Page 87 of The Proposal

Papa would be turning over in his grave right now. He never would’ve let this man live … or welcomed him into our life or home if he’d known he was the person responsible for her death. It may be twenty years too late, but at least I finally got to right that wrong.

My footsteps quicken as I cross the road, heading for my car. Images of my sweet, beautiful, saintly mother flash through my mind. Over the years, the finer details of her face, the scent of her hair, and perfume have started to blur, but the countless photos Papa kept around the house have helped me hold on to the fragments of her that time had stolen away.

By the time I seat myself inside the vehicle, I’m barely hanging by a thread. We always thought her death was an accident. When we were told she more than likely swerved to miss a kangaroo, my father developed a deep hatred for those animals. I even witnessed him shoot a few that came onto our property as if they were responsible for what happened.

I dig the heels of my palms into my eye sockets as my vision blurs. The deep ache that floods through me is reminiscent of how I felt the day I realised she was never coming back.

After giving myself a moment, I reach for the push button ignition and start the car. I’ve never been more thankful that I’m not going home to an empty house and that I have my beautiful wife waiting for my return.

The way I’m feeling right now makes me want to lash out at the world, to watch it all burn. If it weren’t for Arabella, I’d probably head home, drown my sorrows in a bottle of scotch, and drink myself into oblivion. And with that, the monster inside would be unleashed, pushing me to do something reckless in the process, like boarding my jet and paying Stefano-fucking-Rossi a visit.

I’ve watched plenty of men be interrogated over the years, but this is the first time I’ve ever actively partaken. I did what needed to be done, but I think I’ve reached my limit of violence for one night.

Chapter 20

Arabella

I’m sitting in the living room, chewing on my thumbnail as I anxiously await my husband’s return. The only light is coming from the dim glow of the lamp in the corner. It is some ungodly hour in the morning, but despite my best efforts, sleep wouldn’t come.

Dante assured me he was safe when we spoke on the phone earlier, but I know his lifestyle; I grew up in that environment. I’m very familiar with the volatility that comes with being part of the Cosa Nostra.

I’m sure he thought he was safe the day he sat outside by the pool with his father before bullets rained down on them. That thought is what had me climbing out of my skin.

When the front door finally opens, I leap to my feet. Heavy footsteps follow, moving through the foyer. I pad across the cold tiles, and I almost run into Dante as he turns towards the long hallway leading to our bedroom. His eyes widen when he sees me, and he freezes for a second, clearly spooked.

“Shit, Arabella,” he breathes out, his voice low and a little shaken. I can tell he wasn’t expecting me to be there because he flinched before he spun around to face me. It’s not like himto be so on edge, which only escalates my concern. “I thought I told you not to wait up for me.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I reply as my eyes drift down his body, stopping when I notice the dark red splatters staining the front of his light-grey dress shirt. The colour is so vivid against the fabric that it’s almost impossible to ignore. My pulse quickens, and my breath hitches in my throat as the dread I’ve been feeling all evening returns with a vengeance. “Is that blood?”

My eyes slowly move back to his face, and when they meet his, a sharp, silent tension fills the air. His expression is guarded, but there’s also a flicker of something I can’t quite place. It’s like he’s holding his breath, waiting for me to say something else, or maybe he’s hoping I don’t say anything at all.

“Dante,” I whisper as I close the small distance between us and grasp the lapels on his suit jacket. “Is that your blood?”

“No.”

His answer calms me somewhat. “So, you’re not hurt?”

“Physically, no,” he replies, which seems like an odd answer.

Is he mentally struggling with something that happened? I know better than to pry further. Whatever went on this evening is none of my business.

I swallow hard, trying to push down the lump that’s now formed in the back of my throat. His look is unreadable, but I get the feeling he’s silently begging me to look away, to pretend I didn’t see what’s so clearly in front of me, but I can’t.

The pain reflecting in his eyes feels like a physical blow, raw and unmasked, as if he’s now carrying a burden too heavy to bear.

“Have you eaten?” I ask.

“I’m not hungry.”

I blow out a puff of air and reach for his hand. “Come,” I say.

“Where are we going?”

“To clean you up.”

He doesn’t put up a fight; he just follows my lead. I’m thankful for that. I don’t know what he needs from me, but I’m willing to give him whatever it is.

When we enter our bathroom’s en suite, I pause by the vanity and drop his hand before moving towards the shower and turning on the taps.

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