lost in. I’m here. I’m here, but I shouldn’t be because I swore to myself this was done after she rode away from me last time. Told myself to find a new obsession to get fucked in the head about.
That’s the thing about obsessions, though.
You don’t get to choose.
For something to wholly and truly be an obsession, it chooses you.
And fucking hell did Evelina choose me. Without even knowing it.
I think I’m also here because I’m fucking done. After everything went down with Gabriel Jr. and the raid, the way Gabriel treated Giana…I just need to fucking get my mind off of everything that’s fucked and get a fix of my viper.
The past few days have been a shitshow between Gabriel holding Giana in the cellar during Gabriel Jr.’s funeral, his beatings and lashings, and then the ultimate betrayal to Gabriel on G’s part—running away from her wedding day to Santiago Martínez and straight into the arms of Dante DeSantis again.
Gabriel Sr. is already plotting on how he’s going to get her back just to kill her again. But there’s not a chance in hell I’ll allow that to fucking happen. I’ll die before I let him hurt Giana again. Hell, I’ll come to terms and put family rivalry shit behind us when it comes to Dante if he’s going to protect my sister.
I crack my knuckles and lean back in the chair. Waiting. Evelina pissed me the fuck off the last time I saw her. The way she looked into my eyes and laid into me, and for what? Trying to help her. Trying to force her to see the man she chose to marry is a fucking lying piece of trash.
The woman is playing with fire and doesn’t think she’ll go up in flames. She’s in over her head, but somehow it seems as if I won’t be able to tell her that. The Evelina I thought I knew from our brief interactions leading up to the night at The Vault is the opposite of the one who put me in my place with her fucking sword of a tongue.
It didn’t matter what I said to her; she was hitting me right back. Hitting me where it hurts. Hitting me and sparking to life something I thought was fucking dead inside of me.
Her words are a weapon against me. A weapon I never knew existed.
I’ve already handled more in my lifetime than you’ll ever see in yours. Sitting up on your Amato fucking throne.
Even though I’m calling her bluff, the words still grate on my nerves. She doesn’t know the shit I’ve seen or what I’ve been through. There isn’t a chance in hell she can comprehend what I’ve seen in my lifetime. Are we comparing our scars? Is that what she wants to do? Because if she does, let’s fucking go.
