Finally, “You hate your wife so much you’re trying to get rid of her already?”
That pisses me off instantly.
“I don’t hate her, Gia.”
My jaw clenches. “She needs clothes.”
A beat. Then incredulous laughter.
“She came from the head of the Russian Bratva. You’re telling me she arrived with nothing?”
“They never let her pick her own clothes.”
The words come out harsher than I intend. Another pause.
“What?”
Gia’s voice isn’t shocked anymore. It’s angry. Protective. Volcanic.
“Never,” I confirm. “She told me she hates everything she owns. Every shirt. Every color. I don't even think she knows what she likes because she’s never been allowed to choose.”
Gia’s breath comes through the line sharp and fast.
“Say no more,” she snaps. “I’ll be there after lunch.”
“I need you with her,” I say quietly. “I trust you to help her figure it out.”
“You can count on me,” she says, her voice fierce. “And Alessandro?”
“Yes?”
“I’m proud of you.”
That hits harder than it should. But I don’t have time to unpack it. Because the moment I hang up, Dante’s name flashes across my screen — like he felt I was trying to avoid him.
I answer. He listens to the warehouse report without interrupting, then lets out a low whistle.
“You think Simon’s clean?”
“I think something’s off. But yeah. Instinct says he’s not the one.”
“Good,” Dante says. “Oh yeah… Isabella said yes last night.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
“You didn’t like watching me walk down that aisle without you doing it too, did you?”
“Not a fucking chance,” I can hear his grin.
We talk for another minute before hanging up.
I exhale, rubbing my face. Then I head for Elena’s room. I knock once. No answer. I knock again—harder this time. Still nothing. Dread curls through my stomach. The house is safe, but that doesn’t mean I like not hearing her voice.
I bang my fist against the door. “Elena—”
The door flies open. And I forget how to breathe. She stands there in nothing but a towel, wrapped tight around her chest, her skin still glistening with droplets of water. Her hair is piled on her head in a messy bun, tendrils falling loose around her face. Her eyes are wide. Her lips parted. Her cheeks flushed.
Fuck.
