Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Saverio

T he sound of feminine laughter reaches me where I sit hunched behind my desk, combing through my assets for money I can salvage from God only knows where and finding too little.

I turn the left side of my face toward the door and prick up my ear.

If I concentrate hard, I can distinguish Livy’s voice but only because she’s uncharacteristically loud. Before, I would’ve been able to nail the identity of each visitor by their intonation alone. Now, I can’t even make an accurate guess of the number of bodies in my house.

Livy must be talking to the men doing the night rounds. She always takes them a flask of hot chocolate and home-baked cookies before she goes to bed.

I check the time. It’s after eight. I’ve been holed up in here for most of the day. Livy brought me dinner. The food sits untouched on my desk, cold now. I haven’t seen Anya since they got home. I reckoned she’d be busy with feeding and bathing Claire, and the workout I challenged myself with while blasting music loud enough through my ear to damage my remaining hearing served as a distraction to prevent me from sticking my nose in where it wouldn’t be welcome.

Making a conscious effort, I go back to perusing my fixed assets.

Maybe I should sell the house.

No. Anya and Claire need a safe place to live. Besides, putting the property on the market will tell my enemies exactly what I don’t want them to know—that the business is in financial trouble. That the territory I inherited from Luigi is at stake.

The Corvette will definitely have to go. I wince at the idea of parting with that particular toy. It’s not as much a fast car as a token of my success. I bought it to reward myself for obtaining my goals. I guess it’s fitting that I sell it to recognize my failure.

I sit back and rub a hand over my face. My fingertips brush over the patch. The presence of it still surprises me even though I should be used to it by now. It’s like getting used to the loss of an eye. I don’t think I’ll ever grow accustomed to it.

I underestimated Raphael. That one is on me. This mess is my fault, and I’ll fix it no matter what it takes. Even if it means sacrificing myself.

Another bout of laughter rises from the back of the house. This time, I discern the pretty, demure sound of Anya’s voice that calls to me like a siren.

Fuck it.

Irritated with my life, my limitations, and my inability to concentrate, I shut my laptop, take my crutches, and follow the animated conversation to the kitchen. Only, it doesn’t come from the kitchen. It comes from the backyard. That’s when I smell the smoke.

I yank open the back door, expecting the grass or something to be on fire. There is a fire, but it’s not what I thought.

Anya, Livy, and Nicole sit in camping chairs around a portable fire pit on the lawn. A small bonfire burns in the pit, the flames licking the air and sending sparks into the night. Anya wears a knitted beanie, a puffy jacket, and jeans tucked into Uggs. Livy is decked out in a camo ski suit with snow boots, looking as if she’s about to hit the slopes with a fleece headband covering her ears and ski goggles with yellow-tinted, one-way lenses obscuring her eyes. What surprises me the most is finding Nicole there. She’s wrapped up in an enormous faux fur coat with a matching hat, her high-heeled boots sticking out from under the hem of the long coat.

The women each have a glass in their hands—wineglasses for Livy and Nicole and a tumbler for Anya. They have their legs stretched out, warming their feet around the fire.

“You’re not going home now,” Livy says. “We’re having another one.”

Nicole holds up a finger, slurring slightly when she says, “At this rate, no driver will let me into a taxi.”

“Don’t worry.” Anya chuckles. “We have spare bedrooms.”

“Nope.” Nicole hiccups. “Not going to do the walk of shame home tomorrow morning. My husband will have a fit.”

“Call him and tell him to come over,” Anya says.

“And spoil our girls’ fun?” Nicole shrieks. “Never.”

What the hell? The women are so caught up in their fun they don’t notice me.

I climb down the step. “What’s going on?”

Livy twists in her seat. “Sav.” Her voice is nasally from the mask that pinches her nose. “We’re having a lady’s night.”

Is she tipsy? “What’s with the mask, Liv?”

“It prevents the smoke from burning my eyes.”

I swing a crutch toward the fire pit. “This is illegal. You know that, right?”

“There’s my grumpy friend,” Nicole says with a cackle. “Trust the mafia boss to stick to the rules. How’s that for irony?” She strains her neck to look at me and rolls her eyes. “We won’t tell if you don’t. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. We’re just letting our hair down a bit.” She kicks Livy’s snow boot and snickers. “And boy, do we need it.”

Anya gives me a sweet smile. “We’re grilling marshmallows. Livy is sentimental tonight. She misses her camping days.” She points at the garden table on which marshmallows on skewers and bowls of flaked chocolate and whipped cream are set out. An almost empty bottle of my best red and an open bottle of sherry flank the baby monitor. The grape juice must be for Anya who doesn’t drink alcohol because she’s breastfeeding. “Want to join us?”

“Ooh,” Nicole says, wagging a manicured finger with a red-painted nail. “Not a good idea.” She tips back her head to look upside-down at me, catching her hat just before it falls off. “Why do you think we’re having chocolate and wine?”

Taking her in with a narrowed gaze, I step closer, ready to catch her glass, which tips precariously in her grip. “Are you drunk?”

She tuts with indignation, dragging her neck up with some difficulty. “A woman is never drunk, dummy. We’re happy .”

“Yeah?” I lean my weight on my crutches. “What made you so happy?”

“The wine and the chocolate, silly.” She snickers again. “Oops. We didn’t tell him why we’re choc-o’wining.”

“Nicole is having her period,” Livy says. “I’m post-post-menopausal, and I’m really disappointed about not shooting my gun.”

I go closer, certain I didn’t hear right. “What did you say?”

“She’s joking,” Anya says with a nervous laugh.

“But I’m not.” Nicole waves me over. “I’m dangerous when I’m menstrual. I need a refill, Sav.” She flicks her fingers. “Make it snappy.”

Livy bursts out laughing as if Nicole said something funny.

I balance a crutch against the table and lift the bottle of red, eyeing the level. “Tough day, Cole?”

“Your girl is a lot of fun.” Nicole flashes me a toothy grin. “Sorry.” She swings her finger toward Livy. “Your girls, as in plural. You should take them out more often. It’s a sin to lock them up in this stuffy ol’ house.” She wiggles her shoulders. “Ew. You did never tell me the place was so formal.”

I stiffen at that. Fun isn’t how I’ll describe our relationship. Is that what Anya misses? Fun? Why wouldn’t she? She’s a young, lively, beautiful, normal woman. And now she’s stuck with a disabled, scarred, grumpy husband.

Unable to squash my defensiveness, I say, “Anya is going to redecorate.”

“Not right away,” Anya says, sounding uncomfortable. “We have other priorities.”

“Such as a beautiful, too-pretty-to-look-at little girl.” Nicole slugs back the wine that’s left in her glass. “Who, may I remind you, I delivered, and who now needs a new godmother.” She looks pointedly at Anya. “Go on. Ask me. You know you want to.”

“Hold on.” I put the wine aside. “Back up there one second. What do you mean she needs a new godmother?”

“Didn’t Anya tell you?” Nicole asks, looking aghast. “Tersia resigned.”

I clench my fingers into a fist. “She did what?”

“Denounced her title,” Nicole says with a huff. “One little situation, and she can’t handle the heat.”

“It’s no big deal,” Anya says, shuffling her feet.

I turn my face to my wife, fixing my gaze on her gorgeous, flushing cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not important,” she says. “I kind of dumped the responsibility on Tersia anyway.”

“Oh, oookay,” Nicole says, waving the hand in which she holds the glass. “I’ll do it. I accept.”

It’s a good thing her glass is empty or she would’ve spilled wine all over that coat, which resembles a hairy roadkill, and go home stinking like a distillery. Hell, she’ll probably sweat French Burgundy from her pores until tomorrow, smelling like my five hundred-dollar collector’s wine anyway.

“I don’t think that’s a decision you should make before we’ve had more chocolate,” Livy says.

“You’re right.” Nicole looks at Livy as if she just found an instant solution to global warming. “My bleeding uterus needs more chocolate. But I accept in the meantime. I’ll just stuff my face with some of those yummy marshmallows in the meantime.”

Anya giggles. “Claire and I will be honored.”

The fact that my wife left me out of the equation isn’t lost on me.

This is something we’re going to talk about later—not that I’m not a part of her and Claire’s inner circle, which is by conscious design from my side, but that she didn’t tell me Tersia pulled out of being Claire’s godmother.

“I’ll get you some water.” I take back the crutches. “While I’m at it, I’ll call Logan and tell him you’ll need a ride.”

Nicole pouts. “Spoil sport.”

Two liters of water and a few hundred grams of sugar later, Logan arrives to fetch his wife.

He drapes her arm over his shoulders and takes her around the waist. “Come on, baby. Small steps. I’ve got you.”

“Thank you, Anya,” Nicole calls back loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood, her knees buckling as she waves with a floppy arm extended in the air. “You throw a mean campfire party.”

“She all right?” I ask Logan, getting the back door.

“She will be.” He grins and kisses her temple. “Naughty girl.”

Nicole sways in his arms. “Haven’t had this much fun in a long time.”

“That’s because you work too hard, baby.”

It’s not as much their intimacy as their banter that makes me uncomfortable. It reminds me too much of my shortcomings, of all the things I can’t give Anya.

Livy goes upstairs to change out of her ski ensemble while Anya accompanies our guests to the front door.

“We should do this again soon,” she tells Nicole, kissing her cheek. “Next time, bring Logan. We can throw some burgers on the barbecue.” She looks at me. “Right, Sav?”

“We’ll see,” I say, my smile tight.

I know what she’s trying to do, and it’s not going to work. She’s not going to trick me out of my shell by inviting people and forcing me to socialize.

Logan holds on to Nicole’s wrist that’s draped over his shoulder and uses his free hand to shake mine. “Thanks for taking care of my wife. I don’t see her like this often. When she goes all out like that, she’s close to burnout.” He adds with affection, “Stubborn woman won’t listen and cut down on her consultation hours.”

I give my treasure a pointed look. “No wonder our wives get along. It seems they have a lot in common.”

Anya’s makes light of the statement with a laugh. “See you around, Logan.”

I make sure he gets to his car and watch the taillights disappear through the gates before I put out the fire, lock the door, and set the alarm.

Anya is already upstairs. She’s removing the pearl earrings I gave her in front of the mirror when I walk into the dressing room.

I cut straight to the chase. “You didn’t tell me about Tersia.”

She meets my gaze in the reflection with a quirk of her luscious, pink lips. “I didn’t want you to kill her because she upset me.”

She’s only half joking.

“You should’ve told me.”

She turns. Her face is scrubbed clean of make-up and her hair is brushed out. She’s wearing her favorite oversized T-shirt. Standing there so unadorned and natural, she looks impossibly young. She’ll only be twenty-five in a month. That’s way too young to navigate the pitfalls of my world. I always knew she was too young for me. I’ve got six years on her, which may not seem like a big number, but it’s not my age that matters as much as the shitload of baggage I bring with me.

“It’s not important,” she says.

“Do you think I don’t know when you lie to me?”

Annoyance tightens her mouth. “You had enough to do, such as fighting for your life in a hospital room.”

I lean the crutches on the vanity and brush a curl behind her ear, cupping the side of her head and dwarfing her perfect face in my big palm. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Don’t play it down.” Sparks dance in her eyes. “The doctors thought you weren’t going to make it.”

I search those mesmerizing whisky-colored pools for the truth. “Is that why you’re not starting a new life in Switzerland? Because you feel guilty that I almost died? Are you staying out of some warped sense of gratitude, thinking you owe me?”

She strains in my grip, but I don’t let her off the hook. I hold fast.

“Answer me, tesoro .”

“You’re so full of shit,” she says, slamming her palms on my chest. “I’m here because I want to be.”

“Why?” I ask, pressing for something I don’t deserve, something I don’t believe.

“Because we’re a family now. Or at least, I’m trying for us to be one.” Her voice is pained. “I thought you wanted that too.”

I lean closer and inhale the smell of smoke in her hair. It mixes with the fragrance of summer and flowers that lingers on her skin, creating an intoxicating cocktail of something that reminds me of happy spring memories. Of camping out with my father and fishing by the lake before I was old enough to realize my mom wasn’t giving us space to bond over boy stuff as much as she was too sick to join us. But this isn’t about that baggage. This is about Anya and about all the important things she doesn’t tell me.

“Why, Anya?” Lowering my head, I brush my lips over the shell of her ear. “If not out of guilt, why did you choose to stay?”

“Because I love you,” she cries out with a broken sob. “I love you, Sav.” She pulls her back straight, standing there looking rigid and too open and vulnerable. “I love you, and damn you, you’ll never love me back.”

Her brave stance caves with the admission, her knees buckling as if the weight of the truth is too heavy to bear.

“No, treasure.” I fan my fingers over her cheeks and tilt her head back, forcing her to look at me when I give her the real version of the truth. “You don’t love me. You just think you do because in that pure, just, clever mind of yours, you reckon it’s the right thing to do.”

She gnashes her teeth. “Don’t you dare tell me how I feel. Don’t tell me my feelings aren’t real because it’s easier for you to live with a woman you can never love if she doesn’t love you too. That makes you a hypocrite.” She shoves me, not moving me an inch. “By telling yourself I don’t love you, you don’t have to feel guilty knowing you’ll never be able to love your wife.”

My jaw ticks. She’s wrong. She’s mistaken guilt for love. She’s got it all fucked up in her head because she’s kind, warm, and considerate, a good girl who won’t admit she hates the guy who saved her simply because that’s not what good women do. They stick by their husbands and suck it up.

However, she’s also right. I don’t want to feel guilty about wanting her for selfish reasons, and she makes it damn hard for me when she behaves so selflessly. There was a time I wanted everything—her body, heart, and mind—but that was before I became half the man I used to be. Now, I can’t expect her heart and soul on top of her body. I don’t want to harbor false hope only to be crushed the day when she realizes she was wrong, that what she feels now is a sad illusion of what she’s not yet brave enough to admit.

Yet there’s more. That’s only the tip of the iceberg. There are a thousand reasons why I can’t—shouldn’t—love her. One day, she’ll realize I’m doing this to protect her.

She pushes me again, harder this time. “What the hell do you want from me?”

I grab her wrists, pinning her against the vanity despite the pain that shoots up my knee. “This.”

I’m on her like a predator, kissing her lips and moving my weight to my good leg. The kiss is violent, our teeth clashing and our tongues sparring for dominance. I hold on to her wrists until she yanks free and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me down for a deeper, softer kiss. I slip one hand around her slender waist and to her ass while gliding the other between her legs.

Fuck.

No panties.

So wet.

For me.

I work down the zipper of my jeans and free my cock. I’m still kissing her when I lift her thigh to open her wider. She hooks her leg around my hip, holding on as I position my cock and tear into her, too impatient to go slowly. She gasps, her nails cutting into my scalp as she keeps me close. Rolling my hips, I find the right spot before I give her more—harder and deeper.

She moans, then swallows the sound and bites her lip.

My knee threatens to fold, but I keep on going, pounding into her, because I can’t give this up. I can’t love her, but I can’t let her go. God knows I tried. I came as close as the passports taunting me in my desk, and she would’ve been wise to grab the chance at happiness. Now? She’s stuck with me. At least for a while. And I know I’m going to break her heart.

So I move faster still, giving as much as I can, drowning her in pleasure.

A sniff followed by a fussing noise comes over the baby monitor. I know that sound. In the next few seconds, it’s going to turn into serious bawling.

I can’t carry my weight on my leg for a second longer. Sweat beads on my skin. The pain is crippling, but the need to get her off before the crying lifts the roof is more pressing.

“Come for me,” I say, sitting down on the bench behind me and pulling Anya with me.

She straddles me and takes what she needs, guiding my hand between her legs where we’re joined. I rub her clit the way she likes me to when she rides my cock. Lowering my head, I taste a nipple. I love how the tip hardens on my tongue.

“I’m close,” she says, her breathing shallow.

It’s my cue to let go. When her inner walls clamp down on my shaft, I let her climax trigger mine. We go over together, my infertile seed filling her body with no other purpose than to mark her as mine. Even though it’s temporary.

Claire starts crying in earnest.

Anya scrambles off my lap, my release leaking down the insides of her thighs. She grabs a wad of tissues and cleans herself before wiping her hands on a disinfectant wipe. Her actions are jerky and anxious.

“Livy—” I start.

“Is passed out drunk.” She hurriedly pulls on a pair of panties. “Claire is my responsibility.”

I lift my ass to adjust my jeans, the endorphins of coming not making me feel as if I’m in seventh heaven. Instead, I feel like a jerk for not going to Claire, but Anya is already rushing from the dressing room.

A moment later, her voice comes through the monitor. “There, sweetheart. Mommy’s here.”

The crying turns to pitiful hiccups.

“Are you hungry? Poor darling.”

Anya is good with Claire, as I knew she’d be.

For a crazy moment, I’m jealous of their moment, jealous enough to pick up my crutches and to wince my way to the nursery. I stop in the door frame, not daring to step over the threshold.

Anya sits in the rocking chair with Claire on her breast, a blanket wrapped around the tiny bundle. Claire makes greedy little noises as she sucks. She’s grown a cute layer of strawberry-blond hair. Her minuscule hand is wrapped around Anya’s finger. Anya chuckles as she stares at her daughter with a soft smile on her lips.

I stand stock still, afraid to breathe lest I disturb the image. It’s the most beautiful picture I’ve seen, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t rip my heart from my chest.

“She’s just gone four hours between feeds,” Anya says with pride, not looking at me.

It’s a good thing too, because I can’t stop the emotions churning in my gut from showing on my face. Knowing I’ll never be a part of the picture damn well nearly kills me. But it will be unfair to terrorize a baby with the face of a monster when that face is only temporary. It will be cruel to let Anya love me when I can’t be here for her forever. Because the only way of slaying Raphael and keeping my girls safe is by setting a trap, and the only bait he’ll go for is me.

I won’t walk out of the carnage alive a second time. It’s a small price to pay if the prize is this —this perfect scene, the girls who mean the most to me. I can’t give Anya what she wants, but I can give her a safer world in which to raise Claire.

Anya lifts her head. Our gazes connect.

“Would you like to hold her?” she asks, hopeful, soft, and her voice already vulnerable with the fear of the rejection.

“She seems hungry. You better let her finish.”

More hope. More fruitless wishing. “You can try the bottle.”

“I’m going to get a glass of milk. Do you want anything?”

And there it is, the hurt I’m doing my damnedest best to avoid, layered under a smile designed to hide her humiliation, disappointment, and pain. “I’m good, thanks.”

I nod, walking away to do what I should’ve started from the day I got discharged from the hospital—preparing to leave them.