Chapter 32

THIRTY-TWO

Angelo

The water is choppy. Sabella isn't bothered by the rough boat ride. She quickly found her sea legs. From how motionless she stands at the rail, not losing a step as the swell tips the yacht, she was probably born with those long, slender, toned sea legs. The notion makes someone like me with pirates for ancestors proud.

Now that I had her, breaking my own intention in doing so, I consider fucking her for the whole seven hours of the trip. My body agrees, my cock hardening at the thought of what I can do with her. I can push her down on her knees again or have her on all fours. I could spend the entire journey with my head buried between her legs and my tongue in the delicious heat of her pussy. The temptation is huge, but my concern is bigger.

What happened at the police station shook her. Her meltdown proved as much. Despite honoring her wish to not talk about it, I still want to off those motherfuckers for laying their hands on her. For what they did to her.

And I will.

In good time.

Once I've gathered the information I need.

For now, I let it be, let her be, however difficult it is for me to give her space. That doesn't stop me from staring, greedily drinking in every small detail with my eyes.

She leans her elbows on the upper deck rail, the icy wind whipping her ponytail around her beautiful face.

The image is breathtaking. Except for that attractive beauty spot, her honey-gold skin is flawless. She's so perfectly created she seems unreal—like a wax doll with long legs, curvy hips, and a small waist. Firm, pert breasts.

She looks as if she has herself together, as if nothing can derail her. Only, on the inside she's not a vision of perfect calm. I know what she's been through because I've put her through part of it. Fine. Most of it. She's strong though. She neither bends nor breaks easily. And that makes my chest swell with more pride. She's a brave woman, a perfect fit for me. I never doubted that.

Yet it's the very courage I admire in her that won't let me shed my gnawing concern. Being clever and brave are characteristics of a fearless traitor.

Staying close enough to grab her in case she slips, I take my phone from my pocket. I keep one eye on her while I fire off a message to my informant in the bureau, instructing him to pull the tape from the interrogation room.

I know how officers like Lavigne operate. He would've cut her a deal. Most likely, he offered her freedom in exchange for getting him the evidence he needs to slap a life sentence on me.

And if there's anything my beautiful bride wants, it's her freedom.

The only sword hanging over her head is her family. Exposing me will implicate them. She won't risk their reputation, let alone their safety. No. She'd negotiate. It would have to go all the way to the top, to governments and higher, because the French law can't ensure her family's indemnity. It would have to be an agreement made with her country's leaders, one favor exchanged for another. That's how these things work.

"Come on," I say, going over when I can't resist the pull any longer. "The temperature is sub-zero with the wind factor." Linking my arm through hers is just an excuse to touch her. "Let's get you inside."

The wool coat and scarf she wears over a cashmere sweater and a pair of skinny jeans aren't enough protection for the spray blowing over the deck. I don't want her to catch pneumonia.

In the lounge where it's warm, I make sure she's comfortably seated before sitting down opposite her and catching up with emails on my phone.

My attention isn't on work however. It's focused on the woman in front of me. She's staring through the window, a fast-growing habit. It's nothing but a tactic to avoid looking at my face.

One of the deckhands brings her a cup of tea. She thanks him politely and cups the warm drink between her palms. Making an effort to ignore her, I open the encrypted reply from my informer. The news isn't good. The recording was wiped clean. There's no record of what was said between Lavigne and Sabella. That can only mean one thing. Lavigne is covering something up.

Drumming my fingers on the armrest, I consider the turn of events. I'll have to be extra careful around Sabella. I can't let her hear or see anything she can use against me.

It's going to make living together complicated, seeing that my office is at home and most of my business deals are discussed and concluded there. I host many men from crime organizations who are high up in the hierarchy. The comings and goings in Corsica are both vital and sensitive.

Unless she proves herself one hundred and ten percent trustworthy, which is, considering our circumstances, highly unlikely, I won't have a choice but to lock her up. The thought twists my gut. It's not what I want or what I planned. Far from it. I can only hope it won't come to that.

The early darkness of winter has set in when the captain steers the yacht into the bay and moors it next to the jetty. The path lights are lit for our arrival, forming a twinkling golden line that runs up the rocky hill.

I try to see it through her eyes. I've always been proud of my home. The architectural beauty of the fortress is undeniably handsome. The garden with its Olympic size pool is featured in many landscape magazines across the globe. The isolated location on the rugged coastline is a natural gem. I suppose it's easy to admire if you're invited for a visit. For a stranger coming to live here, it must seem remote. Imposing even.

I take Sabella's hand and help her down the bridge onto the jetty. Her dark eyes flare when she looks toward the house. She's used to living in luxury dwellings on beaches, both in Great Brak River and in Camps Bay, but her parents' house and the villa I rented for her don't compare to the small castle stretching over the expanse of the cliff. Thick streams of soft, golden light from garden spotlights illuminate the towers and ramparts. Beyond, a ripe moon rises over the vineyard.

We make the steep climb in silence. My father contemplated the logistical difficulties of the house as his retirement approached. The roads are manageable, but climbing up and down to the beach becomes difficult if not impossible at a certain age. For that reason, he was going to install an elevator like one of those that Valparaiso is famous for. Fortunately, it's not a project I have to tackle for the foreseeable future. Not until we're both old. I like the sound of that—growing old together. Raising a few children.

I steal a glance at my wife, noting the rise and fall of her chest from the exertion as we reach the top. I imagine her belly round with my baby. I imagine how she'd look, and a protective rage already washes over me.

I'm getting too soft around her. I have to be careful.

Heidi opens the door. The captain would've alerted her to our arrival.

"Mr. Russo," she says, barely nodding at me before turning her attention to my bride. "Mrs. Russo." She beams. "Welcome home. Come inside. You must be freezing after having been on the water all day."

Sabella appears lost as Heidi takes both her hands and pulls her into the warmth of the house. Flavors of oregano, garlic, and portobello mushrooms hang in the air.

"I prepared a welcoming dinner," Heidi says, taking Sabella's coat. "After all, it's a special day. It merits a celebration."

I observe the exchange quietly, shrugging out of my coat as Heidi makes small talk about the weather, which gives Sabella time to remove her scarf and find her bearings. What kind of a mistress will my wife make for my house? Will she be mousy and too afraid to breathe like my mother or buoyant and over-present in every corner like Adeline?

As always, the memories tighten my chest. A dark cloud drifts over my mood. It's difficult to witness Sabella in the house where only the ghosts of the people I loved remain and not to hold grudges. A voice deep down says that my mother and Adeline paid the price for Sabella's presence. They paid with their lives so I could finally bring my bride home, and I can't help but think the same thing as always—that it's my fault they're dead. That we are where we are because of Sabella. That my mother and sister should've been here, that they would've been here if I hadn't been so adamant about marrying Sabella. But I've always been selfish. No one can accuse me of possessing a bleeding heart.

"This way." Heidi gives Sabella a warm smile before leading the way to the dining room.

Sabella glances at me from over her shoulder, her expression uncertain.

"Come," Heidi says, entering the dining room and waving Sabella in. "You must be starving."

Sabella stops dead in front of me. I cup her waist to prevent her from tripping. Her body is warm under the layers of clothes, her muscles tense beneath my palms.

The reason for her apprehension becomes apparent as I lift my gaze over her head. My uncles and cousins sit around the big table. They're not in a hurry to get to their feet. Animosity hangs like a thick cloud of poison in the air. My uncles size my wife up with unfriendly stares while my cousins take her in with curiosity as they slowly stand.

"Uncle Nico, Uncle Enzo, it's good to see you." I nod at each in turn. "Toma. Gianni. This is my wife, Sabella." I walk her deeper into the room. "Sabella, meet my uncles and cousins."

Uncle Enzo steps up first. He doesn't kiss her cheek or shake her hand. He scrutinizes her with shrewd eyes. "Welcome to Angelo's home."

Not your home.

The jab doesn't escape anyone. Toma and Gianni exchange a glance. Sabella tenses more under my hold.

The hostile smile that curves Uncle Nico's lips says he already despises her. "Yes. Welcome."

"Thank you," she says, lifting her chin.

Heidi is either oblivious to the strained atmosphere or pretending not to notice. "I'll let you take care of the seating arrangement while I get the starters, Mr. Russo."

I acknowledge her with a curt, "Thank you, Heidi."

In the uncomfortable silence that follows when she walks from the room, I seat Sabella on my left before taking my place at the head of the table.

"As you were," I say, indicating they're free to sit where they please.

A bottle of rare red from my father's cellar—not from our own vineyard—was opened to breathe and left on the table. I pour a generous amount of wine for Sabella and then serve everyone else.

"A toast," I say, raising my glass. "To the new Mrs. Russo."

Sabella flushes, hiding her face behind her glass as the men dissect her with their glares. Uncle Nico tips back his glass but barely wets his lips. Uncle Enzo mumbles something unintelligible.

The grandfather clock ticks in the background, counting down every awkward second.

"Oh, um." Toma clears his throat. "I'm also marrying soon." At the cutting look his effort to strike up a conversation earns him from his father, his enthusiasm slips. His voice wavers. "Um, in one year's time."

Uncle Nico scowls at him. Toma swallows a gulp of wine and hangs his head.

Heidi enters with bowls of asparagus soup on a tray. She convinced a few guards to play waiters. They follow behind her, carrying more bowls, baskets of freshly baked bread rolls, and dishes of salted butter.

I utter a silent sigh, wishing this night was over already so that I can take Sabella to bed.

Heidi went to a lot of effort with the menu. The main dish is her specialty—marinated wild boar in a red wine reduction sauce with young carrots and mushrooms on the side. It's one of my favorites.

My uncles clean their plates. Sabella only picks at the food while the conversation turns to business—only the legal parts, that is—that doesn't concern her.

By the time the chocolate fondant and crème anglaise are served, she's yawning. We got to the hotel in the early hours of the morning. We only slept for a short while. It's been an exhausting two days on more than a physical level.

The minute the dessert plates are cleared, I get to my feet, signaling that the dinner is over. I open my mouth to bid them good night, but Uncle Nico beats me to it.

"Cognac, Angelo?" he asks. "There's a matter we need to discuss with you."

I push back my chair. "It can wait."

He smiles even as he clenches his jaw. "I'm afraid it can't."

Uncle Enzo adds with ill-staged regret, "We wouldn't keep you from your wedding bed if it wasn't important."

Sabella stares at the place setting in front of her, two red circles growing on her cheeks.

"Fine." I motion at the corridor. "You know the way."

They file through the door, Toma and Gianni in tow. When Gianni twists his neck to stare at Sabella, I slap him upside the head.

On my way out, I stop next to her chair. Her chest stills with the breath she's taken.

Kissing the top of her head, I whisper in her ear, "You may as well make yourself useful."

She pulls away and tilts her face up to frown at me.

In case she's unclear about my meaning, I clarify, "I'm sure Heidi can do with a hand in the kitchen."

From how she glowers, I suspect she took the suggestion as an insult. My intention is good. Being useful made my mother happy. The sooner I involve Sabella in my household, the sooner she'll integrate.

Her eyes burn holes in the back of my head as I walk from the room.

My uncles and cousins sit on the sofas facing the fireplace in the study. A fire already burns high, no doubt thanks to Heidi's foresight. Cognac and cigars are set out on the coffee table. I pour and hand the glasses around, but I don't touch the cigars. I'm not going down the same road as my father, not after what happened to him.

"Angelo," Uncle Nico says.

I sip my cognac, waiting for him to continue.

"We heard BAC took your wife in for questioning in Marseille."

I raise a brow. "That was fast."

His stilted nod is placating. "It's our business to know everything that concerns them."

"Your point?"

The leather creaks as Uncle Enzo shifts to the edge of his seat. "How long did they keep her?"

I clench my jaw as I relay that fact. "A few hours."

Uncle Enzo watches me with sly attention. "That's a long time."

"They put a lot of red tape in place." My hold on the glass tightens in a reflex reaction. "It took my lawyer time to work through it."

Uncle Enzo licks his bottom lip as he studies the rug before flicking his gaze back to me. "A lot can happen in a few hours."

"I understand your concern?—"

Uncle Nico cuts me short. "We need the tape of the interrogation." He dips his head. "You know why."

"They erased it." I work my jaw. "My informant already tried to get his hands on it."

Uncle Nico's tone is laced with caution. "Then you can't trust her."

"You know what your father would've done," Uncle Enzo says.

My rage ignites in a second. I don't take the bait. I don't ask what my father would've done because I know.

My flat voice doesn't give the violence simmering inside me away. "I'm not my father."

"You are the head of this business now," Uncle Nico says, letting the unspoken meaning hang between us and making it clear to everyone in the room.

I pin him with a stare. "If you have something to say, say it."

His docile calmness vanishes. Determination hardens his jaw. "He wanted her dead. It was his dying wish. He told you to deal with her the day he avenged your mother and sister's deaths. Yet she's alive." His look is cunning. "And most probably working with the cops against you."

The bang as I slam my glass down on the table makes my cousins jump. "She's my wife. I'll deal with her how and when I see fit."

"She's an Edwards," Uncle Enzo says. "Giving her your name can't change that. She is and will always be your enemy's daughter, the man who killed your?—"

"I fucking know what he did," I say through clenched teeth. "You'd be wise not to bring that up now."

Uncle Enzo stands. "You may not want to be reminded of the facts, but your father was our brother, and we know what he would've done in your position. What he would've wanted. He'd never take a risk. If there was the slightest chance of betrayal, he would've killed that spark long before it had a chance of kindling a flame. You and I both know that the most logical, safest decision is to get rid of her."

Fury boils the blood in my veins. I'm about to reach over the table and grab him by the throat when I notice a movement in the doorframe.

Sabella.

She's as pale as a ghost, supporting herself with a hand on the wall.

Fuck.

The men turn their heads in the direction of my gaze. Silence stretches as they look at her, branding her as guilty for nothing but standing there, for hearing something she shouldn't have.

"I—" She swallows. "Heidi sent me to ask if you want coffee."

"No," I say, my tone harsh. "They're leaving."

Uncle Nico puts his glass on the table and gets up with a sneer. "Good night, Angelo. Congratulations again." He doesn't look at Sabella as he walks from the room.

Uncle Enzo follows his twin's example. Toma and Gianni push to their feet, stealing uncertain glances at me before leaving without saying a word.

Sabella folds her arms behind her back and leans on the wall, watching me quietly. I want to pick up my glass and down what's left of my drink, but I don't. I'm volatile enough as it is. My uncles questioned my authority, and even though I'm respectful of their age, I'll have to put them back in their place lest I lose mine in the hierarchy. Because if I do, God knows, I won't be able to keep Sabella safe.

Her voice is soft, her question loaded. "So, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Are you going to kill me when I've served my purpose?"

On second thought, I grab that drink and swallow it down in one go. I school my features before I look at her, keeping my expression devoid of emotions. I can't show her the turmoil in my chest. "Only if I have to, so make sure you don't give me a reason."

She digests the statement, taking a second to let it sink in. Then she turns on her heel and flees from the room.

That's all right.

I let her run.

There's nowhere in this house she can hide.