She looks up at me, and for a moment, I think she might tell me. Might reveal whatever truth she's hiding behind those careful smiles and measured words. But then Vivienne's laugh cuts through the night air, and the moment breaks.
"Your girlfriend is looking for you," she says, stepping back.
"She's not my—" I stop, frustrated. Why am I explaining myself to my arranged wife? "We should go."
The ride home is silent, but it's a different silence than before. Charged. I'm hyperaware of her every movement, every breath.
When we arrive at the compound, she turns to me before getting out. "Thank you. For your help with Federico."
"I told you. No one touches what's mine."
"Right. Property protection." She sounds almost amused. "Goodnight, Alessandro."
She's out of the car before I can respond, walking into the house with that same careful grace, leaving me with the taste of her perfume and questions I shouldn't want answered.
I stay in the car for a long moment, thinking about Vivienne's hands on my chest that felt wrong, Bianca's familiar body against mine that suddenly held no appeal. Thinking about my wife on her knees in silk, helping someone beneath her station with instinctive kindness.
Frances Hewson is hiding something. And for the first time in my life, I want something more than just a woman's body.
I want her secrets.
I want her truth.
I want her.
The realization is unwelcome, inconvenient, and undeniable. My arranged wife, the woman I swore to keep at arm's length, has somehow slipped under my skin in a single evening.
Tomorrow, I'll investigate. Tomorrow, I'll maintain distance.
Tonight, I pour myself a whiskey and try not to think about how perfectly she fit in my arms.
Tonight, I fail.
8 - Alessandro
The screaming starts at 2:45 AM, and I discover that my beautiful wife has claws.
Not metaphorical ones. Real fingernails that rake across my cheek when I reach for her thrashing form, drawing blood that wells hot against my skin. She's trapped in some nightmare that has her fighting invisible demons, sheets tangled around her legs like restraints.
"Tommy!" The name tears from her throat, raw and desperate. "Please, Tommy, no! I'll be good, I'll work harder, don't let them!"
She twists violently, nearly falling off the bed before I catch her. Her skin burns with fever-sweat, hair plastered to her forehead as she fights my grip with surprising strength. This isn't the trembling creature who flinches at my touch during daylight. This is someone who's learned to fight for survival.
"Basta," I command in Italian, keeping my voice low, studying her the way I'd assess any puzzle that needs solving. "Frances. Wake up."
But she doesn't hear me. Her body arches, hands clawing at something I can't see, and she screams again, a sound that could shatter glass. "Tommy! I won't let them hurt you, I promise, I'll do anything!"
Interesting. This Tommy commands the kind of loyalty I've only seen in blood bonds. The name feels familiar, something from the wedding preparations, perhaps, though the Hewsons kept their daughter's life so private. A brother? Cousin? Thedesperate protectiveness in her voice suggests family rather than a lover, but the thought of any man commanding such devotion from her makes something dark coil in my chest. I will find this Tommy and understand exactly what hold he has over my wife.
I try again to wake her gently, hand on her shoulder, but she strikes out with animal panic. Her nails catch my cheek again, deeper this time, and I taste copper on my lip where the blood runs down.
"Christ," I mutter, dodging another swing. At this rate, she'll shred more than just my shirts in her sleep.
The thrashing intensifies. She's fighting a war I can't see, and losing badly from the sounds tearing from her throat.
Her eyes snap open, but she's not really awake. The pupils are blown wide with panic, gasping for air like she's drowning. She doesn't recognize the room, doesn't recognize me. Her gaze darts wildly between the windows and door.
"Where?" Her voice breaks. "No, no, no!"
