If I weren’t still drunk, I’d probably protest, slam my fists into his chest, and call him a few choice names. Instead, I snuggle into his warm neck and relax. Have I forgiven him?
I don’t know, but hearing Lorenzo say Angelo wanted me long before the wedding stirred some long-hidden memories deep in my head.
I recall a dark-haired boy chasing me through trees when I was a kid, both of us laughing. Then, years later, that same boy had become a young man who watched with sadness in his eyes as faceless men lowered my father’s coffin into the ground.
Angelo has never been my enemy.
I see that now.
God knows I didn’t want this marriage, but I suspect he didn’t want it this way either. We both know if he hadn’t agreed to become my husband, it would have been a monster like Domenico Santini.
As much as I’ve fought against the constraints placed on me, Angelo has never hurt me. Not once, despite tremendous provocation. He’s saved my life several times, even when that came at a personal cost.
And tonight, he fought back against his father, despite knowing it would cause problems for him.
He carries me into his bedroom. It’s a large room with an attached bathroom and walk-in closet. The decor is plain: soft gray walls, a dark blue quilt with matching pillows. There’s a fireplace, a comfortable armchair, and dark wood furniture.
It has a masculine but comfortable vibe. I see some framed photos on a dresser and a few books on the nightstand, and on the walls, two small landscape paintings that remind me of my mother’s artwork.
I have no clue what Vivian did with all my mom’s old paintings after my father died. The attic remained locked, and she claimed to have lost the key. Knowing her, she burned them all.
Angelo takes me into the bathroom and sets me down on the edge of the vanity. He switches a light on over the sink and inspects the bruises on my face and neck.
The fury in his eyes makes me flinch. He notices and sighs.
“I’m not angry at you, princess.”
I scoff. “Really? You told me to behave and steer clear of your father, but I did the exact opposite.”
“You always do,” he grumbles. “But that doesn’t mean he has the right to hurt you.”
The shudder that wracks my body isn’t because I’m cold. No, it’s because now I’m sobering up, I realize how close I came to having the life throttled out of me at Lorenzo’s hands. Angelo’s fingers ghost over the bruises around my neck.
“I’m so sorry, princess. If I’d let you go, you’d be safe.”
He’s not wrong, but if he had let me go, would I be happy?
When I look back, I see I was merely surviving. Living from one day to the next while eking out a living working for Mack. My life here is very different. Yes, I hate the lack of freedom, but I have Luka, Coco, Felix, and Fina. I also have Kane.
And god help me, I have Angelo.
Yes, he’s the husband I never wanted, but he’s proven himself many times now.
His dark hair flops forward over his eyes, far messier than usual. The jacket he wore when we left the house earlier is missing, and his crisp white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a tempting portion of olive skin.
There’s blood on his shirt collar, which reinforces what he said about killing Santini. Such a visceral reminder of my husband’s vicious side should scare me, but it doesn’t.
I reach up and stroke his stubbly jaw. He hasn’t shaved since this morning; it’s prickly under my fingers. The thought of how deliciously raspy that will feel on my lady bits makes me squirm.
Angelo’s eyes darken, and drunk-me wonders if he can read my mind. Fuck, I hope not. That would be majorly embarrassing. There’s a lot of smutty stuff going on in there right now.
“Let me put something on these bruises.” He reaches into the cabinet to his left. I sit still while he squeezes some ointment onto his fingers, but can’t help wincing when he rubs it into my bruises.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. For hurting me? Or for his father? I’m not entirely sure. “This should help reduce the bruising.” When I tilt my head forward, he curses. “Fuck, did you hit your head on something?” I peek through my lashes to see him glaring at my reflection in the mirror behind me.
“Um, maybe?” Everything is slightly woozy, but if I focus hard, I can recall the moment Lorenzo hit me and I bashed my head on his desk. That reminds me…I picked up an envelope. I think?
“Dammit, Chiara. I should get you checked out. You could have a concussion.” Angelo’s jaw clenches as he stares at me, whatever naughty thoughts he had a few minutes ago long gone.
