Chapter Forty-Two

Adele

The "wedding reception" is held in a cavernous hall that stinks of stale cigar smoke and beer. Steel chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their lights harsh and unforgiving, highlighting the half-drunk, leering faces of the attendees.

They're all men. Hard eyes glint beneath furrowed brows, tattoos snake across their skin, and metals glint from ears, noses, and lips. Their suits hang awkwardly on muscled frames as if borrowed from smaller, softer men for this rare occasion. But it's their faces that chill me to the bone. Scars crisscross weathered skin—some faded with time, others angry and fresh—that tell of unspeakable violence and brutality.

Half-naked girls flit between the rows of guests, getting roughly groped, some dragged onto laps, and a few bent over tables. Still, they continue to serve. They don't seem repulsed, nor do they resist. They're simply . . . resigned.

I sit beside Sean at the head table, perched on an uncomfortable gilt chair. The crystals and stones in my dress catch the light, and every little movement and each breath is a reminder that I'm trapped in this nightmare.

The last three hours have purged me of any lingering wide-eyed innocence.

I'm now Mrs. Sean Hall of the Shadow gang. Wife to a depraved savage who can't wait to get into my holes. I pinch myself again, hoping this has all been a bad dream.

But no. I don't wake up. My husband's hand still rests heavily on my thigh, his fingers digging into the flesh just above my knee.

The table before us is laden with untouched food—roast beef bleeding onto fine china, lobster tails curling in their shells, caviar glistening atop delicate blinis. The sight of it all turns my stomach.

Sean leans in close, his breath hot and sour against my ear. "Smile, little dove. This is our wedding reception."

"Yes," I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile.

"Yes, what?" he rasps, his fingers tightening on my thigh. I resist the urge to squirm away, acutely aware of the wooden spoon hidden in my bra which now seems about as useful as a piece of wool against the monstrosity that is Sean Hall.

But I have to try.

Adam's Apple, Brachial Plexus, Eyes, Jugular, Balls. I silently chant then swallow hard, willing my voice not to shake. "Yes . . . my King."

He grins, revealing his chipped front tooth. "That's a good little dove. You're a quick learner."

Oh, you have no fucking idea.

As I scan the room, my eyes searching desperately for Kira, worry gnaws at my insides. She's disappeared since Sean and I exchanged vows.

Sean's voice suddenly rises above the din of clinking glasses and murmured conversations.

"Tomorrow, we link up with our Boston boys and take out those Chicago rats for good. What kinda dumbass name is ‘The Outfit' anyway?" He throws up air quotes. "They deserve to be wiped off the fucking map for the shit they pulled. Killing children while in bed? That just ain't right no matter how you slice it."

A chorus of agreement rises from the surrounding tables. I'm numb enough to school my features into a mask of indifference, but I want to laugh at the thought of this gang taking on the Outfit. They might win in a drunken brawl. But in an all-out war? They stand about as much chance as a snowman in a sauna.

I catch sight of Benjamin at the far end of the room. He's sitting next to a lean, graying man with deep grooves along his forehead and bracketing his mouth. I recognize him as one of Benjamin's long-term clients from my childhood. Benjamin's head is slightly inclined toward him, a gesture of deference I've rarely seen.

There's something striking about this man. He exudes a polished, authoritative air, reminiscent of . . . Nico.

Is he the Irish Mob Boss?

My mind races. Why would he choose to align with this suicide squad here? Does he even comprehend the magnitude of what he's up against? That the Fortress alone houses enough weapons to annihilate an entire state? That they command billions in both legal and illegal funds, with tentacles reaching into the police force, FBI, and political spheres?

A serving girl arrives bearing a tray of champagne flutes. The bubbles catch the light, reminding me of happier times—of lounging by the pool with Dante, his laughter echoing off the water. The memory triggers a physical ache in my chest.

I reach for a glass, desperate for anything to dull the edge of this nightmare, not caring that I might puke. But Sean waves off the servant.

"No alcohol for my little dove," he announces loudly into the room, his eyes gleaming with malice. "She needs to know what a real man feels like. You'll want to feel my cock for weeks, dove, until I come back for you."

A ripple of laughter moves through the nearby guests. I feel my cheeks burn anew with humiliation and anger. From across the room, I catch Benjamin's eye. Even he looks ill and regretful. After all, he was my father for eighteen years. No man wants to see his daughter with an animal.

Adam's Apple, Brachial Plexus, Eyes, Jugular, Balls.

As the night wears on, I find myself thinking of Dante, of Nico and Sal and Enzo—father of six, and the rest of their soldiers. Compared to this lot, they're like royalty. The contrast is stark and painful.

I continue to play the na?ve, dutiful wife, averting my gaze and smiling shyly whenever Sean looks my way while my mind races with possibilities. I know I will kill him tonight. Somehow.

He'll underestimate me; I'm small, and I walk with a limp. He'll not expect any aggression. Benjamin is right under his roof, waiting to take the army he paid for back to Boston. And probably most importantly, Sean is half-drunk and horny. The hand on my thigh is trembling slightly, and his erection is disgustingly obvious. His reflexes are very likely shot.

No, the problem isn't killing him. It's surviving after I do. I've worked out hundreds of scenarios and there isn't one where I don't end up dead by morning.

Eventually, Sean stands, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, making me jump. He pulls me up roughly by my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh, and I relish the pain, letting it harden my resolve.

"Time to retire with my dove," he announces to the room, eliciting a chorus of lewd cheers and whistles.

As we make our way out of the hall, I catch one last glimpse of Benjamin. His face is a mask of regret, but he doesn't move to intervene. The man I once called father turns away, abandoning me to my fate.

Adam's Apple, Brachial Plexus, Eyes, Jugular, Balls. Please give me a fucking chance.

The walk to the bedroom is a blur of dimly lit corridors and the sound of Sean's heavy breathing. When we finally reach the room, he shoves me inside, slamming the door behind us. A massive four-poster bed dominates the space. Heavy curtains block out any moonlight, leaving us in the artificial glow of ornate lamps.

Without being told, I begin to strip.

"Oh, little dove," he licks his lips, his black eye gleaming like a dark gem. "So well trained. I can smell your fear, y'know. Eager and scared. Are you wet?"

"I—I . . ." I make myself stutter.

"Are you?" He barks.

"I'm not . . . sure, My King," I whisper.

He grabs his crotch. "We'll find out, won't we? Get on with it."

The spoon feels like a dead weight against the side of my breast. As long as I take off my own clothes, we're good. I make the disrobing a show, each movement deliberate and slow.

By the time I've shed the heavy dress and I'm down to my dusky pink, lacy plunge bra and thong, I want to break down and cry. I wore them for Dante this morning. I grit my teeth, reaching behind me to undo the clasp of my bra, holding the cup against my breasts to keep the spoon from slipping out.

Carefully, I slide the bra away from my body and place it on the bed, my heart hammering. But it seems I needn't have bothered. From the glazed look in Sean's eyes—well, the normal one that's still visible in the dim light—I could have stuffed an armored tank in my cleavage and he wouldn't notice.

"Lie down," he commands, his voice thick with desire.

I nod, heaving a sigh of relief that he's had enough of the striptease, and I make myself get on the bed, facing down on the silk white bedspread so I can discreetly slide my bra under the pillows.

"On your back," he barks.

I roll over.

He comes closer, his eyes roving over me as he sheds his clothes. I keep my focus on the intricate patterns on the ceiling. I know I should look—I might catch something useful, a weakness, a tattoo—but I'm barely holding my body and mind together.

And then he falls on me.

Splinters of panic lodge in my brain as Sean's weight crushes me into the mattress, his breath hot and unwelcome on my face. My fight-or-flight response kicks in, but I force it down, along with the urge to curl up and disappear. Instead, I make my body go pliant, my mind recalibrating as I stare at his neck, waiting for the perfect moment.

Thank God my arms are still free. He didn't tie me up.

Sean's hands start to paw at me, rough and demanding. Unable to take any more without puking, I strike.

Quick as a snake, I bring the heel of my hand up, smashing it into his Adam's apple. The impact jolts up my arm, and I grit my teeth against the pain.

Sean instantly rears back, wheezing, both hands flying to his throat.

"You—" he tries to speak, but barely any sound comes out. A spark of hope flares in me. I think it worked. I crushed his windpipe—or at least bruised it.

But the wooden spoon hidden under the pillow suddenly seems woefully inadequate against the fury radiating from Sean. It's too late to go back to playing the shy, compliant wife. My cover is blown.

I reach under the pillow, but Sean is faster than I anticipated. Despite the alcohol dulling his reflexes, the instincts honed by years of violence still prevail. His hand clamps around my wrist, twisting until pain shoots up my arm.

"What's that?" he snarls, his face contorting with rage. "Trying to play the hero, are we?" He yanks away the pillow, blinks in surprise then starts to cackle like a madman when he sees it.

He wrenches my arm until I cry out, convinced my wrist is broken. "You wanna come at me with what?" He picks it up and shoves it under my nose. "A spoon? A fucking wooden spoon!"

He lets the spoon fall uselessly to the bed beside us. "You know, for a moment, I thought you might be different. I was going to treat you like a real queen. But it looks like you want to be used like a slut."

No, no, no. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Panic rises in my throat.

Sean's hand closes around my throat, cutting off my air. "By the time I'm done with you, my dove," he hisses, "you'll never be able to look at a spoon without screaming."

Black spots dance at the edges of my vision as I gasp for breath. My free hand claws at his face, nails digging into his cheek and raking down viciously until I feel his skin peel under my fingernails. He jerks back and rolls off me with a loud curse, and I suck in desperate breaths.

When he wipes at his cheeks and sees his hands coming away bloody, he grabs me by the hair and growls into my face, his eyes pools of blue murder. "Oh, I'll so enjoy breaking the fight out of you."

Shit. My scalp is on fire, and I'm no closer to being free. All I've done is make him angrier.

Think, Addy, think. What can you do?

My eyes dart around the room, searching desperately for something, anything, I can use. That's when I see it—the heavy crystal ashtray on his nightstand. But how do I get from here to there?

I steel myself, knowing what I have to do. It's going to hurt, but it's my only chance. I hack my throat and spit into his eye, desperately wishing it were acid. Wishing it were something sharp, something that could do more damage than just piss him off and earn me a beating.

As Sean pulls back his fist, I brace myself. The backhand blow lands with explosive force, pain blooming across my cheek. But I use the momentum, letting it roll me off the bed. I hit the floor hard and pain shoots through my hip. The spoon clatters beside me, and I dive for it, feeling the hard edge dig into my throbbing thumb.

My hip spasms and stiffens, flaring up at the worst possible moment, but I grit my teeth and force myself to move. I just need to reach that ashtray.

Before I can scramble to my feet, Sean grabs my hair again and jerks me back into him. I feel him behind me, my back plastered to his naked chest, the foot-long height difference between us only adding to the intimidation. He yanks my hair so hard I cry out, and he laughs—a cruel, unmistakable excitement in the sound.

He bends down, licks the shell of my ear, and growls, "That's it, little dove. Sing for me. You all fight and resist, but in the end, you will surrender—writhing in a puddle of your tears, drool, and piss, begging for more of the cleansing pain." He twists his fist again, and as much as I hate it, hate him for the way he's getting off on my pain, I cry out again.

"You're just like all the others. Only fit to be used and broken." His other fist joins in, making me wince in pain.

"Are you going to beg, or do you want to play some more?" he breathes into my ear.

"Please," I yell. "Please."

He only twists harder.

I can't take it anymore. Driven by pure adrenaline and self-preservation, I swing high and back with all my might. This time, he's not fast enough to untangle his hands from my thick, curly hair and stop my swinging arm. It connects with a satisfying squelch.

Sean's howl of pain is unlike any sound I've heard from a human before. He reels back, his hands falling away from my hair. And then he's whimpering like a wounded dog. I'm almost too terrified to turn and see what I've done to him.

But I turn. And promptly retch onto the floor.

Blood streams down his face, and the bowl of the spoon is protruding from his black eye. The handle is lodged squarely in his eyeball. He rocks in agony, one trembling hand hovering over his injured eye, the other flailing wildly, fingers opening and closing reflexively as if desperate to grab hold of me.

My whole body trembles as adrenaline courses through me. What the fuck have I just done? I want to sob because it's far from fucking over. He's lost an eye, but that blow won't kill him. If this man gets his hands on me, I'm a dead woman.

Either I end this now, or he snaps my neck.

I try to dart around him toward the ashtray, but Sean lunges for me. My fingers brush the handle just as his hand closes around my neck and jerks me backward with such force that my legs give out and I crash to the floor.

His body follows me down. "My eye! You fucking evil bitch, I'll kill you! I'll pluck out your eyes and feed them to you!"

Instantly, he's on top of me, his good eye wild with tears of pain and rage, while the black one weeps rivulets of blood down the length of the jutting spoon, dropping onto me. His hand finds my throat, fingers digging in.

"Did the Irish put you up to this?" I nod, and he squeezes harder. "I'll kill them. I'll kill them all."

It's like déjà vu—the feeling of being choked, fighting for air. But this time, we're not sparring. This time, it's not a measured punishment delivered by a man who knows my limits. This is an enraged beast who won't stop until I stop breathing.

"Who fucking sent you?" he spits at me. I grab his unrelenting hand, nails scratching his wrist, but he only tightens his grip.

Shit.

My lungs burn with the need to breathe, and my face starts to tingle. I slam the ashtray on the floor, shattering it. I hoped the action would distract him, but instead, he squeezes harder. I blindly reach for a shard, welcoming the way it slices into the flesh of my palm.

It's probably useless to penetrate his skin, let alone stab through his chest, but I have to try something. My darkening vision zeroes in on the soft spot just below his dangling, stretched earlobe.

"Dante . . ." I sputter over and over as my instincts take over. Sean pauses, then bends his head to hear me, allowing me to drag in a breath before he tightens his grip again.

"I said give me a fucking name," he wheezes.

I repeat Dante's name, but it only comes out as a muffled sound.

The moment Sean leans in closer, I swing my arm up and jab the shard into the angle of his jaw, driving it in with all my might and then some.

There's a sickening pop, followed by pain like I've never felt before, exploding in my shoulder. I scream with the first breath that rushes into my lungs, oblivious to the warm, coppery blood spraying over me like a macabre shower.

Sean's eyes widen in shock, his hands flying to his throat. Blood bubbles from his mouth as he tries to speak.

I roll him off me, scrambling back until I hit the wall. I watch in horror as he thrashes on the floor, gurgling and choking on his own blood. It feels like an eternity before he finally goes still.

The silence that follows is oppressive. I sit there, shaking, covered in sweat and blood—mine and Sean's. My cheek throbs, my shoulder feels like someone took a mallet to it, my hip aches, and every breath hurts. But I'm alive.

Slowly, I take it all in. Sean's dying body is inches from mine, his remaining eye staring blankly at the ceiling. With a choked sob, I push myself to my feet, cradling my throbbing arm.

Shaking violently, I stumble to the bathroom, desperately searching for a way out. There are none—no windows here either, no vents big enough to crawl through. Just gleaming marble and chrome fixtures that seem to mock me. Even if there were windows, I wouldn't be able to climb out with my injured arm hanging at an awkward angle.

As the reality of what's happened—what I've done—crashes over me, I crumple to the floor, sobs wracking my body. Blood—thick, sticky, and drying in rusty patches—coats my skin.

I've done it. I've killed a man. My husband. Brutally. And now what?

"Dante," I whisper into the empty room. "Where are you?"

But there's no answer. Just the sound of my own beating heart counting down the moments until someone comes to check on the bride and groom. Until my fragile safety shatters, and I have to fight again—or die.

I close my eyes, trying to summon Dante's face, his strength. I've survived this far, but I don't know how to survive what comes next.