Page 131 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

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.

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