He laughs before sinking to his knees between my legs, his large hands gripping my ankles.
“My life is yours,” he rasps. “What the fuck would a prenup do? If you leave, I’m dead anyway. Take the money. Take everything. Take the fucking air out of the room. It’s all yours.”
He presses his forehead against the tops of my feet.
“Thank you,” he mutters. He starts kissing my feet—the arches, the toes. “Thank you for choosing this. For accepting the devil without trying to turn him into a saint. I’m a wreck, Charlotte. I’m a fucking catastrophe. And you saw it all andchose me anyway.”
I look down at him, this mountain of a man reduced to a puddle at my feet. My thoughts are intrusive. I could break him right now. I could crush his skull with a word. But I won’t. I reach down, my fingers tangling in his hair, staring at the gold in his eyes.
“I didn’t want a saint, Valerio. I wanted you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Charlotte
Amonth of being Mrs. Morelli.
Our wedding was a tiny ceremony of three: me, him, and the priest.
I can feel him constantly, even when he isn’t in the room. He’s taken to lurking in the kitchenette during my private sessions, eavesdropping on the trauma of the city’s worst criminals. It’s a massive breach of ethics, but all my clients now practice is a lie; my life is his.
He’s pushed me. He’s owned me. He’s stalked me. Twice, I had to choke out the wordYellowwhen it became too much. He stopped instantly. The aftercare afterward was absolute perfection.
But today is his thirtieth. A milestone for a man who never expected to survive his teens. I made him promise to stay away while I set up his surprise. I’ve seen him drawing recently, so I bought him everything—heavy easels, oils, and canvases large enough to hold the darkness he carries.
I enter the elevator of the penthouse, the cake in my hands. I strike a match and light the candles, the small flames flickering in the mirrored space. I can hear the hum of the ventilation system, nearly triggering the smoke alarm, but I exit the elevator quickly.
“Happy birthday to you,” I start to sing, stepping out into the foyer.
The song dies in my throat.
Valerio is slumped on the couch, his head buried in his hands. I set the cake down on the coffee table, the candles guttering out into thin trails of smoke. I sit next to him, my hand hovering over his back.
“Valerio? What’s wrong?”
He nudges the letter toward me. The handwriting is elegant.
Valerio,
I’m writing this because I don’t have the courage to say it. Seeing you with her… it reminded me of everything I failed to give you. I called you a monster because it was easier than admitting I was the one who let you be made.
I was a coward. I looked at your face and saw a man who hurt me, instead of the son who needed me. You were never the monster; it was always me.
I’m sorry I couldn’t love you the way you deserved. I’m sorry I left you in the dark.
Isabella.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He shakes his head. His eyes are bloodshot. He no longer runs away from me or shuts down. On the contrary, he reaches for me.
I slide into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. He clings to me.
“I’m here,” I mutter. “I’m not going anywhere. You aren’t his, and you aren’t hers.You’re mine. Do you hear me? You’re fucking mine.”
His face presses harder into my skin. “Yours. Only yours.”
I pull the letter from his hand and drop it onto the floor. It looks like trash. Itistrash.
