She calls again. He sends it to voicemail.
The third time, he curses, and switches off his cell.
I grip his hair, angling his head back. “Who keeps calling?”
“It’s nothing, just a work issue,” he says easily, but I know it’s a lie. Why would he lie to me about her? Is she his mistress? His dirty little secret on the side?
I want to ask, but the question sticks in my throat. Maybe I don’t really want to know the answer because it could ruin everything we’ve so painstakingly built between us. Besides, it’s probably nothing. Maximo wouldn’t do that to me. Would he?
“Come here,bella.” Maximo drags me down to the couch. He wastes no time burying his face between my legs and all thought escapes my mind.
Today’s the day. I’ve worked myself up to this and I’m not going to back down now. It doesn’t matter that there are masked men potentially trying to kill me. Or any of my husband’s possible enemies waiting out there. I’m taking several of Maximo’s—no, ofmyguards—and going to the restaurant where Mrs. Rizzo took me for lunch that one time. Where I purposefully embarrassed myself.
That seems like so long ago now, even though it’s not. So much has changed in a few month’s time. Most of all—me.
As I ride in the car with three soldiers, Niccolò, Dario, and Augustus,plusthe driver for protection, I feel relatively safe. My imagination’s free to wander to how this will go down.
After the briefest of inquiries, I learned that Mrs. Rizzo and her ladies lunch there every Tuesday and Friday. They’re always seated at the same table. So I called and made a reservation for the table next to theirs.
I should probably be afraid of Mrs. Rizzo, but I’m not. She can’t do anything to me in front of so many witnesses. We’re equals on this playing field, both the wives of powerful dons. What I don’t understand is why Maximo hasn’t pressed to bringher in for questioning. Though he could be planning a long game of his own. I make a mental note to ask him about it.
Surely he won’t let it go. She sent someone tokillhim. That’s not something you forgive and forget about. She’s done it once, it’s only a matter of time before she does it again.Over my dead body.
The car pulls up in front of the restaurant and Niccolò opens my door. I smooth down my coral colored dress and adjust my glasses before stepping onto the sidewalk.
My guards flank me as I’m escorted to my table. As soon as I sit down, my gaze latches onto Mrs. Rizzo’s. She and her posse turn in their seats. All of their attention’s on me. Francesca Casella’s jaw practically hits the floor as she recognizes who I am. A satisfied grin tugs at my lips.
Unlike last time I was in here, I’m dressed appropriately, and hold myself with enough confidence to turn heads. Who the hell do I think I am?Iam Elena Pontrelli. Eldest daughter of a don. The newest don’s wife. And I amdonehiding in the shadows.
Ordering from the menu, I ignore the glances and murmurs. I’m here to prove that I belong. And a mob wife doesn’t cower in the face of idle gossip—especially when she’s the topic of conversation. Mama taught me that a long time ago. Though everything feels different now.
When Mama dressed me and my sister in designer clothes, it seemed like a show. I felt like a model, or more realistically a mannequin, wearing the latest fashion. It was never aboutme. I didn’t have a say in the clothes that draped my body. Mama chose the cuts and colors and everything else. We were just another one of her status symbols to show off.
I don’t feel at all like that today. Everything I’m wearing, I chose for myself. My colors, my fit, and my style. Instead of feeling like an object, I feel like a woman.
In this particular, and probably fleeting moment, all is right in my world. I’m presenting the best version of myself, my hard earned money and writing have been returned to me, and I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. A sense of tranquility settles in my chest.
I thank the server as he delivers my glass of wine. Sipping it, I sink into the moment, realizing I’m no longer the scared girl who arrived back in New York City. I have direction in my life. It’s not at all where I thought I wanted to go, except for the writing, but I’m okay with that.
I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
“You look amazing.”
I glance up to find Francesca and a few of the other ladies approaching my table. Mrs. Rizzo stays put, but she watches me with an unnerving intensity. I shoot her a saccharin smile.
“Thank you, so do you.” The compliment falls easily from my lips.
Francesca hovers. “Who’s your stylist?”
“Skye Adair.” I drop her name like a bomb.
One of her friends gasps.
“I didn’t know she took on private clients,” Francesca muses.
“She doesn’t.” I meet her gaze. Call me petty, but I’m really enjoying her shocked expression. I came here for Mrs. Rizzo, getting into it with Francesca’s simply a bonus. She was rude to me when we first met. Not to mention the fact that she had her eyes set on my husband.
Possessiveness coils through me. Maximo ismine. He belongs to me.
