We respect the dead.
"Stormy River?" John asks, unfolding a body bag.
I strip methodically, handing over my ruined clothes to Que—shirt, pants, shoes. An adept sequence. So familiar, it' s automatic. "South bank. She once said she loved the view there."
Que nods. "Very good, Boss."
As I walk naked to my bedroom, to the shower, I know the room will be stripped back to rafters and concrete by morning, ready for a full renovation.
This is what adomesticatedDon looks like, with his renovations, home extensions, late-night feeds, and group chats. Like a man with so much more to lose, and a ruthless need to protect it. As I said to Bolton, ‘Imagine the depths of Hell I would plunge for her.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
fawn
When I walkinto our room, I hear the shower flicking water against the tiles. Perhaps he went for a swim? Or decided to exercise or shoot?
I set the boys into their cots, in the adjoining nursery, with a soft teddy each, and grab the monitor. “Sir.” I enter the ensuite, thick warm steam circling me like ground-hanging clouds across the Australian desert.
“Is it okay if I make my own cake?” I ask, my voice echoing off the tiles, high-pitched with excitement that we came to this conclusion after trying seven cakes today. Cassidy said the best cake she has ever had was the strawberry shortcake I made for Kelly’s birthday last year, and Bronson agreed. “We tried so many, and I still think mine and Maggie's are better.” Setting the monitor down on the vanity, I step into the clouds, seeing a misty outline of his silhouette. “It'll please the Family, too. Right? That I can bake?” I pause. “Sir?
The steam parts.
I gasp at the sight of red water at his feet, at the remnantsof blood on his neck.No, no, no, no—he’s hurt. Who hurt him? "Who hurt you?”
"Not my blood, little deer."
My hands shake. "Oh."
Water laps the tiles as he scrubs his hair and neck and face. "And the only person you need to please—is me."
I swallow. "Do I please you?"
"Not when you yell at me from across a shower." He turns to face me, his virile form emphasised by the tiny streams of pink water swerving down long powerful muscles, finding a course to pool at his feet. He looks like the Devil’s Prototype today—made in his image, with his deep, velvety timbre and plated in his darkness. “Wait outside, sweet girl. I don’t want you in here until it’s clean.”
I grab the baby monitor.
My legs move towards the door of their own accord, trembling to match my fingers. I've seen this before—seen him washing away someone else's life, the evidence disappearing down the drain, but not from my mind.
Not entirely.
Though, it is easy to forget when the same man burps our sons against his shoulder, who traces my spine with reverent fingertips in the dark, who whispers promises against my neck, and fucks me until I come.
The Don of the Cosa Nostra.
I should feel horror. Fear. Disgust. Instead, relief floods me because the blood isn't his. The victim isn't me.
A knot forms in my belly as I recognize the truth—I abandoned normal morality long ago. My compass was recalibrated by my mother’s death, by my foster brothers’ rough hands. My north and south, east and west, stained with trauma. Now, safety is my only true north, and he provides it—no matter the cost to others.
My dangerous man.
My protector.
My soon-to-be husband.
Lyingnaked on my side of the bed, my chest expands with a deep breath when he enters the room.
“Sir,” I say his name as a greeting, a welcome, thick with emotion and yearning. “The boys are asleep.” I lift my knees, planting my bare feet on the sheets, a shy invitation—as if my bare skin wasn’t enough of a tell.
