Page 98 of Savage Vows

“The sports bar is excellent,” Nico says again. “Kitchen still open?” he asks Rafe, as if this is an ordinary conversation.

“For you, always.”

Flanked by my lieutenant and consigliere, I move toward the elevator. Rafe steps in after us.

He stays in the compartment until we reach the floor and head to the bar.

“Buy you a beer?” Nico offers as the doors close behind Rafe.

We sit at a small table in the back of the room, and Nico orders us each a pint of microbrew.

When the drinks arrive, I look into the depths of mine.

Not long ago, Alessia had been passionate in my bed, surrendering to me, begging for my touch. A week ago, she’d taken me as her husband, promising to be mine for life.

And now she doesn’t want to look at me?

“What the fuck happened?”

Nico regards me. “You’re going to have to figure it out.”

I have no fucking clue how, especially since she won’t speak to me. “You’re married,” I tell my cousin. “And things were rocky for a while.”

“Yeah.” He takes a drink. “Very.”

“How the hell am I going to fix this?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Alessia

Sterling Uptown, Houston

“That was wild,” Bella says, leaning back against the plush velvet cushions of the chaise. A crystal flute of champagne dangles loosely in her hand, reflecting the light from the chandelier.

I glance at her, a bitter laugh bubbling up before I can stop it. “Wild doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Bella raises an eyebrow, and she studies me intently. “You mean the fact that he got past hotel security? Or the part where he’s a ghost who still manages to haunt you?”

I sink deeper into the armchair, and I take a small bite of the chocolate that I’m forcing myself to savor. “Both.” I sigh. “All of it.”

The phone in our room rings, and we both stare at it.

“We could let it ring,” I suggest. After all, last time it had been the concierge letting us know Matteo was in the building.

“We can always hang up on the caller,” she suggests.

The phone stops its noise, but we both keep staring at it.

Moments later, it starts again. We both jump, and then we laugh.

“I’ll get it,” she announces bravely, setting her flute down on the low table between us. She answers with a short, “Hello.”

She covers the mouthpiece. “It’s Rafe Sterling.”

I frown, but I don’t reach for the handset.

“What is this about?” she asks him. Her eyes widen, and she mouths the words, “Apology,” and “Free stay.”

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