Page 55 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
I’ve heard enough about Lorenzo’s world to know what “questioning” really means.
I should say something. Object. But when I try to step forward, the world spins and my knees buckle.
Lorenzo’s arm slides around my waist, solid and reassuring. He pulls out his phone and barks orders, his voice cutting through the night.
When he’s done, his eyes find the cut on my neck. His face goes pale.
“Does it hurt?”
His voice is so soft, so careful, that it makes my chest ache.
“N-not really.”
The cut just barely stings. Nothing compared to the chaos in my head.
An armored SUV pulls up, headlights sweeping across the alley. Lorenzo guides me toward it, and I sink into the leather seat.
I can’t stop staring at his hands. Blood still clings to his knuckles.
Killer. Killer. Killer.
The word beats in my head on repeat, but it’s competing with another truth—he saved me. I can’t seem to decide if I’m freaked out, grateful, or drowning in guilt.
I’m the one who insisted we go out tonight, who couldn’t just be content staying in. If we’d just stayed home, if I hadn’t been so restless, so hungry for excitement, none of this would have happened. Those men would never have had the chance to grab me. Lorenzo wouldn’t have had to kill anyone.
Two of his men are dead because I needed a thrill.
When we get home, Lorenzo heads straight for the master bathroom. The shower turns on, steam starting to fill the space as he strips out of his blood-stained clothes.
He washes his hands first, scrubbing methodically. The water runs pink, then clear. Then he pulls out a first aid kit.
“Do you have one of these in every bathroom in the house?”
Stupid question. Obviously he does.
“Tilt your head up.”
Something cold touches the cut—antiseptic that makes my nose wrinkle. But his touch is gentle, his thumb brushing my jaw as he works.
“It’s not deep enough for stitches.”
Relief colors his voice. He smooths a band-aid over the cut, his movements tender and precise. The same hands that crushed a man’s skull are treating me like I’m made of glass.
Killer. Husband. Monster. Lover.
Which one is real?
“I want to sleep in a guest room tonight.”
The words surprise even me. Lorenzo goes perfectly still.
“No.” His voice is flat. “You belong in my bed.”
“Not tonight. I need space. Time to process all of this.”
“I’m sorry you saw that tonight. I had to?—”
“I’m not ready to talk about it.” My voice cracks. “That’s why I need a break.”
