Page 56 of Mafia Don's Twisted Proposal
His jaw tightens. “I don’t like this. We should be in the same bed.”
He steps toward me, and I hold up my hand. It’s shaking, trembling like a leaf. We both see it.
Something shifts in his expression.
“Fine.” The word comes out strangled. “You can sleep in a guest room tonight, and we’ll talk in the morning. But I want you to realize how fucking hard this is for me, Mia. I almost lost you tonight, and it’s going to be hell not to have you by my side, not to be able to reach for you and reassure myself that you’re still here.”
His voice is raw, honest in a way that makes my throat tight. I don’t know what to say, so I reach up and trace my fingertips along his jaw.
Then I grab clean clothes and head across the hall.
The guest room feels smaller, colder. The moment I close the door, silence presses in around me. I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, tears starting to fall.
I don’t even know why I’m crying.
The violence? The fear? The way Lorenzo’s face crumpled when I flinched?
All I know is that witnessing what Lorenzo is capable of has left me feeling lost. In a world I thought I was starting to understand.
Now I’m not sure of anything.
22
LORENZO
Coffee numbertwo isn’t cutting it.
I pour a third cup, my eyes burning like I’ve been staring into headlights for the past eight hours.
Which, in a way, I have been. Staring at that guest room door like it might spontaneously combust and reveal all the secrets of the universe. Or at least tell me how to fix the look of horror I saw on my wife’s face last night.
I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard her crying through the walls—whimpering, broken sobs that cut through me like a blade between the ribs. I stood outside that door for two hours, my hand hovering over the handle, wanting nothing more than to wrap her in my arms and promise her the world would make sense again.
But I’d given my word. Space, she’d asked for. Space, she’d get.
Even if it was killing me.
The pictures on my phone didn’t help. All those stolen moments of her sleeping against my chest, her face peaceful and trusting. Looking at them just made the emptiness in my bed feel like a canyon.
Now here I am at dawn, caffeinated to the point of vibration and no closer to figuring out how to make this right.
My phone buzzes. Dario’s name flashes across the screen, and I know it’s not a social call. It’s too early for anything but business, and after last night, business is about to get very bloody.
“Yeah,” I grunt, settling onto a stool at the kitchen island.
“The guy talked.” Dario doesn’t waste a breath. “Kozlov wanted to hit us where it hurts. He specifically sent them for Mia. Retaliation for the restaurant.”
The coffee turns to acid in my stomach.
I remember the terror in her eyes. The way those bastards dragged her toward that windowless van like she was cargo. She would have disappeared without a trace, and I would have torn the city apart looking for her.
“Fucking Kozlov.” The words come out as a snarl.
Of course he’d go after her.
The Bratva have a history of targeting family, loved ones, anyone who might break their enemies. It’s their signature move, and it’s why most men in my position keep their hearts locked away in vaults.
