My entire life.
It was in the way my father looked at my mother.
It was in the way Mac Macchiavello touched Mariposa.
It was in the way countless men in the Faustifamigliareacted to women who were much smaller than them. Somehow, though,sheheld all the power.
It went beyond amorous—it made them susceptible to dropping their guards. And in the world we lived in, they might as well walk around with their pounding hearts in their hands, after ripping it out themselves, leaving a blood trail wherever they went. Hunters were on the constant prowl behind them, whether that be man, animal, or monster.
My husband’s heart was in his hands. I was his vulnerability, and the switch that had been flipped was his focus.
It had been two weeks since we’d arrived in New York, and after the first night, he ate, slept, breathed retribution. He stayed out most nights and slept only a few hours in the day. He worked out in the gym for hours. Made love to me like he’d never see me again—thatthingmeasuring distance seemingly reminding him that I was always too far away.
Always.
His gauge was broken. I knew it. Because I didn’t leave his side when he was home. When he worked out, I stayed with him. When he ate, I ate with him at the table. When he made love to me, I was deep in the moments, in the solitude with him.
He didn’t know it was broken. The only thing that would fix it, I knew, would be to end this war.
The numbers that Mac announced when he’d first walked into the room, followed by the worddoubled, made my head swim. When I’d asked Saverio about it, he’d grinned and said, “Stakes in this game.”
He’d stood in front of me after he’d done the laces of his boots. As usual, he was dressed in black from head to toe. A part of the darkness that he thrived in. Except for those eyes. It drew the gold out of them.
When he looked at me like I was the sun coloring his irises, I had to steady my breathing. I had to force myself not to fight with him—to get him in a vulnerable position, so I could tie him to the bed until this was all over.
He was where he belonged. With me.
Forever would give me the chance to put distance between all those years ofno. Of turning my back. Of being too afraid to lose him. Of being selfish with my love. When all I’d ever wanted was him.
The tension had gotten so thick that I wondered if I should start dancing. Revert back to a place that would take me away from it all. But it seemed like when I closed that door, it was slammed shut. The lock and key were buried somewhere deep inside of me.
Maybe I would open it later, when it wasn’t a coping mechanism, but just something I enjoyed doing.
Maybe when we were visiting somewhere we’d never been before. Candlelight burning through the darkness when the music was soft and low, swaying back and forth. Or during a night out in a hot country, when bodies were dancing in the streets. Maybe he would take me to a concert at the beach, where we would pretend that we’d never met, and it was love at first sight.
In a different life? That was all so simple. Within reach.
In this life?
We had to get through one breath at a time.
I struggled with that. Breathing. He’d left for another night of vengeance with my father, his, and a few men. And I was left alone…with my thoughts and my feelings.
A jumbled fucking mess.
I felt like I was made of live wires, and they were all tangled and starting to suffocate me. I couldn’t get them untangled from around my heart. Couldn’t even get close to them without getting shocked. Which set me off. Made my heart thrum too fast.
The more he went out, the tighter and hotter they became.
My breath didn’t even return to me when he slid in beside me in the wee hours of the morning, smelling like sweet smoke and bitter ash, even after a shower. It made me cling to him harder, holding my breath for the next night.
Laughter from the kitchen drifted into our room, along with the smell of—something with tomatoes and something fried, an undercurrent of something sweet. Cinnamon buns? Evelina was a good cook, and she usually enjoyed making midnight sweets. But tonight, it seemed she had decided to do something different. An entire meal.
My stomach rebelled. I barely ate. I picked.
Not sure what to do with my hands,myself, I stood from the bed. We were in Saverio’s old room. It was an odd combination of a space cleared out for a man, but with occasional things from his childhood. Replicas of race cars lined a shelf. It seemed like he’d built them by hand. A lump formed in my throat when I realized I’d never asked him.
Why didn’t I ask him if he had?
