Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

Anya

T he countdown to Saverio’s discharge continues in a blur of activity that leaves me drained. I check in on Bertrand regularly. My mom never did return to the rehab center. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I thought my ultimatum would’ve served as a final wake-up call. I really believed she’d make an effort if she knew she had no other options left. I lie awake at night, worrying, but every morning when I call the hospitals, the homeless shelters, and—finally—the morgue, she’s not on their lists.

On a happier note, Claire comes home. The work in the house starts at the same time. When it’s noisy, I go for long walks in the park with bodyguards following. Livy is a huge help. I don’t know how I would’ve managed without her. She takes care of Claire when I visit Saverio and helps with the chores in the house. While I manage the books and take over the running of After Dark, she oversees the renovations.

It quickly becomes clear that we’re heading for bankruptcy. Only Dante knows the real extent of the trouble the business is in, but I’ve sworn him to silence. Not even Saverio is aware of the seriousness of the situation. He has enough on his plate with his healing progressing slowly and not without complications.

The bank manager receives me in his office and offers me tea and miniature cakes. Even though he treats me like royalty, he tells me politely but firmly that a loan is out of the question. There are too many uncalculated risks and too little I can offer as security.

Pushed into a corner, I don’t have a choice but to borrow money from a loan shark to pay our employees’ salaries. Knowing that the vultures are waiting, ready to take everything they can, I keep up the appearances. For anyone looking in, it seems as if we’re operating like normal. It’s like a poker game. Raphael took over Obsidian and a huge part of Luigi’s territory. The only reason he hasn’t struck again is because he’s not one hundred percent certain of his victory.

Dante spreads himself thin, trying to get in new business while recruiting informants to infiltrate Raphael’s organization. We’re managing the chaos after the attack as best as we can while surviving on too little sleep and too much worry. But that’s nothing compared to Saverio’s suffering.

The skin on his back is healing, and the slash on his arm has closed. The surgeon is happy with his kidney function. The one he retained compensates for the one he lost. The physiotherapy leaves him exhausted and frustrated. The pain in his knee bothers him even though he won’t admit it. I see how he flinches whenever he puts his weight on his leg.

The bandages on his face came off. The doctor discussed ocular prosthesis options with us. Saverio wore an artificial eye to help maintain the form and functionality of his eyelid while his socket healed. A temporary prosthetic eye was fitted a few days ago, but he refuses to let me look at him without his eyepatch in place. The production of the custom-made acrylic eye to match his healthy eye will start at his three-month post-op appointment. It won’t be ready until six weeks after that date. The doctor assured us his tear ducts and eyelid will function normally with the acrylic eye.

On the day he finally comes home, Livy and I cook a special meal of duck a l’orange, braised greens, and potato dumplings. When Dante helps Saverio from the backseat of the car, my husband stretches to his full height. He wears a dark suit and a waistcoat with a white shirt minus a tie, looking like the man I met in a dark street and somehow also different. He stays glued to the spot for a moment, staring at the ramp going up the side of the porch and the wheelchair waiting next to it.

I stand in the open door with Claire in my arms. I dressed her in a pretty pink dress with cute frilly socks. Livy put on her flapper dress. Having lost most of my pregnancy weight, I fit into my old clothes again. I chose a red, figure-hugging dress, knowing he likes the color.

Ignoring the wheelchair, Saverio takes a pair of crutches from the trunk and climbs the stairs to the porch. With every step he takes, he flinches. He tries to hide it, but by the time he reaches us, sweat runs down his temples.

I bite my tongue, refraining from chastising him.

He pauses in front of us, barely glancing at Claire or Livy. Instead, he fixes his gaze behind me. The set of his jaw turns hard when he takes in the new wheelchair elevator under the staircase.

Livy exchanges a look with me.

Dante hovers behind Saverio. When he reaches for Saverio’s arm, I shake my head. Saverio has to do this on his own. Our help won’t be welcome. Until he’s dealt with the trauma of everything he lost, he won’t be able to accept assistance from anyone, let alone ask for it.

He squeezes sideways past me into the house. I go on tiptoes to kiss him. Instead, my lips brush over his cheek when he turns his face away. As always, the rejection hurts, but I ignore it. This is bigger than me and my feelings. This is about Saverio coming home to finally face his demons.

Claire starts to fuss, reminding me it’s time to feed her.

I stare after Saverio as he hobbles down the hallway. He’s the same man, and he’s not. How can he be after what he went through? From up close, he looks more different than familiar. It’s not only the eyepatch and the map of angry, red scars that cuts from his eyebrow to his cheek. He seems more rugged, more dangerous. More volatile.

They removed the earring when he went into surgery, and I’m glad he’s wearing it again. It reminds me of the man I used to know, the man who took what he wanted without making excuses.

“I’ll go check on the food,” Livy says in a gentle tone.

I blow out a quiet sigh before turning to Dante. “Would you like to stay for dinner? We made enough food for a small army.”

Saverio’s steps fall quiet. I look over my shoulder. He’s frozen in place, his back stiff, but it only lasts for a second before he continues on his way and turns into his study.

“I’m going to hit the road,” Dante says, rubbing his nape. “Call me if you need me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say in a lowered voice. “It’s been tough on him.”

“I know.” Dante brushes a knuckle over Claire’s cheek. “Not just for him. Get some sleep, will you? You’re spending too many hours at the club.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He glances at the empty hallway before nodding. “I’ll be there early.”

I check that the guards are in place before I lock the door, and then I go upstairs to feed Claire and change her diaper. Once I’ve rocked her to sleep, I carefully lay her down in her crib. I make sure the baby monitor is on before going downstairs with the receiver in my hand.

Chill-out music comes from the kitchen. Livy hums along softly. I stop in front of the study and take a deep breath before opening the door.

Saverio sits behind his desk with his laptop open in front of him and a scowl on his face. He removed his jacket and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his forearms. He doesn’t look up when I enter and close the door.

I go over to his desk and stop on the other side. “I’m glad you’re home.”

Not sparing me a glance, he opens the top drawer and takes out something that he throws on the desk. Two red booklets with a white cross printed on the front slide toward me.

I shoot him a quizzical look, but he continues to stare at his screen while ignoring me.

A nasty suspicion grows in the pit of my stomach, making me feel sick. I put the monitor on the desk, pick up the first passport, and open it. My photo is inside but under a different name.

I snatch up the second one. It’s for Claire.

“Where did this come from?” I ask, my voice coming out squeaky.

“From my jacket pocket,” he says with a humorless smile.

“Don’t treat me like an idiot.” I will my temper down. “You know what I mean.”

His smile turns patronizing. “Someone delivered them to the hospital.”

Waving the passports in his face, I ask, “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Protection,” he says, moving his finger over the mouse.

I slam a palm on the back of his laptop, shutting it.

He slowly lifts his face, finally meeting my eyes. The calculated anger in his expression should give me pause. The dangerous warning that gleams in the blue depth of his uncovered eye should convince me to back off, but I’m too angry and too damn tired to care.

“If you think you can ship me off to God only knows where, Saverio De Luca, you’ve got another think coming.”

His tone is emotionless. “Switzerland.”

I gape at him. “Why?”

“I can’t protect you here, not when I’m about to declare war on Morelli.”

“For how long?” I ask, my question breathless.

He watches me for a beat before saying, “For as long as you like.”

The answer hits me like a brick on the head. “Am I to understand you’re no longer keeping me hostage here?”

He doesn’t reply.

Something twists inside me when I should be elated.

“Do you want me to leave?” I ask as pain worms itself beneath my breastbone and spreads through my chest with a dull ache.

Shrugging, he says, “You can go wherever you like. If Switzerland doesn’t appeal to you, choose any other place.” He adds without as much as blinking, “As long as it’s on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.”

I dump the passports on his laptop. “Does forever work for you? Or is that what you’re hoping for?”

The line of his jaw hardens. He curls his fingers in a fist where his hand lies on the desktop.

“What happened to wanting to be a father?” I ask. “Isn’t that why you married me?”

“Take a good, hard look at my face, tesoro ,” he bites out, stabbing a finger under his chin. “Is this the kind of face a child wants to see? This is the face of a monster. It’ll give any kid nightmares.”

A vision of Saverio facing me in the back of the car on the way to our wedding flashes through my memory. I burned that image into my mind. I did it for different reasons then, to remind myself that the man who held my fate in his hands wasn’t mine and would never be. Now, the picture serves to remind me how much he lost. He sacrificed his beautiful, invincible body for me.

The man in front of me is a far cry from the man who threatened to carry me down the aisle and marry me at knifepoint. It has nothing to do with the physical changes. What broke him is the damage inside.

I take in what he’s become—a shell of his former self. Every breath I drag into my lungs is painful. I hurt for the man who’s now my husband.

“You’re overreacting,” I say, hating the tremor in my voice.

His laugh is cold. “Am I?” He rips off the eyepatch and looks me dead in the eye. “What do you see, tesoro ?” His smile is cruel. “Tell me.”

I see the difference in his eyes, the prosthesis being a deeper, duller blue. There’s no light coming from within. But that’s only because it’s a generic temporary model and not custom-made to fit his own eye. I see the right side of his face where the skin that wasn’t shredded by the debris from the blast was all but melted off his bones. He’s a roadmap of pain and suffering but most of all of survival. What I see when I look at him is a strong, courageous man, a man who gave his life to save the baby he wanted so badly.

Tears well up in my eyes.

“Thought so,” he says, pinning me with a look of victory that says he thinks he’s right, but he can’t hide the bitter disappointment that flickers through the one eye that reflects all his emotions while the artificial one remains oddly dead, devoid of any feelings.

“You underestimate the depth and level of a child’s understanding and compassion,” I say. “Many children grow up with scarred parents, family members, and friends, and they don’t look at them as monsters.”

He makes a mocking sound in the back of his throat. “Imagine her friends when she goes to school and I have to pick her up or take her to parties and ballet practice.” He points at the raised lines that crisscross over his forehead, eye, and cheek. “How do you think they’ll react when Frankenstein walks onto the scene? Have you considered for one moment how it’ll be for Claire to deal with the teasing? She’ll come to hate my face, and she’ll end up hating me.”

“She’ll love your scars because she’ll know they’re the reason she’s alive. I’ll make sure she knows that.”

“Grow up, Anya.” He chuckles. “If that’s what you believe, you’re living in a fucking fairytale.”

I round the desk and stop so close to him he has to wheel the chair sideways and crane his neck to look at me.

“You don’t know how she’ll react,” I say, balling my hands and pinning my arms at my sides. “It’s up to us to explain to her why you look different than other people and why that’s superficial. We’re the adults, and it’s our job to guide her if she has confusing or conflicting feelings. You’re not avoiding us to do Claire or me a favor. You’re doing it because you’re scared, and the man I married isn’t scared of anything.”

“I’ve been many things since I met you,” he says with an unfriendly smile playing on his face. “Scared isn’t one of them. Petrified is more like it.”

“About what?”

The line of his mouth turns hard. “Go away, Anya. You have suitcases to pack.”

“I’m not leaving you. You need me now more than ever. Who’s going to help you with After Dark and the finances if I’m in Europe?”

“Not your problem.”

“Like hell it’s not. You married me. You forced me into this.” I give him a long, hard look. “Now deal with it.”

“We’ll get an annulment.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a gesture close to a sneer. “We haven’t consummated the marriage yet.”

“You want to divorce me?” I ask with disbelief.

“I want you out of my fucking hair,” he bites out.

“Right.” I nod, more pain lancing into my heart. “In Switzerland. For however long I like. Where does that leave us, Saverio? Explain it to me because I’m confused. Are we over? Am I free? Can I see other men? Let them touch me?”

As I knew they would, my words provoke him. He always told me he’d kill any man who dares to touch me. I want— need —a reaction from him. I want him to understand exactly what he’s doing in chasing me away.

His nostrils flare. He digs his fingers like claws into the cracked leather of the armrests, but he only gives me cold-hearted words designed to cut deep. “You want a fuck? Do you miss a warm, hard cock in your pussy? Sorry, darlin,’ but mine isn’t up for the task. Excuse the pun. It may be a while before I can stand on both feet and fuck like a man. But if that’s what you want, I can get you a stripper with a pretty face and a big dick. Hell, I can watch from my wheelchair. Should be fun for both of us.”

I want to slap him. Hard. But that will be abuse. Instead, I step back, opting for distance while trembling with rage. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again because if you do, those will be the last words you say to me. If you’re angry with me because I came out of the explosion unharmed while you sacrificed half of your senses and a big part of your mobility, be man enough to say so, but don’t use words to hurt me emotionally. It’s no less abusive than using your fists.”

He stares at me, working his jaw from side to side.

Yes, he hurts emotionally as well as physically. That doesn’t give him the right to use me as his punching bag. I stopped being that for my mother a long time ago, and I have no intention of starting again for him or anyone. I give him time to apologize or to at least talk about this like an adult instead of an asshole, but when only silence stretches, I turn on my heel.

I don’t make it a step before he locks his fingers around my wrist and spins me back to him. The momentum makes me stumble. I push on his shoulders for balance, but he cups my head and yanks me down. He crashes his lips on mine as I fall into his lap with my legs dangling over one armrest, not giving me time to protest.

His lips are familiar—soft and warm. The intensity of the kiss takes me back to the first time we met when he pushed me with a knife against a wall. His tongue works mine into submission just like he did then. His breath tastes like mint and coffee. But this time, he’s not meticulous and threatening. He’s starving and out of control, eating my lips with enough force to leave my jaw aching.

Vaguely, I’m aware we shouldn’t do this. I don’t want to hurt him or disturb the healing skin on his back. Yet I’m helpless under his onslaught, my overtired and overwrought senses reveling at a chance to forget the problems we face while coming alive under his hands. It’s been six weeks, and Nicole, my ob-gyn, gave me the green light for sex. So did his surgeon—if we take it easy.

I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on, letting him devour my mouth with hungry strokes of his tongue and eager nips of his teeth. His body is hard against and underneath me, the telltale signs of his arousal already growing against my ass. I rub myself over him and moan into the kiss, grasping at strands of his hair just to bring him closer. To feel closer.

A low groan reverberates in his chest as he fastens a hand on my breast through my dress, kneading the curve with greedy fingers.

“Fuck, Anya,” he says against my lips, stroking my nipple. “I missed these pretty tits.”

He tips me back, supporting my neck with his arm, and chases after my lips again while sweeping a hand up my inner thigh beneath the dress. I jerk when he brushes his fingertips over my center. In a wink, I’m wet. I grind down, needing the steel length that’s cushioned under my ass inside me. I trail a hand down his stomach, outlining the hard grooves of the muscles that define his male form with my fingertips. Even in the hospital he insisted on working out as much as his injuries allowed. Even when it hurt him.

He hisses when I shift on his lap to cup his hard-on through the fabric of his pants. He can argue all he wants, but this hasn’t changed. The chemistry between us is as explosive as ever.

He tears his lips from mine to look at my face with a smoldering gaze, his hand caught between my thighs and his fingers on the part of me that, right now, needs him the most.

“Is this what you want?” He almost sounds in pain. “Think carefully, tesoro , because I’m a second away from sinking four fingers into your hot, tight pussy. That’s all the mercy you’re getting. Because when I’ve stretched you, I’m going to strip you and make you ride my cock until you’re too raw to walk.”

“That sounds like heaven,” I say, working loose the button of his waistband.

“You’re going to regret this, my treasure,” he promises, but his words aren’t cold yet when fretful crying loud enough to lift the roof comes through the baby monitor on his desk.