“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
34
ABELLA
Something stirs me from my sleep—a prickling awareness that I’m not alone, but when I glance at the space beside me, it’s still empty.
Moonlight filters in from outside, casting a blue glow over the room. I sit up, blinking at the shadowed silhouette in the reading chair near the window. For a moment, I wonder if I’m dreaming again. But as my eyes adjust, his details come into focus.
Angelo sits there quietly, his unwavering gaze locked on me. He’s freshly showered, wearing only a pair of black sweatpants. Tension stretches between us as silence lingers, and I don’t know what’s changed, but I can sense the shift in him.
This is Angelo—the god of war.
“Your father is dead.” His voice cuts through the room like a knife, the words heavy and final.
Now, I understand.
My father must have said something to him, and whatever it was, I doubt it bodes well for me. Unlike most people who would choose to reflect on their life and make peace before death, I can only imagine my father doing the opposite. He probablyremained true to his evil nature up until the bitter end, adding salt to all the wounds he’d already inflicted.
“Are you coming to bed?” I whisper.
Angelo stares at me for a long moment before he rises from his seat. He moves toward me with deliberate slowness, closing in on me like a predator would its prey. I curl my knees into my chest as he pauses next to the bed, his frame towering over me, his face a blank mask.
“Are we still playing games,cara?” He grazes my jaw so lightly, it feels like a trap.
I want to soak up every ounce of his warmth, but he didn’t come here to comfort me.
“That’s fine,” he says, his voice deceptively soft. “We can play games if you want. But you should know I always win.”
There’s no question his words are a threat, and I should take them as such. But the fact that he’s still willing to play the game means he doesn’t know the truth. There’s still time, as fleeting as it may be, before that secret destroys us.
If I tell him now, it’s over. And as selfish as it may be, I’m not ready for that yet. So I’ll play this game with him a little longer, collecting memories of him while I still can. Perhaps, when I’m alone, they’ll keep me warm when he no longer will.
His fingers fall away from my face, and I ache over the loss. I want him near me. Pressed against me. His body shielding me from the storm to come. But he can see it’s the thing I need most from him right now, and for that reason, he denies me.
I call after him as he turns and walks away, but he doesn’t answer—because this is my punishment.Liars don’t get their husband’s warmth.
He leaves the suite and shuts the door behind him, and that echo feels like a blunt knife to the heart. It’s a painful foreboding of our future.
As I lie back down and curl into myself, a solitary tear rolls down my face. I tell myself not to cry. I’ve already grieved this loss. I’ve been grieving it for years. But this time, it doesn’t work.
I fall into a pit of despair and release my pain.
I wakeup with a puffy face and a headache bordering on a migraine. I feel terrible, but I rally and get ready for work, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. Angelo didn’t come back last night, and I don’t know where he was.
I underestimated how triggering this feeling might be. How many times did I watch my mother wait up for my father to return, only to see him stumble in days later, reeking of booze and cheap perfume? She wasn’t alone in that. Over the years, I’ve observed the same pattern in countless marriages. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve watched women turn into shells of their former selves—constantly chasing the fountain of youth, the latest diet, the best surgeons. The problem is, they aren’t the problem, and deep down they know it. But what’s the alternative? They’re just supposed to accept that their husbands will be unfaithful for the rest of their lives?
That’s the world we live in. Divorces are rarely done in The Society, and those who do are typically shunned. In theCosa Nostra? You may as well sign your death certificate.
When we first got engaged, I thought things would be different with Angelo. I knew him to be a man of integrity, loyalty, and devotion. He was raised by a father who loved their mother unconditionally, and Angelo once told me he wanted a marriage like theirs. But that was before.
Before prison.
Before my betrayal.
Before everything was ruined.
He didn’t return as the same man who’d left. He married me for revenge, and I’d be a fool to think he’d let that go so easily. Things may have been good between us yesterday, but now, everything has changed.
