Page 94 of Savage Vows

In the grand hall, dinner is served.

Hours later, the men file out to nearby hotels or to face the long drive back to Houston.

Nico is the last to remain.

“I appreciate you speaking for me.”

“You’re the best person for the job. You’re the only man I would stand for.”

We shake hands, and he leaves.

For long minutes, I once more study the portraits on the walls. Then, with a tight nod, I leave.

My driver whisks me to a nearby airport where a plane is on standby.

As we take off, I look at the fading lights beneath me.

The burden of being Don is heavy, and yet I made it through the first hurdle.

When I arrive home late, exhaustion clings to me, but it’s overshadowed by the satisfaction of having taken the first step as Don. I head upstairs, ready to fall into bed and perhaps, for the first time in days, find some peace.

But the bed is empty.

The closet is empty.

My pulse spikes as I glance around the room. Everything that’s hers is gone.

Scowling, my chest tight, I stalk down the hall to her room and throw open the door.

She’s not there.

And neither are her belongings.

Losing my fucking mind, I bellow for Chiara.

Within moments, Nash is standing in front of me. His calm demeanor fuels the fire burning through me.

“Where thefuckis my wife?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Matteo

Houston

Nash doesn’t flinch. He stands tall, his hands clasped behind his back. “She’s at the Sterling Uptown Hotel, sir.”

“What the hell is she doing there?” I tug at the knot in my tie, the silk suddenly too tight, choking.

“Mrs. Moretti—Bella,” he clarifies, “planned a night out for them. Mrs. Moretti, your wife, has a full complement of security with her. Including Chiara.” Nash rocks forward slightly, his calm professionalism steadying the space between us. “If you recall, sir, I mentioned the outing earlier today.”

I pause, a flicker of memory surfacing—Nash saying something offhand before the meeting, his voice drowned out by the weight of the ascension. I wrongly assumed he meant shopping and dinner, not this ridiculousness. “And what about her clothes?”

Nash clears his throat, his gaze momentarily flicking to the floor. “Evidently, she asked the staff to pack her belongings.” He hesitates, then continues. “They’re in her studio.”

My jaw tightens as anger slams into me.

She moved out of our bedroom and the main house?

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