Page 78 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“How the hell did they even find her?” I ask. Addy was still sleeping when I left her half an hour ago.

Father only shrugs. “You know nothing happens under this roof without your mother’s—or Aydin’s knowledge. Come on, enough scuffling for one morning. Let’s go join them.”

I grab his arm before he can leave, the wool of his suit rough beneath my fingertips. “Wait, Father. Don’t you want to know what Nico and I were fighting about?”

He looks from me to Nico, his gaze calculating. “I imagine it had to do with Pietro’s death. Or the guest you shouldn’t have brought home last night.”

“But Father,” I press. “Adele isn’t just any Irish woman.” I ignore Nico’s subtle nudge for me to shut the fuck up, and continue. “She’s actually Naomi Ritter’s daughter. She's the little girl from eighteen years ago. Can you believe she’s been alive all this time?”

Father’s expression becomes unreadable in the flickering light of the room as he murmurs thoughtfully, “Is that so?”

Nico and I share a look, a silent understanding passing between us. Father knows. He’s always known exactly who Addy is.

“So, Father,” I continue pushing, the sound of my raging pulse loud in my ears, “did we ever find out whose mistress Naomi was?”

Father’s eyes become shadowed, a flicker of something very much like guilt passing over his features and the lines of his face deepening. “Your actions will trigger a war unless you do as your brother tells you, Dante. It’s the only way.”

He turns to leave, his shoulders slumped, no doubt weighed down with secrets long kept, secrets that now threaten to unravel the very fabric of our family.

As I watch him walk away, my mind reels with the implications of his words, or lack of thereof.

Nico’s hand lands heavily on my shoulder. “So, did you get the reaction you were digging for?”

My jaw clenches as the question hangs in the air. “All I know is he looked guilty as hell just now.”

Nico squeezes my shoulder. “You gave him a chance to come clean, and he didn’t. So, I’ve got your back, you fucking twisted prick. Do what you need to do. Just know you’re diving headfirst into this bog of shit you’re dragging us into.”

“You bet, fratello.” A smile splits my lips, a rush of affection washing over me. Despite our differences, Nico and I are one constant in this world of shifting shadows and uncertain loyalties.

But right now, my heart is with Addy, and I’ll be damned if I let pesky little things like another decade-long mafia war or being blood relatives stop me.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Adele

I pad into the bathroom, my bare feet silent on the cold marble tiles. When I came in here last night, I was drowning in so much grief and guilt, I took no notice of my surroundings. Now I gasp as I take in the space, all gleaming surfaces and golden fixtures. A massive jacuzzi tub dominates one corner, while a glass-enclosed shower big enough for a small party takes up another.

My eyes are drawn to the enormous gilded mirror spanning the entire bathroom wall, but I avert my gaze, not quite ready to look into my own eyes. It was easy enough to avoid the mirrors in the bedroom with the room being so large, but here, it might be a little tricky.

I focus on my purpose: wash the smoke and grit out of my hair. The scent clings to me, a constant reminder of the sure death I escaped. Drowning myself in Dante got me through last night, but waking up this morning without his big body wrapped around me left an odd ache in my chest and my mind free to replay last night's disaster.

Yet, as I pass the mirrors, something catches my eye. Before I can stop myself, I glance at my reflection then do a double-take. My breath hitches as I take in the sight before me.

My skin is a canvas of Dante’s desire. Love bites pepper my collarbone, descending in a trail down to my breasts. Finger-shaped bruises mark my hips, a stark reminder of his grip as he pulled me against his thrusting hips. I turn, craning my neck to see my back. More marks adorn my ass and thighs.

Heat floods my cheeks as memories come rushing back. Dante’s hungry gaze as he explored every inch of me. The way his hands and mouth roamed my body, pleasing me, claiming me.

I bite my lip, surprised by the thrill that runs through me at the sight of his marks. Am I sick for loving this? I’ve never been one for rough treatment or macho bullshit. Even the thought of men gawking at me makes my skin crawl. But Dante’s lust . . . it sets me on fire.

Surprisingly, my face, neck, arms, and legs are unmarked, but from my collarbone down to my thighs, it’s savage town. It screams deliberate. Controlled. That he likes to be rough, yet he knows where and how to draw the line. Fuck if that doesn’t make me want him more. I finger each faint mark, responding to the sensory memory of Dante’s touch.

I step into the shower, unable to shake the image of my marked body. Dante’s hands, his mouth, his eyes—they’re all I can think about.

As the hot water cascades over me, I find a bottle of shampoo, and lather it into my hair, scrubbing away the smoke and grit. I rinse thoroughly, letting the hot water wash away the suds and the memories of the previous night.

With my hair clean and the stress starting to melt away, other thoughts rise in my mind. What do the events of last night mean for my life and my future? What will Dad—Benjamin—do when he hears that I almost died?

I think about work. Doug Harrison will be expecting me to show up. And I’m already a week overdue on my blog.

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