My feet were lead. I didn’t want to put my back to the beast, self-preservation wouldn’t let me. But I had to if I wanted toget away. Blood roared in my ears, terror muted my senses as I turned and ran. I couldn’t tell if he followed.
When I reached the intersection, I paused. Hands on my knees, I dragged deep, ragged gulps of air into my lungs. The spots in my vision began to vanish. But I was fairly certain I hadn’t been followed.
He didn’t recognize me.
I was just a nameless woman, one he thought he could frighten into silence. If he knew I was connected to the mob, he would have silenced me a different way. A power player like him would be stupid to let me live. There would be too much risk I would snitch to the don about what he’d done to one of our men.
The tears I fought so hard earlier to keep at bay welled in my eyes. Hot, angry tears stung. There would be few people who cared if I vanished. The people who should feel the most wouldn’t bat an eye. One of my sisters would replace me—sold to that deranged animal.
A shiver jarred me.
I was the sacrificial lamb. And that masked fiend? He might not have realized it, but he’d just smeared the blood of his latest kill on his fiancée. My fate was sealed to that beast. But what Liam McDonagh didn’t know was that I had no intention of staying his wife. Those marriage vows would break the first chance I had. The Irish Devil told me to run, and that was exactly what I planned to do.
Chapter 2 – Gabriella
Relief rushed through my veins as I cracked the back door. The homey scene helped ground me after the terrifying run through the dark. I swore he’d chased me, but every time I risked a look over my shoulder, there was no sign of the masked devil. And now I was back. Safe and sound, saints be praised.
The sight of the old woman standing beside the dryer made me want to sob with joy. The feeling of being hunted fell away, and I stepped into the laundry room where the scent of detergent and softener welcomed me. I survived a brush with death, and I would live to fight another day.
Cesca paused while folding the stack of pink sheets—too many. A fluffy reminder that there was no son to make our father proud, and we were all destined to be disappointments.
And I was the worst.
“Home early. Everything okay?” The woman, who played the role of housekeeper, lady’s maid, and nanny looked over at me. “Mama mia! Is that blood?”
“Merda!” I lifted my hands to cover my face. “It’s not mine!”
Muttering curses, Cesca snatched a clean rag from the bin under the utility sink, wet it, and handed it over. “Do you want to tell me whose it is?”
“No.”
Soft brown eyes studied me, seeing more than I ever told her. “You’re home early. What is going on, cara mia?”
I scrubbed at my cheeks until they prickled. Might as well tell her something. She wouldn’t stop pestering me until I did. Since I didn’t dare tell her about my encounter with my fiancé, I opted for a blanket statement and broke the news with: “Papa and Signor Morelli have found a husband for me.”
Dio, just saying it sounded ridiculous! Like something out of a bad movie with girls in corsets. Yet that was the mob. Unevolved. I mentally touched the dollar bills I’d hidden in my bra, reassuring myself that it wouldn’t always be like this.
“Oh, saints be praised!” Cesca murmured, clasping her hands. “A good man? Yes? The don wouldn’t hand you over to just anyone. Oh, this is wonderful.”
“It is,” I said tightly.
Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Does it have to do with the blood?”
“No!” I breathed. “That was…an accident.”
Cesca hummed. “Well, if you don’t want to talk about that, fine. We’ll focus on the good news. Finally married—ah! You’re getting old, Gabby.”
I balked. “I am not!”
A weathered finger reached out and caressed my cheek near my eye. “Time to use night cream, cara.”
This woman was something else entirely. I came home bloody, and she was instantly able to distract me.
“I do not need night cream,” I protested, but laughter bubbled up a moment later.
Cesca pulled me into her arms for a hug. She barely came up to my boobs. I might have inches on her, but I felt like I was sixagain with a skinned knee. Nothing was going to hurt me so long as this woman hugged me.
“Francesca,” my mother called. She sailed into the mud room, glancing over the still unfolded laundry, and then saw us. “What’s this?”
