No one to wear it for, either. Not even the lingerie I discovered filling at least three drawers, some items slinky and sexy, others demure and conservative and even hotter for it, because I can’t stop fantasizing about what it would be like to have Rem slowly undo every single button until I’m a puddle of hormones at his feet.
Fuck.I slam the closet doors closed, still wearing the PJs I woke up in, and curse my husband. In Italian, as a good mafia wife should. Because, goddamn it, I want Rem. Want him so much I’ve been waking up each morning to find my nippleshard and my pussy wet and my fingers no match for the need pulsing there.
Worse than that, I wake up missing him. The man he is, determined, brave, protective, so sweet when he thinks no one is looking. It’s pointless to lie to myself. Idomiss Rem. All while my husband is nowhere to be found.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter. I’m restless, horny, and irritated beyond belief, but I’ve also been wasting critical time. No matter the chaos my hormones and heart are causing right now, I have to think beyond the immediate future.
I have to think beyond the confines of my gilded cage. If the past few years have taught me anything, it’s that I can’t take anything for granted. Life as I know it can change in a heartbeat. And no matter the current state of our relationship, I can’t always expect Rem to be here to play personal bodyguard.
I have to take care of myself. Which, at this moment, means figuring out who has nailed a neon-bright target to my back and why.
I plop down on the bed, flipping open the laptop Rem gave me a few days ago. True to his word, he arranged a job for me with Bianca so I can keep working while cooped up here. The poor woman is suffering awful morning sickness, so the timing turned out to be perfect. I’m taking care of a bunch of administrative work for her while she’s focusing what little energy she has on the cooking portion of her business.
I quickly respond to emails and send Bianca details for the catering orders that came in this morning. Once the most urgent work is complete, I open my web browser and stare at the search bar.
How the hell do I even start searching for who wants me dead? I mean, I know you’re supposed to be able to find anything on the internet, but this seems a little outside the scope. After an infuriating hour in which I find out way too much about how to use over-the-counter drugs to poison someone,add several true crime documentaries to my watch list, and wonder how normal people ever end up on the dark web to begin with, I want to scream with frustration. I’m not equipped for this.
I pace the bedroom, picking at my nail beds, a bloody habit I’ve developed in the past few days. I’m on my fifth lap around the room when a thought comes to me. All of this—the attempt on my life and the death threats and the constant danger—started the day my aunt’s house burned down.
The police still haven’t confirmed if it was arson or an accident, but I can’t see how it could be anything but an attack, especially since I was meant to be there that day.
My aunt died because of me…I trip over the thought, my gut clenching with guilt and loss.No.I shake my head, ignoring the rush of emotions threatening to drown me.Ididn’t do anything. The people trying to kill me are to blame. And whoever those people are, they know about my connection to Aunt Mable.
It’s not a secret that we’re family, but it’s not obvious either. She wasn’t on social media, so I haven’t tagged her anywhere. I don’t think I’ve ever posted a picture of her online. I’ve never officially lived at her house, so her address isn’t connected to me in any way that’s searchable online or in old-school paper records. She and I don’t even share the same last name.
Yet the only way the attack on Aunt Mable makes sense is if the people who want me dead figured out our connection and targeted her while trying to get to me.
It’s the tiniest thread, but it’s the only one I have. Grabbing the laptop, I fold myself on the bed and start digging through what little of my aunt’s life I can find online.
Like I suspected, there isn’t much there. Her virtual footprint was almost non-existent. But an hour or so into what feels like another dead end, I find her name referenced a local newspaper article from a few decades ago. The article is a feature about hospital volunteers, members of the community whotook shifts holding newborns whose parents couldn’t. The Baby Buddies. Aunt Mable isn’t mentioned in the article itself, but her name appears in the caption beneath a grainy picture showing a group of volunteers. A half-dozen men and women smile into the camera, the hospital sign clearly legible behind them. Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital. The same one where I was born a few years later.
I scan the photo and find my aunt in the back row. She’s younger, her hair longer, her expression more relaxed, but it’s her, down to the whimsical glasses and elaborately pattered sweater. Aunt Mable always had a curious sense of fashion, but I’ve never been prouder of her for it—it’s the proof I need that I’m looking at a picture of her in her early forties.
My fingers find their way to my neck, rubbing the pendant hanging there. Is it possible Aunt Mable knew my birth mother? Could I have been one of the babies she comforted after my own mother had already left this world? My pulse rate jumps to a gallop as I click through the article again, searching for any more clues about the woman Mable was before I learned to call her aunt. Disappointment quickly takes over when I can’t find her referenced in any more articles about the hospital.
If she was working with orphaned babies, however, there’s a good chance she had ties to the orphanage that took me in prior to the Haywoods adopting me. I type her name and that of the orphanage in the search bar, feeling like I’m on the brink of a breakthrough when I’m interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Signora?” The older woman I met my first morning here, Agata, pokes her head around the door. Her address is deferential, but I’m aware that she doesn’t think I’m entitled to my privacy. She doesn’t even wait for me to speak before she comes in. She’s carrying a large box, one that’s almost as long as she is tall, and clearly heavy.
I meet her halfway, anxious to deal with whatever she’sbrought so I can send her away and resume my search. She offers up the package but doesn’t let it go when I try to take it from her.
“Is it for me?”
Agata gives me a thorough once-over. I get the impression she finds me lacking in some way. “Un regalo per Lei, Signora. Wedding gift.Da parte di suo marito.”
Irritation at the interruption turns to surprise, which turns to curiosity as I feel the heft of the box when she finally lets go. “From Rem?”
“Si.”
“Is he here? Did he come home?” I hate how excited I sound, how hopeful.
Agata softens as she says, “No, suo marito non è qui. I do not know when.”
“Ah, okay. Thank you.Grazie.” I hug the large box and retreat to the bed, trying to curb my disappointment as Agata leaves.
Of course he isn’t here, you idiot. He’d bring the gift himself if he was here.
I sigh, annoyed with myself for getting worked up over my absentee husband. No sooner am Ifinallymaking progress on untangling my own personal attempted-murder mystery than Rem distracts me, but without the courtesy of even showing his face. It’s like he has a sixth sense of when I’m about to blow off his orders about leaving the big, bad danger to him and he finds a way to distract me, even if it’s just via his minions.
