Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Anya

I t’s easier than I thought to get access to the golf course locker room. All I have to do is make an appointment to visit the premises under the pretense of considering membership. I say Richard invited me. When I mention my surname, I get a time slot for this afternoon.

I drop Livy and Claire off at home earlier than usual. Fortunately, Saverio is meeting with Dante in his study. I rush to the dressing room and go through the pockets of the coat I hid the key in with my heart thumping between my ribs. Relief bursts through me when my fingers brush over the key.

Leaving Claire in Livy’s capable hands, I drive to Southampton and make it there with ten minutes to spare before my appointment. Worried that I may run into Tersia, I park at the far end of the parking lot where my car is hidden behind trees. Then I fake interest as a staff member shows me the clubhouse and recites their facilities. The lady blabbers on about the impressive history of the club as she drives me around the greens in a golf cart. She asks about my handicap, but I deflect the question by asking her so many other questions that she eventually gets so sidetracked she forgot she asked.

At the end of the tour, I say I need to use the ladies’ room. She points me in the right direction and goes on to chat to an elderly gentleman who announces that he just finished eighteen holes. I walk straight into the men’s locker room with the key in my hand. Thankfully, it’s a weekday, and the locker room is empty. I try every locker until I find the right one.

I’m praying that Mrs. Lewis forgot to inform the club of her husband’s passing and that they didn’t empty his locker. In that case, it won’t be opened until his membership period comes to an end or when they notice he hasn’t been back in months.

I quickly open the locker. The only item inside is a brown envelope. I shove it into my handbag, walk back to the reception area, and thank the lady for the tour, saying I’ll be in touch with my decision once I’ve visited a few other clubs.

Back at the car, I tear the envelope open with a shaky hand. A USB key drops out. I take my computer bag from the trunk and get behind the wheel, looking around to ensure I’m not attracting unwanted attention from staff or members as I take out my laptop and open it on my lap. Satisfied that the coast is clear, I insert the USB key into the reader slot of the laptop.

Several spreadsheets are saved under a file named Bianchi. I open them and scan the contents. They hold a detailed account of the bookkeeping Mr. Lewis managed for the Bianchi family as well as the money he stole and laundered at a company in Boston.

Taking my phone out of my bag, I look up the Boston factory. An article about the brutal murder of the owners pops up in the first line on my search engine.

My pulse spikes as I open the article, scared of what I’ll find. The men were tortured before shot execution style. A shiver works its way down my spine. I check the date, and then I think back.

The murders happened on the weekend Saverio was away. He walked me home after the police interrogation at the firm and spanked me for not calling him as he’d instructed before the police questioned me. I remember the date clearly because it was the day after he killed Mr. Lewis. Then Saverio left, and I didn’t see him until Monday when he ambushed me after I visited Evan Kearney.

I drag in a tremulous breath, ripples of fear running through me as the truth stares me in the face.

Saverio killed Mr. Lewis before going after the men who laundered Luigi’s stolen money. I’m sure of it. His absence when the murders in Boston took place is too much of a coincidence.

Shock hits me as I realize what I have in my possession. The proof is very probably motive for murder. Any cop who looks at the spreadsheets will understand that the Boston factory managers are dead because they laundered money Mr. Lewis stole from Luigi Bianchi.

Any officer who gets his hands on the USB key will ask where Saverio was that weekend. My husband will say he was with me. And I’ll confirm that. I’ll lie for Saverio. Again and again. Because I love him. Because I’m in too deep.

Before Raphael killed Luigi and Giorgio in a blast that was supposed to blow Dante, Saverio, and me to pieces too, I was Saverio’s alibi because I didn’t have a choice. If I didn’t cover up for him, he would’ve gone after Livy or my mom. He married me to save me from Luigi so that he’d always have a convenient alibi, but he also married me for sex because he claims I have a weird effect on his body that he doesn’t have with any other woman, and most importantly, he married me for my baby.

Nothing stops me from walking away now.

We both know it.

The threat on my life because I’m a witness to a murder died with Luigi and his son. Saverio went as far as offering me a new future in a country on a different continent. Yet here I am, because I fell for a made man, a man incapable of loving me, and now my defeat is complete.

I close my eyes and lay my head against the backrest of my seat as I come to terms with just how utterly ruined I am. Saverio did a great job in corrupting me. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. I always knew he’d destroy me. I gave up the good in my life to embrace his darkness, and all I have to show for it is my unrequited love. The only pureness I have left is Claire. She’s the only love in my life that’s not tainted and twisted.

My phone rings in my hand. I look at the screen. It’s Saverio.

“Where are you?” he asks in a strained voice when I answer.

“On my way home,” I say, sounding as tired as I feel.

“That doesn’t answer my question, tesoro .”

I remove the USB key and shut my laptop. “Please tell Livy I’ll be home in two hours, three max, depending on the traffic.”

“Where are you? I’m giving you this one chance to tell me because I’m going to do the right thing and let you explain why you disappeared for three hours without taking a single damn guard with you.” His tone carries a clear warning. “Don’t make me track your phone and come after you.”

“I’m at Shinnecock Hills. Explaining is going to take more than a few minutes, so it’ll have to wait until I get home.”

“Anya,” he growls in my ear.

“I’ll see you later,” I say, ending the call.

I need to come to terms with what I’ve become—an accomplice to multiple murders—and I have two hours to do so. But when I think about Raphael and what he did, I know deep down where it matters that I won’t hesitate to point my gun at him and pull the trigger. That makes me no different than Saverio. There’s no point in sugar-coating it or pretending otherwise. I’m a mob wife, and just like Livy, I embraced that role with my heart and my soul, giving it everything I’ve got.

It’s dark when I pull up at the house. All the downstairs lights are on. Saverio opens the front door even before I’ve cut the engine.

I grab my bag and my laptop, trudging across the gravel. He watches me with flaring nostrils and a bunching jaw as I greet the guards and climb the steps to the porch.

Stopping to face him, I consider the turns my life has taken. Some of them he forced on me. Others, I chose. It both scares and liberates me. It makes me feel strong and weak at the same time. I’m simultaneously unstoppable in my determination to save my family and vulnerable in my trampled affection. All my power was taken from me, and now I’m taking it back. It’s always been like this between us. Saverio never made me feel loved or hated. He always woke this duality of sentiments in me, setting me free and making me strong while keeping me captive and dictating my behavior at the same time.

But this? This is a turning point.

He leans his weight on the cane in his hand and wraps the other one around my nape, pulling me close to press a kiss on my forehead. A moment passes. And another. He sets me free, searching my eyes for answers I’m ready to give him.

“Come inside,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “It’s cold.”

I let him guide me into the welcome warmth of the house. It smells like lasagna. “Where’s Claire?”

“Livy put her to sleep.” He takes my bag and then my coat, deftly putting everything away with one hand. “She hasn’t woken yet.”

He’s angry. No, he’s furious. I hear it in the even tone he forces, in the willpower it takes to keep his voice level. It’s not a factual or conversational kind of level. It’s the kind that festers with uncontainable emotions.

“I kept your dinner warm,” he says, studying me with that shocking blue gaze that’s almost see-through. “You must be starving.”

He’s always taken care of my needs, even when he’s angry with me. I follow him to the kitchen on auto-pilot, letting him pull out a stool for me at the counter.

When I’ve taken a seat, he pours a glass of alcohol-free wine and pushes it my way before going to the oven.

“You’re not using the crutches,” I remark.

After fitting an oven glove, he removes a plate from the warming-drawer and carries it to me. His smile is flat. “Slow progress.”

“That’s a big milestone. You shouldn’t make light of it.”

“Eat,” he says, jutting his chin toward the food before returning the oven glove to its place in the drawer.

Perversely, I’m hungry. Despite everything twisting me up inside, my stomach reminds me with a growl I need energy.

Saverio’s expression darkens. “When was the last time you ate?”

The fact that I have to think about it deepens his frown.

I take a sip of the red wine, enjoying its fruity flavor. “Breakfast.” I think.

“You’re breastfeeding.” His mouth sets in a hard line. “You should take better care of yourself.”

“I know.” It was an exceptional day.

He takes a seat across from me, watching me eat in silence. When my plate and my glass are empty, he asks, “Dessert? There are strawberries. They’re from a hothouse upstate.”

“No, thank you. The food was delicious. I’ve had enough.”

He stands. Leaning heavily on his cane, he walks to the hallway. He doesn’t wait to see if I follow. The command is unspoken.

We need to talk.

The understanding is taken for granted.

I hover for a second, scavenging energy when I have none left, and slip off the stool. He enters his study just as I turn the corner into the hallway.

In the door frame of the study, I pause to take in the familiar room. Saverio rearranged some furniture, but it still smells like him, like his spicy cologne and man. After all that’s changed, his scent is the same, unlike the man I hope to one day find again inside that scarred and battered body.

He stands in the middle of the floor with his back turned to me, studying the painting of someone’s Russian ancestor above his desk.

When I cross the threshold, he says, “Close the door.”

He can’t see me. My flat shoes are quiet on the carpet. He must be developing those sharp senses again.

I close the door and lean against it. “You deserve an explanation.”

“Damn right,” he says, spinning around and unleashing all his bottled-up anger on me. “We’re going to start with the inventory and the video.”

Damn you, Dante.

Why couldn’t he stick to the plan?

I push off the door and take a few steps closer. “Are you working on the new plan?”

His eye creases in the corner. The patch obscures the artificial one but it fails to hide his livid expression. “How did you get it?”

“Simple.” I shrug. “I asked.”

“You asked Elena,” he says, his tone dangerously low.

“There’s no harm in trying.”

He crosses the floor, stopping so close to me I can smell the mint and coffee on his breath. “You put your life in danger.”

“We all do every day.”

He wraps his fingers around my throat, keeping me in place with a possessive hold. “This was different.”

I lift my chin. “How?”

His pupil contracts. The anger that gleams in the depth of his eye like a pinpoint of black against the bluest of skies warns me that I’m treading on thin ice.

“You went to Raphael Morelli’s pregnant wife, the man who tried to kill you and your baby, and you risked your life in ways you can’t begin to imagine.”

I smile. “I think you can give me a little more credit.”

He tightens his fingers marginally, the act dominant and controlling. “Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you?”

“Yes.”

His nostrils quiver as he digests my answer. “Yet you still did it.”

“I got what I wanted, and I’m still here.”

“That’s not the point,” he says, reeling me in.

“Then maybe you should explain it to me.”

He bites off every word. “The point is that nothing can ever happen to you.”

“Only to you?”

“You have Claire to think about, goddammit.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I’m doing this for Claire but also for you and for us?”

He closes his fingers more, allowing me just enough air to breathe. “It was dangerous and stupid.”

“It was brilliant. It worked.”

“Goddamn, woman.” He yanks me against him, making our chests collide. “Don’t ever pull such a stunt again. Don’t you dare do that to me, do you hear me? I can’t go through that again, thinking I’m going to lose you to?—”

To death.

I melt in his hold, leaning into his touch. “Then don’t work so hard on pushing us away.”

He snarls, looking like a demon fighting an internal battle. “You deserve better. Do you value yourself so little?”

Wrapping my arms around his middle, I hug him tightly. “I love you. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s the truth.”

He shifts his hand from my throat to my breast, his voice already husky when he cups the curve. “You only think you do, tesoro .”

I tilt my head to look at him. “Are you going to tell me you conditioned me? That I’m acting out of guilt again? Or that it’s called Stockholm Syndrome?”

His smile is sad. “All of the above.”

“I can’t make you see when you choose to be blind.”

His smile turns wry. “A very fitting metaphor.” Then his expression becomes serious again. “You have to promise me you’ll never do anything like that again. When I thought what could’ve happened to you, I died a thousand times, and each was worse than the time I almost did. All I could think about was pulling you over my knee and tanning your ass so hard that you wouldn’t be able to sit for a day.”

I burrow my face in his chest, inhaling that spicy scent that makes me feel safe. “But you didn’t.”

He catches my hair in a ponytail and pulls back my head, forcing me to meet his gaze. “The reason I’m not tanning your ass is because I’m angry with you. Very fucking angry. And I’m not going to do it out of anger. All those times I spanked you was never about punishing you. I’ll never lift a hand to you in anger. You know that, right? It was a game I enjoyed that turned me on when I realized you liked it too.”

Yes, I knew from the first time he did it in my kitchen that it wasn’t about disciplining or hurting me. It was far more perverse and lustful.

He lowers his head while kneading my breast, catching my bottom lip between his teeth. The soft nip has me gasping with need. Liquid heat gathers between my thighs as he works my nipple into a hard point between his fingers. He pulls harder on my hair, tipping my face to give him better access.

The bite of pain on my scalp hits me straight in my core. It heightens the need that sparks in my belly. I part my lips, inviting him to take what he wants, and he doesn’t hesitate. He sweeps his tongue inside, claiming the depths of my mouth. He abandons one breast for the other, stroking my nipple with his knuckles. A moan slips into our kiss when he pinches lightly before rolling the extended tip with deft fingers.

I’m lost in the moment and in him. It’s only when he guides me to the floor that I realize he’s not using the cane but standing on both feet. He cups the back of my head, forming a cushion with his hand as he stretches out over me without breaking the kiss. Pushing up on one elbow, he carries his weight while letting me feel the muscular length of his body and the hardness between his legs. The warmth of his skin penetrates mine through the layers of our clothes, warming all the cold places where I need him.

Impatient to feel his naked skin, I unbutton his shirt. He pushes up my blouse and the cups of my bra to expose my breasts. Like me, he’s too impatient, only pausing long enough to bunch my skirt over my hips.

Finally having his shirt open, I brush the edges aside and sigh in ecstasy when I sweep my palms over the broad expanse of his chiseled chest. I dip my hands beneath the shirt and smooth them over his back, tracing the small round scars that were left by bullets and the bigger patch of uneven skin from the burn close to his shoulder.

Another growl resonates in his throat. He lifts up on one arm and works his jeans open. His gaze is feverish, reflecting my own urgency.

My fingers brush over hot, velvet steel when I reach between us. Locking my hand around his cock, I guide the crest to my swollen folds. He parts me with a single pivot of his hips, lodging the broad head inside. Arousal coats my slit. He gathers that wetness, working it with shallow thrusts over his cock, and when my inner muscles soften, he pushes home.

The stretch has my eyes roll back in my head. I moan when he pulls out and slams back, teasing nerve endings in his wake. He frames my face and looks into my eyes as he pummels my pussy with meaning, delivering deep, thorough strokes that leave me so needy I’m ready to beg.

“I need you, Anya,” he says with gritted teeth.

He only gives me a moment to process the warning before he flips me onto my stomach and pushes a cushion from the sofa under my hips.

I turn my face to the side and press my cheek on the carpet. With his shirt hanging open to expose his manly chest and his cock jutting from his open jeans, he’s a sight to behold. To me, he’ll always be virile and powerful, the most beautiful man in the world.

My pulse picks up when he pumps his cock in his fist until precum leaks from the tip. He rolls the slickness with a palm around the head and spreads it over his length before pushing his jeans down to his thighs.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he says, holding his weight on one arm and gripping the root in his free hand.

I don’t want him to stop. I want it all, everything he can make me feel.

He pushes the crest on my dark hole, applying steady pleasure until my muscles give and swallow him with a painful pop.

It hurts, but I’ve always liked the pain.

I clench my fingers in the rough wool of the carpet, holding on as he carefully sinks deeper. The burn as he stretches me is exactly what I need. I revel in taking him this way, in giving him something we both enjoy. By the look of fervor and rapture on his face, he needs this as much as I do.

“Your ass is so tight,” he says, almost sounding as if he’s in pain. “I’m not going to last.”

I push back, taking everything. “Then don’t.”

“Fuck, sweet girl.” He locks a hand on my hip, keeping me still. “Slow down, darling.”

It’s too late for that. I’m too far gone, drunk on an addictive cocktail of pleasure and pain.

“Please, Sav. Move.”

He complies immediately, sliding in and out with a controlled pace.

“More,” I moan. “It hurts too much.” Too good.

He slides his hand from my hip between my legs, massaging my clit while picking up his pace. I work with him until we find a rhythm that works for both of us. It’s hard and grueling, like the drumming of my heart. It only takes one more shove before my muscles tighten with unbearable pleasure.

He follows, his body going taut as warmth bathes me inside. The aftershocks continue while he pumps himself dry, ripples of pleasure torturing my body every time my inner muscles clamp down on the intrusion. He groans with each of my contractions that milk his cock, holding me against him until the storm has wreaked its havoc and our bodies are finally soft and quiet in their depletion.

“Ready?” he asks, plying my neck with tender kisses.

Unable to speak, I nod.

He pulls out, leaving behind a sting, and kisses my shoulder. “Okay?”

“Mm-mm.”

“Stay, my love.”

He gets up with some difficulty. I want to protest, to tell him not to put pressure on his knee, but I’m too caught off guard by the term of endearment. He’s only ever called me my love in a sarcastic sense, either when he wanted to make a point about my lack of choice or when he did it to make a statement about the nature of our relationship in front of people. This was different. It was the first time he said it for no other reason than to express affection and for no one’s benefit but mine.

He adjusts his jeans and limps to the guest bathroom, making the short distance without his cane. His progress warms me even more than that silly endearment that slipped from his lips.

The water turns on. A moment later, he returns with a wet cloth and a towel. He kneels on his good knee behind me, grunting with the effort. Even though his face contorts with pain, I say nothing, sensing that he needs this too—to take care of me.

He cleans me with the warm cloth before carefully patting me dry with the towel, and then he lowers my bra and my blouse and pulls down my skirt.

When he’s tucked all my clothes in place, I roll onto my back to look at him. He throws the towel on the carpet and stretches out on his side next to me.

“How long do you reckon we have?” he asks.

“Before Claire wakes up?” I smile. “If we’re lucky, she may take her feeds from four hours to six.”

Threading his fingers through my hair, he pulls me over him. “Let’s hope for luck then.”

We lie together like that with my thigh thrown over his and my head on his chest while he plays with my hair.

It feels like heaven. It’s funny how it’s the small moments that matter, the stolen moments of togetherness that I cherish the most.

“Time to come clean,” he says, twisting a lock of my hair around his finger while anchoring me to him with an arm around my waist. “Where were you this afternoon? You can’t do that. You can’t simply run off like that. I was going out of my mind. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

Yes, I do. The morning I waited for him from two, when he was gone and I didn’t know where he was, drove me insane. That was the night of our engagement party, the fatal night on which Giorgio killed Evan.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You’re right. I should’ve told you, but I was worried you’d try to intervene.”

His hand stills in my hair. Tension slips into his voice. “Should I have intervened?” His tone turns deadly. “Because if you ran off to see another man, you know he’s dead.”

Saverio is still as possessive as ever. If only he’d believe there will never be another man for me. “It was nothing like that.”

He releases the curl around his finger, letting it bounce back. “Then you better start talking.”

“I ran into Tersia today.”

He stills for a moment and then continues to stroke my hair. “What did she say?”

“Not much.” I chuckle. “It was weird. We felt like strangers.”

He remains quiet, waiting for me to continue, so I tell him about the key.

Straining his neck, he lifts his head to search my face. “What did you find?”

“Proof that I love you.”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“If that doesn’t convince you that I love you, nothing will.”

His expression turns wary. “Explain.”

Detangling myself from him, I get up and pad through the quiet house to the entrance where I retrieve the USB key from my bag.

Saverio waits on the floor in the study, sitting with his back propped up against the sofa when I return.

I extend an arm and open my fingers, offering him the key on my palm. He reaches for it slowly, shooting me a questioning look.

“You may want to get rid of that after you’ve looked at it,” I say.

“What is it?” he asks, observing me instead of the evidence in his hand.

Crying comes from upstairs.

Glancing in the direction of the second floor, I sigh. “I guess hoping for six hours was a stretch.”

When I make to turn, he says, “No.”

I look at him.

“I’ll go.” He struggles to his feet. “You go have a shower.”

The offer takes the wind out of my sails. I’m so shocked that I simply stand there, at a loss for words.

“Go on,” he says. “You need it. You’re tired.” He sounds guilty. “And I fucked you in two of your pretty holes very well knowing it.”

My cheeks heat a little at the mention of our debauched sex. “She’ll be hungry.”

“I’ll bring her to you when you’re done. I’m sure she’ll be patient for a few minutes while I soothe her.”

I want to ask what happened, but I’m scared I’ll shatter the fragile moment.

Saverio takes his cane from the sofa and goes to the door. When he passes me, the soft light from the desk lamp washes over his profile. From this side, he looks exactly like he did before the attack. His striking features are breathtaking in their symmetrical beauty.

Yet that’s not what makes him so attractive to me. What makes him perfect is his loyalty and his fierce protectiveness, his determination and his inexhaustible inner strength.

By handing over that evidence, I demonstrated that I’m fully embracing my new life, that I’m loyal to Saverio out of my own free will because I love him more than life itself. But he’s also making non-verbal statements, and actions speak louder than words.

“You do care,” I say to his back, my voice soft. “You just refuse to admit it to yourself.”

He pauses without looking back. “Don’t mistake care for love, Anya. They’re not the same.”

“I’m not. I know how hard going to Claire is for you. You have to make yourself vulnerable to do so. If you didn’t care enough , you wouldn’t do this.”

He turns, facing me squarely. “Everything I do and everything I’ve done are for selfish reasons. If I’m watching out for you or taking care of you, it’s because I like the way you make me feel. You have an effect on me no other woman has. You make my cock hard every time I look at you, even when I’ve just come the hardest in my life and it should be physically impossible. So when I tell you that I’m doing it for me, I’m not lying.”

His words hurt, slicing right through me like he almost did with the blade of his knife. Yet that’s not the truth I see when I look at his actions. That’s not the hope I hold on to when I close my eyes at night and shed lonely tears with him right beside me in bed.

Swallowing back those tears that burn at the back of my eyes, I lift my chin. “You’re wrong. A man who does everything with his own self-interest in mind won’t give his life to save me and my baby.”

The statement pierces him like a sword. I see it in the way he winces as he’s forced to face the simplest of truths when all his arguments are exhausted and only his considerate behavior is left to speak for itself.

We face each other like pieces on a chess board. It’s a checkmate move. It’s playing dirty. I admit that. Pushing him into a corner to confess something I desperately need to hear isn’t honorable. But I don’t know how else to open his eyes to something he won’t allow himself to believe. Maybe he thinks it will be a betrayal of his love for Rachele. But people can love more than one person. They can get hurt and trampled and find happiness again. He lost his first love, but he’s my first love. If he gives us a chance, we can be so much more than lust and sex.

He turns away with that wounded look on his face, running away from the future we could’ve had. And I’m still thoroughly and utterly ruined, a silly, opportunistic woman who put her heart on the line in a gamble she lost.