Page 108 of Broken Honor

We turn toward the door when a figure steps into our path.

The wife.

She’s wrapped in a thin robe, dark hair loose, face bare. Her eyes widen at the sight of me. Then they land on Lunetta.

I move to step past her, but Lunetta tugs my arm.

She faces the woman, voice hoarse but clear. “You have an hour to run,” she says. “He won’t find you for a while.”

The woman stares at her confused. Her mouth opens.

A tear runs down her eyes and she says, “Thank you.”

Then she turns and runs up the flight of stairs at the corner, sobbing.

****

The drive back is dead quiet.

She sits beside me in the back seat, her hands in her lap, head resting against the window.

I lead her inside, past the front door, up the stairs. Alfio’s limping a few paces behind, nursing the bruise spreading beneath his eye.

I lead her straight to my room, and when we get in, I shut the door.

She stands in the middle of the room like she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Her shoulders are hunched forward, her thick arms wrapped loosely around her body. Her hair is a mess of curls and her cheeks are raw, swollen. Blood dried on one corner of her mouth.

She looks like she’s trying not to cry.

I walk up to her. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Do you need a doctor? Your cheek—your lip—did they hit your ribs? Tell me where it hurts.”

She raises her hand, slow, like she’s afraid I’ll pull away. Her palm presses against my chest, right over my heart.

“I’m fine,” she says softly. “Really.”

I look down at her. She’s not fine. Not even close.

I pull her to me and she comes into my arms like she belongs there. All softness and weight and trembling warmth. I wrap my arms around her and press her to my chest, one hand cradling the back of her head. She’s solid against me, all curves and comfort and heat.

“Thank you,” she breathes against my collarbone. “For saving me.”

“My brothers are fucking idiots,” I mutter, closing my eyes as I hold her tighter. “They had one job.”

She chuckles, a sound so light and quiet, I nearly miss it. But it hits me hard, she has never laughed before. I pull back a little, just enough to look at her.

Her cheeks are red, lips cracked and swollen, and that smile—fragile, trembling, real—breaks me apart. It lights up her whole face. Makes her eyes softer.

My hand slides along her waist, fingers spreading wide across the generous curve of her side, anchoring her against me. She’s plush and warm, her body molding against mine in all the ways I shouldn’t notice—but I do. She smells like sweat and blood and her. And somehow that makes me want her more.

I dip my head and lean down to her. I feel the tremble in her hands resting on my chest.

“Stop me,” I whisper, voice brushing her skin. “Say no, and I’ll go. Say that I’ll hurt your split lips if I kiss you.”

She swallows. Her eyes don’t leave mine, wide and glassy and unsure—but not resisting.

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