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With one last look at my reflection, I grab my coat off the chair while pulling the pins out of my bun at the same time with my free hand.
As I head toward the staircase, the steady cadence of my heels is echoed by the delicate pings of the pins hitting the floor as I keep pulling them out one by one. By the time I reach the top landing, a trail of small black hairpins leads back to my room.
Alessandro stands at the foot of the stairs, a dark look on his face. This morning, he ate me out like a starved man having his first meal in weeks, and then disappeared. I can’t stop thinking about his parting sentence. He said he was going back to his personal hell. What did he mean by that? I am his enemy’s wife, yet there was no gloating, satisfaction, or triumph in his tone. He sounded defeated. There is something else going on.
My gaze moves from Alessandro’s eyes to his lips. Can he still taste me? Will he come into my room again tonight? The sensation of his mouth on my pussy still lingers. It’s more than the sexual act itself that shook me to my core. It’s the way he touched me—as if I’m a precious, valuable thing. He said he hates me. Even planned to kill me. His caresses tell me otherwise.
I’m aware of how a violent, angry man acts more than I’ve ever wanted to be. I can sense one, even through his smiles and pretense. Despite Alessandro’s hostile words, my instinct for self-preservation wasn’t triggered. Not even when he wrapped his fingers around my neck during that self-defense demonstration. Having his huge hand around my throat actually thrilled me. There is something so alluring about giving a man like Alessandro that kind of power over me. How easily he could have snapped my neck if he wanted to, but, instead, his touch made me feel safe. Protected. And it turned me on.
Because I know he wouldn’t hurt a hair on my head.
***
“Why the fuck did you leave the house looking like that?” Rocco snarls from the bed. “You’re not a goddamn peasant who walks around with her hair sticking out in all directions!”
I slip my hands into the pockets of my coat so he won’t see them shaking, and take a deep breath. “I need to tell you something.”
“I don’t give a fuck!” His face flushes red as he roars and leans over the side of the bed, pointing to the bathroom door with his good hand. “Get in the bathroom and put your hair in order!”
“There’s nothing wrong with my hair,” I say. “Nino asked me to pass you some info.”
“What info?”
“Your father is dead.”
Rocco’s body goes still, and several emotions race across his face. Shock. Denial. And then, a barely detectable excitement he’s trying hard to hide.
The relationship my husband had with his father was always ambiguous. On one hand, he revered Elio and sought his approval relentlessly, while on the other, he despised his father for never showing Rocco respect. In public, Elio always boasted about how Rocco is one of the don’s most trusted men, but behind closed doors, he enjoyed speaking down to his son, saying he’s not good enough to become an underboss.
“How did he die?” he asks.
“He was killed at his home last night.”
Rocco’s eyes go impossibly wide. “You’re lying!”
“I’m not.”
Rocco’s face turns an even deeper shade of red, his nostrils flare, and the vein in his neck pulses. He reaches for his phone, which lies on the bed, and hurls it at me like a surly kid. I notice his intention in time and step to the side, letting his phone hit the door and crash to the floor. My eyes don’t move off Rocco’s indignant form as I crouch and pick up the cell.
“This is the last time you do that,” I say. “I’m done being your punching bag. Next time you raise your hand to me, I’m going straight to the don.”
“You slimy little bitch! I’ll show you.”
I throw the phone at him with all my strength, and excitement fills me when it hits him in the chest. Rocco grabs the side of the bed, yelling and shaking the railing. I simply turn and leave the room.
Alessandro is sitting in the waiting room at the other side of a long hallway, but he stands up when he sees me coming.
I stop, face him, and look up. “Can I get another self-defense lesson tomorrow morning?”
Alessandro’s eyes narrow. He watches me for a few beats and then slowly nods.
We exit the hospital and head toward my car when a biker driving way too fast through the parking lot stops just a few yards in front of us. His bike is completely black, except for the prominent design on its body panel—a white skull with a thick cross over the forehead. Fuck. I grab Ravenna’s wrist and pull her behind me.
“Do not move,” I say, keeping the biker in my sight. “Confirm that you understand, Ravenna.”
Silence stretches for a few moments before she replies, “Yes.”
The rider dismounts the bike and removes his helmet. My eyes are locked on him as he approaches us with slow, measured steps until he stands before me.
