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Chapter 42

42

Jeanne

I pull the phone out of the pocket of my jeans and glance down at the message. The blood drains from my face. The world tilts. It's a good thing Luca's holding my hand; otherwise, I might have fallen.

"Angel!" He jumps up and wraps his arm about my shoulder, steadying me. "What is it?"

I swallow, open my mouth, but the words refuse to come. Instead, I hold up my phone so he can read the message.

Penny, too, is on her feet and walks over to peer at my screen.

"Oh, my god, he wants you to play the lead?" She gasps.

"The premiere is tomorrow, and now Olivia can't play the lead, so…" my voice trails off. I glance up at Luca. "I feel terrible about this. I should refuse. This is my fault."

"Why is it your fault?" Penny asks.

"We… we think whoever shot at her thought it was me. Not that we look the same, but likely, they were told to fire at the lead actress, and instead of me, she was hurt."

A furrow appears between Penny's eyebrows. "You think it's the same people who kidnapped you, who shot at you?"

"It's possible." Luca pulls me closer. "And while I'm sorry Olivia was hurt, I'm glad it wasn't you on that stage."

A shiver spirals up my spine, and I melt into his side.

"It's not right. It should be her on the stage tomorrow."

"It was supposed to be you." Penny props an arm on her hip. "And William decided he wanted Olivia to play the part. Now, it's back to you. Maybe it's fate and you're the one who should be on that stage tomorrow." She raises a shoulder.

Just like it's fate for me to be with him?

"What do you think?" I turn to Luca. "Should I go on that stage tomorrow?"

He cups my cheek. "I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't be worried if you did. Whoever shot at you is still out there. I've already put my men on trying to find out who did it, but the perpetrator is likely long gone. Even if we do find him, it may not be within the next twenty-four hours."

"What are you saying?"

"That you should fulfill your heart's desire and star in the premiere tomorrow. And I'll make sure that the security around the theater is so strong that nothing and no one can get in or out without my knowing."

"Thank you, Luca." I sway closer to him when footsteps sound behind me.

Luca glances past me and frowns. "Massimo?"

I turn in time to see Massimo barreling into the room. "Is what I heard true?" He scans Luca's features. "Is she hurt?"

"It was a flesh wound. The bullet didn't hit anything vital," Luca responds.

" Grazie a dio! " Massimo exclaims.

"She hurt her face, though. The doctor fears it may scar, but he can't be sure."

"She's alive, though? That's the most important thing." Massimo rolls his shoulders. "Can I see her?"

"The doctor said she's resting, and we can see her tomorrow," Penny replies.

Massimo walks over to a chair and lowers his bulk into it. "I'll wait."

I exchange glances with Luca.

"Are you sure? You can come back in the morning," Luca murmurs.

Massimo kicks out his feet and pulls out his phone. "I'll wait. I can work from here as well as I can anywhere else. And I'll feel better if I'm here, in case something comes up. Why don't you all go on home?"

I hesitate.

"I'll call you if anything comes up. Also..." He glances between me and Luca. "Isn't this your first night as a married couple? You don't want to spend it in a hospital waiting room."

Half an hour later, we draw into the driveway of Luca's home. My eyes are drooping, and when he comes around to open the door on my side and scoops me up in his arms, I don't protest. He carries me inside, then up the stairs and to his room. He walks into the bathroom, sets me down on the edge of the bath tub, and runs a bath. Then he pulls me up to my feet and grips the bottom of my blouse. I raise my arms and he pulls it off of me and tosses it aside. I notice the blood on the fabric. Her blood. Olivia's blood has been on my clothes all this time. I had noticed it, but it hadn't quite registered.

"It could have been me who was shot." My knees tremble. "Me who could have collapsed on the prop and hurt my face and?—"

"But it didn't happen." He unhooks my bra, tosses it aside, then helps me out of my skirt. He pulls my panties down my hips. I step out of them. He doesn't spare a glance at my breasts or the flesh between my legs. Should I be relieved or disappointed? Maybe he's not going to fuck me tonight, after all.

Then he shrugs off his jacket, begins to unbutton his shirt, and all thoughts drain from my mind. He undoes the last button, pulls off his shirt, and drapes it over a chair.

I take in his chiseled chest and the words, Non Dimenticare Mai, tattooed onto his forearm.

"You never did tell me what that means," I point out.

"Never forget," he retorts.

"Never forget… what?" I tilt my head.

He hesitates. "Never forget how my father abused my mother until she dropped dead from a heart attack. Never forget how he abused me and my brothers. Never forget how he broke the trust of those he supposedly loved."

He shucks off his boots and socks, then unbuckles his belt and shoves down his pants along with his boxers and adds them to his growing pile of clothes. When he straightens, the breath rushes out of me. I take in the heavily muscled shoulders, the sculpted biceps, the hewn planes of his chest, which narrow down to his trim waist. Those corded thighs, and his monster cock, which stands up against his lower belly and has a vein running up the bottom.

My mouth waters. My nipples throb. The flesh between my legs contracts. A piercing ache flares to life deep inside. Moisture squeezes out from between my pussy lips, and a shiver slinks under my skin. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Is this what sin looks like? Is this how the devil appeared to Eve? Is that why she ate the apple when he coaxed her to? As I'm going to do?

As if he's aware of the direction my thoughts have taken, his nostrils flare. His eyes flash, and a nerve throbs at his temple. His gaze grows heated. The heat in the bathroom seems to shoot up. A bead of sweat slides down my throat and his gaze darts there. His blue eyes deepen in color until they seem almost black. He glances past me, then in one smooth move, swoops around me. He bends over, shuts off the water, and straightens.

But not before I notice the tattoos on his back. Of course, I saw when we were imprisoned together, but now that he's my husband, it elicits something poignant, something painful and strident, deep inside of me. The combination of the ink with the puckered slivers of skin looks both heathen and holy. Both barbaric and sacred. It's as if his back was torn to pieces and put back together in a form meant to give expression to whatever pain he's carrying deep inside. The colors are brilliant, almost too bright for my eyes, but that's not the only reason my vision wavers. I blink away my tears, then reach out to trace the curved lines.

The muscles under his skin jump. It's like having a writhing beast under my fingertips, one that's standing still only for my perusal. A thrill squeezes my chest. I drag my fingertips across the shape of the face, the soulful, yet piercing eyes, the serpents that spring from the head and entwine with three sheafs of wheat painted the most brilliant yellow, and the three legs bent at the knee, which radiate out from the head. The design is haunting, macabre, primal and somehow, very Luca.

"It's a trinacria, also known as triskelion . Meaning three-legged. It recalls the shape of Sicily, which resembles a triangle. Trinacria is actually the earliest known name of the island of Sicily," he rumbles.

"Is that Medusa?" I touch the cheek below the haunted eyes of the woman's face in the center of the tattoo.

He nods. "It's for protection. In the past, it was customary to place a trinacria behind the main door as a symbol of protection for the house."

"And the three legs?"

"They symbolize the three ends of the island. The wheat sheafs represent the history of Sicily as a major wheat provider of the Roman empire; they also symbolize the fertility and prosperity of the region."

"Now I recall where I've seen the symbol. On the flag of Sicily."

One side of his lips kicks up.

"You decided to carve it into your skin? Why?"

"Why do you think?" He turns to face me.

"Because… the land is in your blood? Because you are a proud Sicilian? Because..." I search his features. "Because the Cosa Nostr a is your religion?"

"And you are my salvation."

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