Guilt wriggles in my guts, but I push it aside and focus on the task at hand. With the fury wafting off Giorgio, maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t tell him what I found this morning. There’s no doubt he’d burn too many bridges if he knew I suspected his uncle paid someone for the cyberattacks.
In fact, I think Narciso Vivaldi is behind the physical attacks on his sisters, too, but I don’t have concrete evidence yet, so it may be best to focus on helping Serenity and Camilla instead of muddling his thoughts with suspicion over his uncle.
Bianca Vivaldi offers us an overly bright and innocent greeting, but Giorgio wants none of it.
“What did you say to Camilla, Mamma?”
She quirks a brow and rolls her shoulders into an even haughtier stance.
“Only what your father and I agreed on.”
“Which was?”
Giorgio’s gritted response raises the hairs on my nape.
Maybe I should retreat to the car, but his arm over my shoulders prevents me from slipping away.
He wants me here. I can’t leave. I won’t leave.
“Mio figlio, we only want what’s best for Camilla. Come in and have some breakfast, then you can discuss this with your father.”
I settle my hand on the small of his back as he grinds his teeth.
“We’d love some breakfast,” I lie.
Looks like we’ll have to play a little good cop, bad cop to figure out what she said to Giorgio’s older sister.
I haven’t seen Camilla in almost ten years, but both Serenity and Giorgio will do anything for her, so I will, too.
Giorgio would do the same for Tristan. I can’t not reciprocate when I love this jerk so much.
We follow his mother to the table. He pulls out my chair and settles in the one beside me, placing himself across from her while the head of the table lies empty for his father.
Another full place setting waits across from me.
My head spins without warning.
Giorgio takes my hand under the table and sandwiches it between his thick thigh and huge palm. I squeeze his leg and drink half a glass of water, willing my nerves to settle. His eyes narrow on my face.
Bianca launches into a spiel about our upcoming announcement party and the schedule for wedding preparations. I find it difficult to smile and nod, but she doesn’t need to know it’s all pointless. Giorgio and I are as much a husband and wife duo as she and Matteo are, but we must continue our ruse until we find a safe escape route for Tristan and corner the culprit behind the attacks on his family.
The minutes drag by until Matteo Vivaldi finally arrives.
His brother follows close on his heels. A shiver runs down my spine as Narciso Vivaldi’s eyes trail over me, but I flex my fingers into Giorgio’s thigh and offer the older man a polite smile.
He settles in the seat across from me. The servers fill the table with tray after tray of food. My unease grows. Giorgio’s frustration becomes more apparent as his parents show a despicable lack of concern for his sister.
Mio Dio, I’m tired. I should have stayed in his arms all night, but my curiosity pulled me to my computer.
My mother didn’t bother us this morning. Or last night.
I pause as I realize I skipped two doses. It shouldn’t affect me too badly, but life has not been easy lately, so I excuse myself and swing my purse over my shoulder.
I don’t stop Giorgio from coming with me, but I ask him to wait in the hall for a few minutes. He glances between my purse and my face a few times before nodding and kissing me.
“Be quick, mia topolina, or we’ll have a repeat of the last time I followed you into this bathroom. Capisci?”
Heat thrums low in my belly. I nod. He opens the door, flicks on the light, and pushes me inside.
I place my purse on the counter, pull out the pill pouches I keep tucked in the bottom, and empty one onto my palm. After chucking the pills into my mouth, I turn on the faucet, stick my face in the sink, and swallow the vitamins. Needing a few more sips to clear my mouth of the aftertaste, I hear nothing but rushing water until I turn off the faucet.
Raised masculine voices filter in under the door from the hallway. I zip my purse closed and tuck it over my shoulder before opening the door. Giorgio’s broad back blocks me from seeing his father, but Matteo’s words ring clear in my ears as I turn off the light and step out of the bathroom.
“Camilla is my daughter, so if I tell her to do something, she’d better fucking do it. Same goes for you, mio figlio. I don’t care how boring or simple the Achilles girl is, you’ll marry her without a fuss because I told you to.”
Giorgio steps toward his father, and even with his back to me, the menace wafting off him sends ice down my spine. I reach for him.
A hand closes around my upper arm and yanks me backward. I fall against Narcisco’s wiry body with a surprised squeak.
Giorgio pulls me away from his uncle and shoves me into the bathroom.
“Don’t come out, no matter what you hear. I’ll open the door when it’s safe.”
The solid wood door slams shut. Pitch-black darkness envelopes me. Sounds of violence sneak under the door.
My mind splinters. Ice infects my entire body. I hug my purse to my chest and stumble backward until the wall catches me.
Matteo’s shouting morphs to my aunt’s screams.
I sink to my butt in the darkness with Tristan’s tiny newborn body in my arms. We can’t make a sound. They’ll kill us.
I can’t breathe.
My aunt’s screaming fades to eerie silence. The doorknob turns.
I failed. They heard me. We’re both dead.
Tristan won’t survive because of me.
Light blinds me. My eyes won’t focus. A masculine voice echoes from far away.
I can’t break the ice shielding me from the world. I’d rather stay frozen forever than face the horrors of reality.
Arms wrap around me and lift me from the ground. Warmth seeps into my side. My head throbs.
A deep, rumbling voice sneaks into my bones and begins my thaw. Fragrant heat wraps around me, the smell familiar and comforting. As the ice melts from my flesh, my limbs tingle and burn as though frostbitten, and my surroundings come to me in disjointed, jagged pieces.
“You’re okay, Aurora. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Tristan is safe.”
I know that voice. I trust that voice.
Giorgio Vivaldi.
My husband.
He’s here. He’s holding me. I’m okay. I’m safe. Tristan is safe.
Pain spears up my arms and my fingers ache. My chest heaves as though I ran a marathon. Sounds buzz in my ears.
I blink until Giorgio’s handsome face comes into focus. He strokes my hair and continues murmuring assurances as I slog myself into the present.
“Mio Dio, I’m sorry, Aurora. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t think beyond getting you away from my uncle, but I should have realized how similar that bathroom was to a closet.”
I blink a few more times before his words make sense.
He closed the door. It was dark and violent. I was alone with my brother.
No. Tristan wasn’t with me.
I look down and find myself wrapped in Giorgio’s suit coat. His cologne and the warmth of his body still emanate from it, and I want nothing more than to stay wrapped up in it forever, but my brain insists I check on my baby brother—even though logic demands he isn’t here—so I wriggle and panic when something small shifts against my chest.
“Be still, mia topolina. You’re okay.”
My jaw refuses to unlock, so I can’t explain, and my brain won’t form words anyway, so I fight harder.
He growls and pulls open his coat.
Crimson trails down my arms as I gouge my flesh with my nails, but relief spears through me when I see my purse, not my newborn brother.
Tears scorch my face and sobs wrench from my chest, pulling words from the nightmares lingering in my mind.
“She’s dead, Giorgio. I heard them kill her. I heard everything. I sat in the pantry with Tristan right here—” I pound my chest and sob, “—and listened to them murder her. She told me she’d open the door when it was safe, but she never did because she was dead. Gone forever. They killed her.”
Soothing hands stroke me from head to toe as I break away from reality, unable to process the emotions pouring through me. I cry so hard I puke and shake so badly my bones ache. As I fall to pieces, Giorgio holds and supports me, giving me a safe place to purge eight years’ worth of trauma.
When nothing but a hollow shell of memories remains, I slump against my husband’s broad chest in exhaustion, knowing he’ll protect me while I’m at my weakest.
“Just breathe for a few minutes, mia topolina. I have you. You’re safe.”
I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat. The hush of the soundproofed vehicle as it weaves through the city sinks into my awareness and becomes the first part of the world beyond Giorgio’s protective cocoon.
He presses a water bottle to my lips. I drink. Cool liquid soothes my raw throat.
“Better now?” he asks.
I shrug and meet his concerned gaze.
“Tell me more, Aurora. Who died?”
“Mia zia, Chiara. Otello’s wife. The only good thing about that man. She was the mother I had never had. I was in the kitchen warming Tristan’s bottle. He’d just come home from the hospital. So tiny. Only five days old. I had no idea what I was doing. Mia zia rushed in and pushed us into the pantry.”
Even as I hear myself speaking in disjointed sentences, I can’t force my brain to smooth out my story. I just need to tell it.
“I did it right that time. The bottle. Tristan didn’t fight or cry. He drank the whole thing and went to sleep without a sound. I think he knew. He still knows. He has nightmares.”
“Do you have nightmares?”
I shake my head. Blink. Nod. My lips tremble.
“Yes. My parents argue. They scream a lot. I can’t sleep. I hear mia zia instead. The men laughed at her while she screamed. They mocked her as she died, and all I did was sit there in silence.”
Warm, calloused hands frame my face and force me to focus on Giorgio’s dark eyes.
“You did the right thing, Aurora. You protected yourself and Tristan. It’s what your aunt wanted.”
“No! I should have—”
“You were only ten years old when Tristan was born. How many men did you hear? Two? Five? Ten?”
I shake my head, not sure of the answer.
“It doesn’t matter, amore mio. One man is too many. You were a ten-year-old girl. Hiding was your only option.”
If my head weren’t so hollow, I’d cry more tears. He brushes his thumbs over my cheeks.
“You survived, Aurora. That’s all that matters.”
I nod. Maybe I believe him, maybe I don’t. I can’t tell with the fog filling my brain.
“We’re done for now. You can’t handle more, so just relax in my arms for a few minutes. We’re almost home.”
I nod again and slip into an exhausted half sleep. When the world shifts and I hear a masculine voice coming from a chest other than the one I press my ear against, I jolt awake. I relax as I recognize Fiero’s frame. He opens the doors to the townhouse in front of Giorgio as he carries me inside.
I curl my fingers into my husband’s shirt, needing his warmth more than my next breath. He toes off his shoes mid-stride and settles us on our bed with his back against the headboard. After requesting a few things of Fiero, he gathers all the pillows close, almost building a fort around us, and extracts my purse from my grip before pulling the blankets around me. It’s too stifling.
“You’re shivering. Stop fighting.”
“I’m not cold.”
“Maybe not, but let me care for you. Be still.”
All my strength seeps from me. I’m too tired to argue, so I relax and enjoy the firmness of his arms.
Fiero returns with a tray of snacks and three steaming mugs. Giorgio trails his thumb over my brow.
“I asked him to sit with us for a debrief. He’ll leave in a few minutes, but this can’t wait.”
Fear sparks through my nerve endings.
“Did you kill him? Your uncle?” I ask.
“No, but I should have,” he growls.
“Giorgio! You can’t—”
My words jumble in my mind as he snarls and grabs my chin.
“He touched you, Aurora. He put his filthy hands on my wife. I don’t care if he’s blood. He’s a dead man walking.”
The promise of death in his eyes warms my heart.
It doesn’t make sense. I abhor violence. His threat shouldn’t pebble my nipples or make my clit throb, but my body responds as though he whispered filthy words in my ear and nipped all my sensitive bits.
I grab his collar and give us both a vicious shake.
“No! You can’t kill him, not yet. Not until I find solid evidence.”
Giorgio stills. Fiero freezes with his hands still on the tray, half-bent over the bedside table.
“Evidence of what?” Giorgio demands.
He pries my fingers off his collar and gathers my wrists into one of his hands, never taking his eyes off mine. I swallow.
“I think he hired whoever’s behind the cyberattacks. Possibly coordinated Camilla’s car crash and Serenity’s kidnapping, too.”
He tightens his grip around my wrist before setting my hands in my lap and spearing his fingers through my hair.
“My father went to great lengths to keep those incidents under wraps. How much digging did you do last night?”
I shrug.
“Obviously not enough if I don’t have evidence,” I grumble.
“Then what do you have? What pulled you out of my bed last night and made me wake to empty sheets?”
Shock spears through me at the depth of emotion in his voice.
I swallow before answering.
“I know you have enough shares in all your father’s companies to overtake him without force. I know he’s clueless you’re the one buying all his collateral and assets because you use different subsidiaries and smaller businesses to cover your tracks. I know you’ve suspected it was an inside job for a while but couldn’t pinpoint who it was.”
Fiero stands and shakes his head as he drops into the nearest chair. Giorgio presses his fingertips against my scalp, demanding my attention.
“You found all that in one night?”
“It’s not like you’re trying that hard to hide what you’re doing, so it was easy to find. And I wasn’t doubting you; I was profiling you. I scanned for abnormalities along the way, just like I did for Nico Russo and your father.”
A muscle ticks in Giorgio’s jaw.
“Why do you suspect my uncle?”
“He’s skimming off your father, but he’s not sending the money to the typical offshore accounts. He’s paying someone and has been for a while, but they’ve been smart and keep changing modes of contact and location and… everything. I just need a little more time, and I’ll have what you need to prove to your father it’s your uncle,” I say.
“You’re hoping for a peaceful takeover, aren’t you, mia topolina?”
I nod. He scowls and tightens his grip on my head.
“It no longer matters if my father knew or not. Neither man is fit to be the head of my family anymore. They’ve both earned the humiliation and pain I’ve prepared for them.”
“He’s your father, though. He’s Serenity’s father. He—”
“Sat by and did nothing while she was kidnapped. He hasn’t lifted a goddamn finger since—”
Both Giorgio’s and Fiero’s phones buzz in their pockets. It must be a vibration pattern set for emergencies, because they stiffen and look at each other.
At Giorgio’s nod, Fiero stands and heads out the door as he pulls his phone from his pocket.
“What is it?” I ask.
Disappointment flattens my willpower as Giorgio lifts me off his lap and settles me in the middle of the mountains of pillows.
“This isn’t something you should be a part of, mia topolina. I’ll leave my computer password on the desk and my car in the garage, but I should be back before it’s time to pick up Tristan. Stay here and rest. Capisci?”
I nod and fight a sense of abandonment as he stands. His eyes soften and he leans down for a quick, reassuring kiss before disappearing.
I wait until the front door closes and the security system engages before rolling onto my side and pushing half the pillows onto the floor. The steam swirling up from the mugs on the bedside table catches my attention. As I rise onto my elbow, the smell of apples and cinnamon warms my heart.
Giorgio remembers the smallest details.
Maybe he already suspects I’m not as healthy as I pretend to be.
Fear tightens my gut even as cotton fills my head.
He wants a child. Why else would he have pushed his seed inside me this morning? Even if he proclaims to want me more than his money or power, he’s shown many times that he yearns for a baby of his own, and he’s never once balked at our parents’ demand for an heir. Will he still love me when he finds out I can’t give him what he wants most?
Too wrung out to handle more worry, I prop myself up on the headboard and sip the apple cider.
When I feel more like death warmed over instead of a frozen corpse, I set down the mug and swing my feet toward the floor. A mini pep talk to myself and a few steadying breaths later, I slowly stand and shuffle to the bathroom. After cleaning the dried blood off my arms and scrubbing underneath my nails, I head to Giorgio’s study.
I may as well have been hit by a semitruck with how stiff and sore I am. Every muscle in my body aches, every joint creaks, and every tendon strains from overuse.
Panic attacks suck.
I use the password Giorgio left, grateful for his trust, and focus on what’s most important: proving Narciso Vivaldi stabbed Matteo Vivaldi in the back and put the entire family in danger.
A little more than an hour later, my phone chimes from the bedroom. I push myself to my feet and wobble up the stairs to fish it out of my purse.
Mr. Hearthright’s voice fills the line the second I answer.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Achilles, I need to bring Tristan home early. My family—”
My heart rate spikes and adrenaline floods my veins as his voice breaks. I toss my bag over my shoulder and slip my feet into my shoes as I answer.
“How soon will you drop him off?”
“We’re pulling into the drive now. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t an emergency.”
“I know, Mr. Hearthright. It’s okay. Tell him to go straight to his room. I’ll be home in five minutes.”
“Of course, Ms. Achilles. I’m terribly sorry.”
I end the call and rush down the stairs to the garage. The seat, steering wheel, and pedals take an agonizingly long time to adjust, so by the time I open the garage door and shift into reverse, urgency pulses behind my sternum.
I’ve only driven a handful of times beyond earning my license, but I match the aggression of the city drivers around me and make it home faster than I thought possible. I park near the front door and send Giorgio a text as I rush into the house. With every step I take, dread builds in my chest, so when my mother doesn’t greet me at the door, I sprint up the stairs.
I swing open Tristan’s bedroom door and breathe a sigh of relief when he looks up from his phone. He cocks his head. I plop down on the bed beside him.
“You okay? Did mamma see you come home?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“I haven’t seen anyone since I got back. No one. Not even the chef. Man, it sucks about Mr. Hearthright’s family. I wanted to go to the internet café and see my friends,” he whines.
I check the time on my phone. My text to Giorgio remains unread.
“I’ll take you. Let’s go,” I say.
Even as Tristan hoots with excitement, my unease grows. I tuck my phone back into my purse and stand as he gathers the things he scattered all over the floor and shoves them back into his bag.
“Actually, I was in too much of a rush to get back to ask. What happened to Mr. Hearthright’s family?” I ask.
“He got a call from the hospital because they were in a car accident. I think they were all badly hurt. He looked scared.”
I wait until he zips his bag and stands before I give him a hug.
“That must’ve been scary for you, too,” I say.
After a quick squeeze, he pushes me away and shrugs.
“I gotta pee, then I’m ready,” he declares.
“Okay, I’ll wait for you in the hall. Which café were you going to? I’ll put it in my GPS.”
“Are you driving?”
His skepticism doesn’t bother me. The streets of New York City are terrifying.
“Well, we’re not taking a cab or the subway, and asking a driver means we have to get permission from mamma, but I have a car, so…”
I dangle the fob from my finger.
He smiles and bounces on the balls of his feet.
“Then let’s go!”
When he heads for the door instead of the bathroom, I chuckle and step in front of him.
“Go pee first, you numbskull. Which café?” I ask.
He yells the name as he hurries toward the bathroom. I open my map app and step out into the hall.
Arms wrap around me from behind. My phone clatters to the floor and skids under the decorative table near my mother’s door. I open my mouth to scream, but a masculine hand covers the bottom half of my face, blocking my nose and mouth.
Otello Tempe’s cloying cologne clogs my sinuses.
I jab my heel backward into his shin. He hisses and lifts me off my feet. With my arms plastered to my sides and his hand over my mouth, I can’t break free or warn Tristan.
“Hush, Aurora. Open your bedroom door for me. I’ll be quick. Unless you’d like your brother to join us?”
I shake my head. My lungs burn.
“Open the door,” he snarls into my ear.
His breath sends waves of disgust down my spine, but I twist the handle on my bedroom door. He pushes us inside and flings me onto the bed before turning and pulling a key out of his pocket.
A key. To my room. He has a key to my room.
Panic pounds through me, but I shove it away and gulp down oxygen as I scramble to my feet.
I cannot let him lock that door.
“Lie back down, little whore, or I’ll rescind my offer of being quick,” he snarls.
His hand lowers the key toward the lock.
I throw my purse at the back of his head before grabbing the nearest book off my shelf.
My ring catches the light.
I press the hidden emergency button and throw the book. Otello’s curses ring in my ears.
He locks the door and turns toward me. Blood trickles down his nape.
I throw a second book. My vision wavers and head spins, but I grab two more books—one in each hand—and throw as I turn back toward him.
He blocks the first book, but the second bounces off his upper chest and nicks his throat. I scramble backward and grab more as he stalks toward me. He pulls a pistol from inside his suit coat.
My stomach sours as he lets it hang at his side.
“Put the books down, Aurora. I like your spunk, but don’t take it too far.”
When I don’t move, he shifts his thumb and pulls the hammer back with a metallic click. The books slip from my fingers and thump onto the floor. He steps within reach. I cringe as he lifts his empty hand and cups my chin.
Tristan calls my name from the hallway. Otello smirks.
“Tell him your stomach hurts, but you’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
Bile rises in my throat as he brushes his thumb over my lips. His features twist in anger when I don’t respond fast enough.
“I don’t care if he’s my son; his holes still work the same as every other little boy’s. Tell him you’ll be out in a few minutes, or I’ll lock him in here with us and fuck you both.”
I stammer out what I hope is an acceptable excuse.
Tristan pauses before asking through the door, “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t sound good.”
“I’ll be fine, Tristan. Just go back to your room until I come get you.”
After another stressful moment of silence, Tristan says okay and heads down the hall. His door opens and closes.
My insides curdle as the man I’ve always hated and feared smiles and spears his hand into my hair.
“Good girl. Now try to be quiet so he doesn’t interrupt us again, yeah?”
He moves his body closer to mine. I instinctively lift my hands to push him away, but he presses the pistol’s muzzle to my temple and chuckles. My bracelet slides down my wrist. I find the button with my thumb and mash it.
What if the jewelry doesn’t work? What if Giorgio never comes?
Impossible. Giorgio promised. He always keeps his word. Always.
I use the conviction running through my veins to bolster my mind.
“I’d tell you to get on your knees, but your mouth doesn’t interest me. It’s the other holes I want. Did it hurt when Giorgio Vivaldi took your virginity? Has he had your ass yet?”
Tears gather on my lashes. I shake my head. Interest sparks in his eyes.
“Strip down and get on the bed. All fours. Ass up,” he demands.
“Why are you doing this?” I manage through the lump in my throat.
He grinds his hips against mine. Vomit climbs up my throat at the feel of his hard cock against my stomach.
“Because I want to. I have all the power I need to do whatever the fuck I want, and what I want is to fuck you,” his sneer seems more demonic than human, “so get on the goddamn bed before I decide to get rid of you like I did my whore of a wife.”
All the blood drains from my head.
He just admitted to killing my aunt, which means he hired the thugs who broke into our house and murdered her while I hid in the closet. It was him. He’s worse than I ever imagined.
When he pulls the gun away from my head and steps back, no relief spears through me. The room becomes suffocating. I need out.
He tilts his head in amusement.
“Strip, little whore, and let me see what I’ve waited almost two decades to enjoy.”
My entire body goes numb. I can’t do this.
Giorgio will save me. He’ll bust down the door any second now.
Otello has a gun. I need to get it away from him somehow. Giorgio can’t get hurt because of me, not when there are so many other threats closing in on him.
My heart cries out to the man who gave me everything—his wealth, his power, his future—because I need him.
I no longer dream of leaving the mafia. All I want is Giorgio Vivaldi.
My husband. My lover. My heart.
I need him. Now and forever.
