I’ll need to change before I see her again. I don’t want her looking at me and thinking of violence. I don’t want her remembering the weight of glass falling around her while she shook under my body. I don’t want her scared.
My phone buzzes again.
This time it’s Dante.
Dante:
Outside.
We are coming in.
My heart slams against my ribs.
We?
I look toward the open warehouse doors. Headlights. Footsteps.
Dante walks in first.
And behind him—
Elena. My wife. Here. Not safe at home. Not trembling behind Nico.
Here.
In a warehouse that reeks of blood. Where I’m standing covered in it. Where a half-dead shooter sits tied to a chair.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Because suddenly— I don’t fear her being scared for herself. I fear her being scared…of me.
The second my eyes land on Elena in that doorway, something in my chest snaps loose.
I storm straight toward Dante.
“What the fuck, Dante?” My voice echoes off the concrete, sharp and too loud. I never raise my voice at him. Not the Don. Not in front of the men. But right now, he’s not the Don. He’s my cousin who dragged my wife into a goddamn blood-soaked warehouse. Dante just shrugs, completely unfazed.
There’s even a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “She refused to go home,” he says. “Demanded she be taken to you.”
My breath stutters. I look at her—my wife—standing just inside the doorway, eyes lowered, shoulders tight.
She hasn’t looked at me once. Not since she walked in. And I know that posture. That silence. That lowered gaze. She’s scared of me. My chest caves in on itself.
I walk toward her slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
“Dove…” My voice is barely a whisper. “I promise you—I will never hurt you. Ever. Are you okay?”
Her lashes flutter, and she finally lifts her eyes to mine. Tears gather at the corners. But she doesn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of my men. Instead—I watch it happen. The mask. The same one she wore at the wedding. Soft, empty obedience sliding over her features like armor. It guts me. I hate it. I hate that she needs it. I hate that I caused it. I grab her hand—gently, but firmly—and pull her away from all the staring eyes. Across the warehouse. Into a side room filled with old crates and dust. The second we’re inside, I release her like she’s made of glass and I’m covered in knives. Her hand falls to her side. And I feel like I’ve been sliced open.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, pacing in front of her. “For the restaurant. For what happened. For the danger. I’m sorry you were almost hurt. I’m sorry you’re scared—” She opens her mouth, but I keep going. “—I know you didn’t ask for this life. I know you’re scared of me right now, and I swear to you, Elena, I would never hurt you. Not ever. Not in anger, not in—”
“Enough.”
One word. Soft. I freeze. She steps closer. So close I can feel her breath against my throat. Her hand lifts— And she presses her palm to my cheek. My heart cracks clean in half. She looks down at my shirt. At the blood staining every inch of it.
Her voice trembles. “Is any of it yours?”
I swallow hard and shake my head. I can’t speak. I don’t trust myself to.
