“Tristan, baby. Our upbringing doesn’t have to define us. But not talking about them will eat at us. The monsters under the bed are real to children. We’re a product of our upbringing. And despite yours, you have become a very successful, highly functional adult who is deeply loyal and driven.”
“Are we going to ignore that I am the boss of the Irish American mob?” he snaps, associating his past with his incapacity to control. Whenever he thinks he loses that, he reverts to being offensive.
His misfortune, I guess. He married a woman who has taken classes in child psychology to understand them. And his inner child needs acceptance, attention and love.
“I am a killer, Viviana. I’ve even lost count of the number I took or ordered.”
“Are you trying to scare the Mafia princess with your hit count?” I huff, feeling offended. “Honestly, husband, you need a better strategy. I’ve never been afraid of you and never will be.”
My words registering, he exhales a loud breath. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“I know, baby. It’s fine. I would never take advantage of you. I just want to help you heal. Tristan, I refuse to see you suffering in silence. You strive to be in control, but what you don’t understand is the past keeps you shackled. You’re stronger than that. And when you’re not. When it gets too much, I’m here.”
A short break follows, followed by another confession. “I don’t want you to see me as weak.”
“Weak? It takes strength to face trauma. Surviving makes you strong, not weak.”
“If you say so,” he sighs.
My heart aches for my tormented man.
I need to go home.
Right now.
28
TRISTAN
She pries my fucking chest open with the expertise of a surgeon and the gentleness of a fairy, and everything threatens to spill out. I can’t contain the poison leaking out of me, knowing it’s an endless well. There’s not enough blood I can spill to make me feel better.
Fuck if I want to have the stamp of being a victim, fully aware I am one.
It should make me proud that despite all that piece of shit put me through, I overcame it. Being a survivor takes will and strength, but he fucked me up in irreparable ways.
I am in the club’s basement, dealing with a traitor hanging on a hook. Quite fitting.
Even though I have successfully eliminated threats over the years, I knew my marriage would cause ripples in the underworld. And some cocky bastards would try to get to me through her.
My men intercepted members of a gang stalking her and biding their time. I’ll paint this city red to make the statement that she’s untouchable.
Killers are not born. They are made. I am a prime example of that. But even among monsters, there are different breeds. The difference between me and them is that I’m at the top of the food chain, and they’re at the bottom. The other thing that makes the starkest distinction is my ability to withstand pain.
My father took care of that, wanting me to become someone no one could break.
Strength comes from pain. That’s the shit he would always recite right before inflicting another round of torture.
I should thank the asshole for turning me into a fucking stone. Nothing can move me. Nothing can affect me. Nothing can hurt me. Just her. My wife. I am sure neither my father nor I took her into account.
I need her.
I miss her.
Miss her simple presence soothing my battered soul.
Her instinct to nurture and her ability to anticipate those kids’ needs leaves me in awe. They are strangers, but she’s built such a strong foundation with them that the children worship her. Just like the little fucker who asked her to marry him. I watched it live on the feed, one second away from driving there and staking my claim until reason trickled through the cracks of madness.
She’s mine. Damn it, I can’t believe I am jealous of a five-year-old. There’s no cure for my insanity.
