I close my eyes, trying to steady myself, to ground myself in the sensation of him, the solidity of his presence. The warmth of his hands, the husky certainty in his voice—it all tethers me in ways I didn’t know I could be tethered. For one overwhelming moment, nothing has ever felt so right.
But as I slowly come down from the tingling high of my release, my stomach knots with guilt once more. It tightens with every heartbeat, because I’m lying to the one person I want to trust completely. And my heart sinks as I realize I’m even worse off than before.
Without a word, Sandro eases out of me, then guides me to the shower, testing the water to make sure it’s warm. Then he steers me gently inside until the soothing liquid streams over us, washing away the sweat, the remnants of our shared intensity.
And yet, the water does nothing to wash away the guilt in my chest. I cling to my husband because it feels safe because, in his arms, I am protected, but every caress of his hands, every brush of skin against skin, reminds me of the truth I cannot speak aloud.
I want to tell him. I want to spill it all out—the failure I fear, the lie I am living, the worry that I am not enough for him. But the words lodge in my throat. I’m too afraid of his reaction, too afraid of what would happen if he knew the reality of my body, of my limitations.
I can’t tell Sandro. I can’t risk it—not with my family’s lives on the line. So I remain silent, pressing myself into his chest, breathing in the scent of him, listening to the beat of his heart as if it could anchor me against the rising tide of my panic.
And yet, even as guilt claws at me, there is an undeniable pull of joy, of recognition, of intimacy. I feel connected to him in a way I’ve never been connected to anyone, never allowed myself to be. Every whispered word, every affirmation, every brush of skin is a declaration that I am wanted, needed, adored.
It’s intoxicating.
I want to let myself sink fully into it, to let myself be held, to let myself believe.
But the thought of the truth waiting, lurking just beneath the surface, is relentless. I am consumed by a duality I’ve never felt before, desire and fear, love and shame, vulnerability and guilt.And in the silence between breaths, in the heat of his gaze and the unspoken promises, I feel the overwhelming complexity of what it means to be his wife, to be wanted by him, and yet to carry a secret that could unravel everything.
Even as he holds me close, murmuring reassurances I ache to believe, the guilt and fear linger, unyielding. My chest tightens again, and tears prick my eyes, not from pleasure or tenderness, but from the ache of knowing that I am living beneath a shadow, a secret that I cannot share.
After everything he’s done for me, I’ll never deserve this man. And the realization makes me want to break down once more. But I can’t. Not if I intend to keep living this lie. Shoving down my emotions, I fight the tears, unwilling to lose it in front of Sandro again.
The water continues to wash over us, and my heart aches when he tenderly starts to massage soap over my body and down the insides of my thighs, taking gentle care of me as he cleans me up. I let myself feel the complicated mix of emotions, but I am painfully aware that what we have is fragile, temporary, a bubble that exists only until I have to face the truth of who I am, of what I’m hiding.
And yet, despite the guilt, despite the fear, despite the secret I cannot voice, I allow myself one undeniable truth. I’m completely in love with Sandro. Even with the weight of my shame, I cannot deny the fierce, burning need to belong in his arms, to be claimed by him, to be loved by him—even if it means hiding the deepest truth about myself. And that, more than anything, terrifies me almost as much as it fills me with hope.
23
SANDRO
The crowd roars, the sound a living thing—raw, guttural, vibrating through the concrete walls of the underground pit. I taste iron in my mouth, blood or adrenaline, probably both. The man across from me spits red onto the mat and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. I can see in his eyes he’s done, even before the next bell rings.
I roll my shoulders, waiting for the ref to bark his count, and when he doesn’t, I end it myself. One right hook to the jaw, clean and final. The man hits the ground like a bag of cement.
The crowd erupts.
Money changes hands. Someone calls my name. “Chiaroscuro! That’s how it’s done!”
I don’t hear the rest. I’m already ducking out through the side door, sweat slicking my back, knuckles raw beneath the wraps. The Irish have been watching tonight. They always do when Raf tells me to make an impression. And after the past few weeks, I’ve gotten good at gauging which of them might be willing to talk.
“Conroy was there again,” Raf says when I meet him outside by the alleyway. He’s leaning against the hood of the car, collar turned up against the cool night air that whispers of coming fall. “You see him?”
I nod, rubbing the towel over my face. “Front row. Didn’t blink through the whole fight.”
“He’s one of Murray’s men,” Raf mutters, voice hard. “Last I heard, he’s not happy with how the alliance with the Tanakas is going.”
“Rumors,” I say, tossing the towel into the back seat. “The Irish talk a lot when they’re drunk. Doesn’t mean they’ll make a move.”
Raf gives me a look. “Maybe not. But it’s the first crack we’ve seen since Miko’s wedding. I’m not letting it go.”
We drive in silence for a while, the hum of the city outside mixing with the quiet churn of my thoughts. My knuckles throb, a dull pulse that matches the rhythm of the streetlights flashing across the windshield.
Raf breaks the quiet. “I need you to fight again tomorrow night. Word is, O’Shea’s crew might show. They’ve agreed to talk to me, and I need an excuse to be there.”
Dark satisfaction curves my lips. “I always love a good reason to fight.”
He smirks, the first ghost of humor I’ve seen from him in days. “Since when did you need an excuse? I think that wife of yours might be starting to get under your skin.”
