I think about the way her waist felt under my bloody hands. I think about the way she didn't recoil from the monster I am.
Fuck.
"Ante up," I say, my voice like gravel. "I’m here to play, not talk about my goddamn feelings."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
GIA
I’m so bored.
I am literally, physically, and spiritually dying of boredom. I’ve counted the tassels on the library rug—forty-two on each side, in case someone is wondering. I’ve rearranged my shoes by color, then by heel height, then by how much I want to throw them at my husband’s head. I’ve even considered watching a three-hour documentary on the history of artisanal salt just to feel something.
Paris feels like a dream I had in another life. There, I had a bakery that knew my order. Here? I have a guard who follows me every time I want to go to the bathroom.
"Luca," I say, stopping in the middle of the gravel path. "If you stay that close, you’re going to step on my heels, and then I’llhave to kill you, and then Rafael will be grumpy because he’s short one soldier."
Luca, bless his stoic, silent heart, doesn't even blink behind his aviators. "Three feet, Mrs. Caruso. Those were the orders."
"The orders are making me twitchy," I mutter, turning my face to the sun.
The gardens are beautiful, but they’re manicured within an inch of their lives—just like the people here. Everything has a place. Everything is controlled. I start walking toward the far edge of the estate, where the trees get thicker and the smell of jasmine gives way to the earthy, honest scent of hay and manure.
The stables.
Suddenly, a sound shatters the afternoon quiet followed by the sound of hooves slamming against wood follows—thud, thud, thud—sending a vibration through the ground that I feel in my toes.
"Sounds like trouble," I grin, my boredom vanishing in a heartbeat.
"Mrs. Caruso, we should head back," Luca says, his hand moving reflexively toward his jacket.
"Don't be a buzzkill, Luca."
I ignore him and break into a light jog. I’ve always liked horses. They don’t have hidden agendas or burner phones. They tell you exactly how they feel with a flick of an ear or a stomp of a foot.
I reach the stable doors and slide inside. The air is cool and dim, dancing with dust motes. At the far end, a massive jet-black stallion is currently trying to dismantle his stall. He’s magnificent—at least seventeen hands of raw, terrifying muscle, his coat gleaming like polished onyx.
A young groom is huddled against the opposite wall, holding a brush like a shield. "Easy, Vindice! Easy, boy!"
The horse—Vindice—doesn't find it easy. He rears up, his massive front hooves pawing the air, his eyes rolling back until the whites show. He looks like he’s about to break the gate down and take the whole building with him.
"Stay back, Mrs. Caruso!" the groom yells, his voice cracking. "He’s gone mad! The boss is the only one who can handle him when he’s like this!"
Mad? No. He’s not mad. He’s terrified.
I can see the way his ears are pinned back and the way he’s trembling. He’s not attacking; he’s defending.
"Get out," I say quietly, stepping forward.
"What?" The groom looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.
"The brush. The noise. You’re crowding him. Get out of the stall and leave the door open."
"But the boss?—"
"I’m the boss’s wife," I snap, using the one thing I usually hate. "Out. Now."
The groom scrambles out, looking relieved to escape with his life. Luca stands at the stable entrance, his jaw tight. "Gia, if that horse hurts you, Rafael will have my head on a pike."
