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“Maybe the wedding night didn’t agree with me.” I start to push past him, and once again, he stops me. “Are you going to dictate my coming and goingeverywhere, all of the time, or just when we’re in close proximity? I want to go upstairs.”
“And not finish the tour?” David is looking at me suspiciously. “Do you have food poisoning?” He reaches up suddenly, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. What’s going on, Amalie?”
I glare at him, fresh anger welling up. I suddenly feel entirely too frustrated with all of this—with his arrogance, his high-handedness, his need to control me. I jerk away from his hand, feeling the rage loosen my tongue until I can’t hold back any longer.
“I’m pregnant,” I spit at him, and I have one satisfying moment of seeing the utter shock on his face before his expression hardens into distrustful suspicion.
“You’re pregnant.” He says it slowly, narrowing his eyes at me. “And if you know that now,rightnow, then that means you knew it before the wedding.”
“Maybe I took a test this morning.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You certainly weren’t in bed with me to know one way or another.”
“You conniving little bitch,” David breathes. “You and your mother. And don’t tell me youwantedme in bed with you this morning, because we both know that’s not true.”
“Weren’t you just telling me two nights ago not to talk aboutyourmother like that?” I snap, taking a step back to put more space between us. David comes after me, his glare is predatory, and I take another step.
“You said you didn’t care how I talked about your mother.” David’s jaw clenches. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Amalie, that doesn’t even matter! You’re sidetracking this on purpose. What thefuck? You knew you were pregnant before the wedding, and you didn’t tell me. And I know you kept it from me on purpose, too.” He shakes his head. “And you had the nerve to get upset at me for not using a condom! As if it would have fucking mattered—”
“It was the principle of the thing,” I hiss. “You promised.”
“And you promised me you were a virgin before me! Not that I ever believed you. I’m even less likely to believe you now—” His lips thin, and I see him take in a deep, shuddering breath. “Is it even mine, Amalie? Or were there other guys that you let fuck you raw in Ibiza?”
I try to slap him before I can stop myself. I feel my cheeks flush hot, my entire body simmering with rage, and the only thing thatdoesstop me is his hand grabbing my wrist before my palm can connect with his face. He spins me effortlessly, backing me up against the wall as his hand grips my wrist.
“Nice try, Amalie,” he growls. “Now, let’s try this again. Is it mine?”
“Yes, you insufferable son of a bitch!” I hiss. “It’s your baby. Happy? I told you that you were the only man I fucked, and I meant it. But I’mreally, reallystarting to regret it!”
He glares down at me, his dark eyes burning with rage. “No,” he growls. “I’m not happy, because I don’t believe a fucking word you say. I’m not convinced that it’s my baby, not even a little. I’m not convinced that mine was the first cock in you, because it’s just my luck that I end up with a lying little slut for a wife. But we’ll find out, eventually. And if it’s not mine—” The muscle in his jaw leaps as he looks at me with a coldness that makes me shiver down to my toes. “You’ll be begging me for mercy then, Amalie.”
David lets me go with a jerk, spinning on his heel and stalking away from me down the hall. I reach for my wrist where he grabbed it, massaging the joint as I watch him go, shivering all over from more than the cold now.
I don’t really want to go back to our bedroom, but it’s the most finished room in the house, and the only one where I can be even slightly comfortable. I shut the doors, leaning back against them as I close my eyes, trying to calm the panic that’s churning inside of me.
It doesn’t matter,I tell myself as I walk to the bed, sinking down on the edge of it and trying to gather my thoughts.Itishis, so whether he believes me or not, he’ll find out the truth eventually.But it’s not so much the thought of that question that frightens me.
David has a side to him that scares me. A cold, dark side that is nothing like the man I wanted in Ibiza. And every time I see it, it feels colder. Darker. If I let myself think about it for too long, it terrifies me. I know very well what a man like him—a man steeped in mafia traditions and expectations—might do to a wife they hate…or worse yet, distrust. There is no sacredness of life in the mafia, no belief that anyone is above vengeance. If anything, a wife is easier to get rid of. To dispose of. These men keep each other’s secrets, no matter how dark. If David wanted to make me disappear, he could. I have no doubt of that.
This was the worst yet. I’m afraid to find out how much worse it could be—and at the same time, I don’t know how to stop egging him on. He knows how to get under my skin, how to make me lose my temper, and my common sense.
I listen for a long time for his footsteps to come upstairs, and when I don’t hear them, I finally relax long enough to take a nap. I curl up in the huge bed, pulling a thick knitted wool throw blanket over me, and close my eyes.
—
The house is silent when I wake up, and relief washes over me at the idea that I might be alone. My head aches a little, and I rub a hand over my eyes, blinking at the sun coming through the glass doors that lead out to the balcony.
Pulling on a cardigan, I pad across the chilly wooden floor and tug the doors open, stepping outside. It’s warm and a little humid out, and I fling the doors wider, hoping some of the warmth will make its way inside. On this side of the house, I can see the wide stretch of partially-kept lawn—it’s not overgrown, but nothing particularly special has been done with it. Past that is a line of trees, and I wonder if there are any neighbors on the other side of it—if anyone ever comes over. If David has friends here, or if he keeps to himself.
Men in his position, in my limited experience of my own father and brother, don’t havefriendsso much as they have colleagues. Some bosses make friends with their enforcers or underbosses—back in Chicago, it’s well-known that the leader of the Irish Kings, Theo McNeil, is as close to his enforcer as a brother. My father was always an arrogant and reserved man, so perhaps that was part of the problem—but then again, so are most mafia men that I’ve encountered.
Friends of David’s means the possibility of other mafia wives—and I find that I don’t mind the thought of that so much as I might have in the past. It would be, if anything, a bit of a salve for the loneliness that I can already feel creeping in.
In Boston, I would have had more ways to keep myself occupied. Here, I feel isolated and cut off, and there’s a sense of panic that’s already beginning to settle in.Surely he’s not going to just keep me here,I tell myself as I stand there, gripping the edge of the balcony railing.Surely we’ll go to Boston. Other places. This can’t be my life now.
I tug my cardigan around myself as I walk back into the house, leaving the doors open for the warmth. I still don’t hear any signs of life, so I slip out of the bedroom, padding down the hall barefoot to peek into the other rooms.
Most of them are unfinished guest rooms, and a large library with a fireplace that’s in disrepair, as well as some faded velvet furniture and empty bookshelves that are mostly in need of replacing. The room—like most of the rest of the house—makes my skin crawl a little, and I quickly dart back out.
The only other thing I find is a staircase that appears to lead up to a partial fourth floor. I look at it uncertainly, wondering if I ought to go poking around anywhere else without David’s permission. I can imagine him being angry about it—and in the end, that’s what pushes me to do it anyway.He can’t control every move I make,I think bitterly as I start to go up the staircase, gritting my teeth against the anxious feeling that has settled in my stomach.
