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Instead of gracing the accusation with an answer, my father had told me that his own parents died in a car crash when he was eighteen, but I’d never seen any pictures of them.
He pinned me with his narrow, indigo eyes.
“Vendicare me.”
Avenge me.
“Take the sheets and get the hell out. Tomorrow morning, you may present them to your very close family members. No friends. No Made Men. And if this leaks to the media, I will make sure to personally put that knife to your neck…and twist hard,” Wolfe said, unbuttoning the first buttons of his dress shirt.
My father turned his back on us and stalked out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.
The thud of the door banging still rang in my ears when I registered my new reality—married to a man who did not love me but enjoyed my body frequently.
Betrothed to a man who did not want to have kids and hated my father with passion.
“I’ll take the couch,” Wolfe said, grabbing a pillow from the bed and throwing it over on a settee by my window.
He wasn’t going to share a bed with me. Even on our wedding night.
I scurried into bed and turned off the light.
Neither of us said good night.
We both knew it was just another lie.
FRANCESCA
A week ticked by and Wolfe and I eased back into our usual nighttime routine.
There was plenty of kissing, touching galore, licking and moaning and taunting each other with our mouths and fingers alone. But every time he went there—really there—I recoiled and asked him to leave the room.
He always did.
The pain I endured my first time left me scarred and scared. Not just physically, either. The way he hadn’t believed served as a reminder that we didn’t share much more than physical attraction.
There was no trust. No love.
We were going to have sex, and probably soon—but only on my terms. Only when I felt comfortable.
Life crawled on. The days were busy and cluttered with things to do and places to go, yet nothing of significance happened.
My husband was growing frustrated with my refusal to sleep with him. Ms. Sterling was growing frustrated with how we shared lust but nothing else, and my father had stopped talking to me altogether, though my mother continued to call me every day.
Seven days after the wedding, I walked out of college, heading for Smithy’s waiting car.
When I reached the black Cadillac, I found Smithy leaning against the passenger door with his cheap suit and black Ray-Bans. He rolled a lollipop in his mouth from side to side, offering me a nod.
“Your turn to drive.”
“Huh?”
“Big man’s order. He said it’s cool since there are no highways on the way home.”
I’d only had two lessons with Wolfe since he’d promised to teach me—my husband didn’t have much time outside of his work life—but I knew I could do it.
Wolfe said I was a natural, and he wasn’t loose in the compliments department. Besides, Smithy was right—the way back to the house was urban and busy. It was perfect for practice.
“All right.” I bit down a giddy smile.
