We make our way back to the Mercedes slowly, other mourners parting before us. Their whispers follow, wondering, questioning. Tony already has the engine running, ever efficient.
Back in the Mercedes, privacy glass raised between us and Tony, Emma finally safe from prying eyes. She lets herself completely break, the sobs coming in waves while I hold her, my arm wrapped around her shoulders. The leather seats creak as I pull her closer, her body fitting against mine like she was made for this specific space.
"I'm sorry," she gasps between tears. "I almost ruined everything. Mrs.Hewson was watching and I couldn't…"
"You did perfectly," I interrupt, surprising us both with my vehemence. In my world, showing emotion is weakness, something to be exploited or punished. But watching her navigate that minefield of grief and deception while the Hewsons circled like predators? "You honored your friend while maintaining your cover. That takes strength most people don't have."
She pulls back slightly, searching my face. "You're not angry?"
"I'm impressed." The admission surprises me, feels strange on my tongue. "You faced impossible pressure and didn't break. Emma and Frances both survived that. We're a team now, stellina. Allies against everyone who would hurt you."
The car becomes our sanctuary, privacy glass ensuring no one can witness this moment of raw honesty. Something shifts in her expression. Trust blooming where there had been only desperate dependence. The transformation makes my gut twist, arousal and admiration tangling in ways I don't want to examine.
"You threatened them. The Hewsons. You protected me from her questions."
"And I'll do more than threaten if they push again." The promise comes out darker than intended, edged with the kind of violence I usually keep leashed. "I'd feed them their own teeth before letting them hurt you again. Did you see how they tightened up when I mentioned loyal servants keeping secrets? They're terrified of what their staff might know. Good. Fear makes people careful."
"Or dangerous," Emma says softly.
"Let them try." I trace the marks Mrs.Hewson left on her arm, already purpling into bruises. Each mark is catalogued, filed away for future retaliation. "I promise you, stellina, very quietly, without anyone ever knowing why, they'll pay for every mark they put on you. Every tear they cause. Every moment of pain. Mrs.Hewson likes her morning tea? Shame if something bitter got mixed in. Mr.Hewson's medications? So easy to adjust dosages."
She shivers at the cold certainty in my voice, but doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans closer. "You really would, wouldn't you? Hurt them for me?"
"I'd do worse than hurt them." The truth sits heavy between us in the safe privacy of the car. "You're mine, Emma. That means your grief is mine, your enemies are mine, your pain is mine to avenge. Right down to the smallest bruise."
Chicago passes by outside, the city's skyline a blur of glass and steel.
"Those children," Emma says suddenly. "Mariam's children. Can we… could you…"
"Already handled," I tell her, pulling out my phone to show her the wire transfers. "Trust fund for each, administered quietly. Full education, living expenses, everything. They'll never want for anything."
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, but these are different. Grateful rather than grieving. "You don't even know them."
"I know they mattered to someone who matters to you." I brush away her tears with my thumb, the salt of them somehow more intimate than a kiss. "That's enough."
I wrap my arm around her more tightly, feeling the last of her resistance fade. She rests her head against my chest, surrendering completely to my protection. And in this moment, with her tears on my skin and the weight of her grief in my arms, I realize I'd do anything to keep her safe. Not because she's my wife or my possession, but because something in me needs her to survive.
14 - Emma
The charity luncheon for orphaned children feels like a cruel joke when you’re just back from your single-mom friend’s funeral.
Crystal chandeliers drip light across the Chicago Historical Society ballroom, transforming two hundred of the city's most influential women into glittering predators. Twenty days of coaching from Alessandro hasn't prepared me for this. I sit at the head table in my cream Chanel skirt suit, Alessandro selected it this morning, his fingers lingering on each button as he dressed me like a doll, trying to remember which fork comes next.
"The Rosetti family's generosity toward orphans is legendary," the woman to my right gushes, her diamonds catching light with every gesture. "Your mother-in-law would have been so proud."
I nod, smile, deflect. Alessandro's mother is dead, as Frances would know. Emma learned it from kitchen gossip. The woman I'm supposed to be exists somewhere between those truths.
Across the ballroom, Alessandro conducts business near the bar, but his eyes find me every few minutes. Checking. Protecting. Owning. The weight of his gaze makes my skin flush beneath the designer wool, makes me press my thighs together under the table.
"Oh look," my tablemate whispers, "here comes Mrs.Rourke."
The name means nothing to me, although I'm sure it should. I watch the woman approach, seventy-something, wearingpearls, her smile sharp as winter. She moves through the crowd like Moses parting the sea, lesser mortals stepping aside.
"Mrs.Rosetti," she says, voice carrying enough to draw attention. "How delightful to finally meet Alessandro's mysterious bride."
I stand to greet her, and immediately know I've done something wrong. Her eyes narrow at how I rise, servant-quick instead of society-smooth. Her eyes linger on my hands as I adjust my napkin, the same calculating look Mrs.Hewson used to give me when inspecting my work.
"Mrs.Rourke." I extend my hand, but she air-kisses instead, her perfume cloying.
