Page 146 of Stolen Vows

She swallows hard, a shudder rippling through her. “My mother. She threatened you, your family. Said she’d make you pay if I didn’t . . .” Her voice breaks, tears spilling over. “If I didn’t annul our marriage and go back to Giovanni.”

White hot rage sears through my veins. “Don’t worry about him. He doesn’t matter.” Revenge is best served in zeroes and ones.

I help Francesca to her feet, my hands lingering on her waist as I scan her from head to toe, searching for any other signs of harm. That’s when I notice the bruises. Dark, ugly marks ringing her delicate wrists, unmistakable fingerprints pressed into her skin.

My vision tunnels, narrowing to pinpricks of red. Rage, pure and unfiltered, roars through my veins like wildfire. “Who did this to you?”

She shakes her head, pushing against my chest like she’s trying to herd me out the door. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go.”

“Gio.” It’s a bark from Florence, who’s still in the corner of the room. I’d all but forgotten she was here. “And he’s in the study on the other side of the house. You’ll pass it on your way out.”

“Florence,” Francesca hisses.

Florence lifts her shoulder in a lazy shrug. “He deserves it.”

For once, I agree with my wife’s sister. My jaw clenches as I hand Francesca the car keys. “Go to the car and wait. It’s three houses down, on the left. Get in, lock the doors. Wait for me.”

She nods, pushing onto her toes and brushing her lips against mine. “Hurry, okay?” She turns toward her sister. “Are you in or out?”

Florence steps toward my wife, a suitcase at her feet. “I’m in.”

“Then let’s go.” Francesca grabs her sister’s hand, and they leave out the French doors.

Beau sighs, rolling his shoulders. “We doing this?”

I don’t answer him with words. Instead, I prowl through the house, back toward where we came in.

He chuckles under his breath. “Guess that’s a yes.”

Coincidentally, it leads me to the blinking dot of my wife’s phone tracker. I throw open the office door. Inside, Giovanni Baldini stands near a wet bar along the side wall, a man who must be his father seated on a loveseat. Both look up.

I stop inside the threshold and point my bat directly at Giovanni. “I fucking warned you.”

Giovanni’s father stands, hands bracing against the desk. “Who the fuck are you?—”

Beau shoves his bat into Baldini senior’s chest, pinning him to the couch with a lazy shake of his head. “Let’s have a little chat,” he says, voice almost pleasant.

I advance on Giovanni, my footsteps slow and deliberate. Each one echoes in the suddenly quiet room, a metronome counting down to his reckoning.

He scrambles back, eyes wide, hands raised in a pathetic attempt at placation. “Wait, wait! Let’s talk about this. There’s no need for violence.” His voice shakes, the smug veneer cracking under the weight of his cowardice.

I don’t bother responding. I just keep coming, my grip tightening on the bat until my knuckles turn white. Anticipation thrums inside my veins. I’m not a violent person by nature. In fact, I can’t think of anything that drives me to violence.

Until now.

Until someone threatens my wife.

Giovanni’s eyes dart to his father, silently pleading for help. But Baldini senior remains pinned to the couch, Beau’s bat digging into his chest.

I close the distance between us in three long strides. Giovanni backs up until he hits the wall, nowhere left to run. I press the end of the bat under his chin, forcing his head up. His pulse hammers against the wood, frantic and erratic.

“You put your hands on my wife,” I say, my voice deadly calm. “You don’t get to walk away from that.”

I adjust my grip on the bat, tapping it lightly under Giovanni’s chin. He flinches, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. The sour stench of his fear fills the air between us. It’s acrid and pathetic. Just like him.

“Let’s be reasonable, Carter. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

A humorless chuckle rumbles in my chest. I step back, and his shoulders sag. But his relief is premature. I lift the bat and swing.

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