Page 112 of Stolen Vows

“Get the fuck out of my wife’s store,” Graham rumbles, folding his arms across his chest.

Giovanni’s smile widens, his eyes flashing with retribution. “Let me guess, criminal? Figures my Chessa would go for my complete opposite.”

Graham takes a step forward, crowding into Giovanni’s space. “If you ever touch my wife again, I will break every bone in your fucking hands. And then I’ll shatter your kneecaps so you’ll never be able to set foot in this town or any other. And then I’ll get my biker brother-in-law to give me a few pointers on how to make you fucking suffer. Is thatcriminalenough for you?”

He delivers the threats so calmly, so matter-of-fact, that it takes Gio a few seconds for his brain to register it.

Gio’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching as he sizes up Graham. For a tense moment, I think he might actually be stupid enough to take a swing. But then he steps back, straightening his suit jacket with a huff.

“This isn’t over,” he says, pointing a finger at me over Graham’s shoulder. “You belong to me, Chessa. And I always get what’s mine.”

Graham takes another menacing step toward Giovanni, his voice a low, deadly growl. “She belongs to no one but herself. Keep talking though, you’re just digging your own grave.”

There’s no bravado in his words, no empty posturing. Just cold, hard certainty. The kind of promise that settles deep in your bones.

Then he scoffs and takes a step back, straightening his suit jacket once more. “You’ve made a huge mistake, Chessa.”And you're gonna regret itis implied.

He flicks his gaze toward Graham, something sharp and considering in his expression. Like he’s already strategizing his next move. With that final threat lingering in the air, he turns on his heel and strides out of the bookstore, the bell chiming cheerfully in his wake.

The moment the door closes behind him, the tension drains out of me like a balloon deflating. My legs wobble and I sag against the counter, my heart still pounding a staccato beat against my ribs.

Graham turns to me immediately, his hands gentle but firm on my shoulders as he looks me over. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” His voice is a low rumble, concern and anger warring in his eyes.

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “No, no I’m okay. He just . . .” I trail off, not sure how to put into words the poisonous mixture of fear, rage, and humiliation Giovanni stirred up inside me. Like he has the power to reduce me to that scared, powerless girl I used to be with just a few well-placed barbs.

His hands slide down my arms, his touch gentle as he examines me for any signs of injury. When his fingers graze the spots where Giovanni gripped me, I wince. Bruises are already blooming.

“I’m going to kill him,” he growls under his breath.

I grasp his wrists, holding him in place. “He’s not worth it.” I take a shaky breath, willing my heart rate to slow. “He wanted to get a reaction out of me, to make me feel small and powerless. But all he did was remind me that they can’t control me. I don’t belong to them anymore.”

He studies my face intently, his eyes searching mine. After a long moment, he slides his palm over the side of my neck, sinking his fingers into my hair. “You belong tome.”

Tears prick the backs of my eyes at his words, at the possession. I huff a watery laugh and lean into his touch. “I thought I belonged to myself?”

“You do. You belong to yourselfandto me.”

I exhale a shaky breath as his words wash over me, settling deep in my bones. There’s no demand in his tone, no expectation of obedience or subservience. Just a simple statement of fact, like it’s an immutable truth of the universe.

His thumb strokes over my cheekbone, his touch achingly tender in contrast to the fierceness in his eyes. “No one will ever hurt you again, Francesca. I won’t allow it.”

Emotion wells up in my throat, thick and heavy. I believe him. With every fiber of my being, I believe him.

39

GRAHAM

The glowfrom the TV flickers against the walls, painting moving shadows across the living room. Some comedy Francesca picked is playing, something light and ridiculous, but I haven’t processed a single second of it. My attention is elsewhere.

On her. Always on her.

On the way she’s curled up on the couch beside me, one leg tucked beneath the other, a pint of ice cream balanced on her knee. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, exposing the bruises Giovanni left behind.

Every time my gaze snags on them, the anger surges back, hot and volatile.

She shouldn’t have to cover them up. She shouldn’t have to explain them away. She shouldn’t have to deal with that bastard at all. And once Sentinel and Oracle do their job, I’ll be well-equipped on how to eliminate him from her life altogether.

People assume there’s only one way to take someone out at the knees: physical violence. Broken bones, shattered kneecaps, the kind of brutality that leaves a man crippled and bleeding on the ground. And I won’t lie, the primal, vicious part of me itches for that. To feel Giovanni’s bones crack beneath my hands, to watch him crumple and beg for mercy he doesn’t deserve.

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