“What…?” I cough, attempting to look around, but I can barely move. The hold on me tightens—massive arms crush me against a broad wall of masculine chest, and a large hand plunges through my hair to press my face into the column of his warm neck.
“I’ll ground that asshole into a pulp.” With the way my head is pressed to Ruffo, his bark rumbles against me. “The shitstain likes festive sounds? I’m going to cut off his fucking balls and tie them around his neck; he can wear them like goddamn jingle bells come Christmas.” He readjusts me in his arms. “You okay, Little Iris?”
“Yes,” I mumble. Wiggling my arms, I try to push away from his chest, but Ruffo’s steel-like grip keeps me plastered to him. “What’s going on?”
“Explosion.”
“My friends are in there!” I scream while attempting to get free.
“They’ll be escorted outside, along with everyone else. Don’t worry.”
The pressure on the back of my head eases slightly, and I manage to turn enough to glance over his shoulder. A thick plume of smoke rises into the soaring cathedral ceiling, but I can’t see the source or the fire. A few steps behind us, a guy in a black suit is urging Evelyn forward with his arm wrapped around her waist. Rina is running just behind them. Another group of people is heading toward an adjacent side exit, and Don Spada has Ms. Zara thrown over his shoulder as if she’s a sack of potatoes. She doesn’t look even a bit happy about it.
We burst into the early evening sunshine and head directly for the shiny limo idling just a few feet away. The back door is already held open by an armed man, while another guy in black, with a gun strapped into a holster under his unbuttoned jacket, runs up as we get near.
“Sir! Max just reported in. The centralized HVAC system in the basement must have malfunctioned. There are no apparent signs of tampering, but we’re not ruling it out.”
“Malfunction my ass!” Ruffo roars. “I want this shit show checked out in the next two hours, Brahms. Get me the fucking answers that will nail this fuck!”
Ruffo’s man seems momentarily shocked by the outburst. His mouth gapes and eyes bulge as he stares at his boss, but he recovers quickly and snaps out ayes, sir,while gesturing to the guy holding the car door open to get going.
“Could you please put me down?” I whisper to the enraged man still holding me.
His grip tightens.
“No.” He slides inside the car with me still in his arms before depositing me on his lap as he settles in the middle of the seat. “And, Brahms,” he calls out, speaking through gritted teeth. “I want the entire team overseeing the event security at my place for the debrief. You got me?”
The man visibly blanches. He swallows and nods, closing the car door. The limo takes off a split second later.
A minute passes, but my husband doesn’t seem like he’ll be releasing me from his clutches any time soon. He stares straight ahead, his face all hard lines and clenched jaw, as if frozen in time. A mask of cold stoicism over barely contained fury and suppressed rage. He keeps still, not putting me down, not letting me go. Just holds me to him.
I’m not sure how I should act or what to make of his weird behavior.
“I have to call my mom,” I say. “Someone probably already told her what happened. She must be worried sick. And I have to check on my friends.”
A nod.
“My phone, along with my bag, is still in the bridal suite at the cathedral.”
He finally gives up his death grip on my legs and reaches inside his right jacket pocket to fish out his phone. Once he places it on my awaiting palm, he returns to holding on to my legs as if they’ll run away somewhere.
“I really need to make this phone call, Mr. Ruffo.”
“Adriano,” he growls.
“Adriano.” I nod. I have no idea what’s going on with him. He’s acting so bizarre. “Could you please let go of me?”
He looks down, his eyes meeting mine for the first time since we were at the altar. The icy blues seem to glisten in the gloomy interior of the car, scorching me with their intensity. I’m trapped in those glacial depths while a kaleidoscope of emotions turns inside me—admiration, fear, confusion, wonder, guilt, disgust, excitement, dread, lust—everything I’ve felt toward him in the past few months.
His gaze drops lower, settling on my mouth. With that, he takes away my ability to breathe. My pulse jumps. My lips part. Beneath his touch, my skin is on fire.
He is going to kiss me.
Instead, his hold loosens, and his arms fall away from me.
“Make your call.” A quietly spoken order.
The moment shatters like an ice sheet under pressure. The metaphorical frozen ground beneath my feet forms fissures and gives way. I find myself in brand new territory now.
