Page 75 of Unholy Union
I was disoriented, in total shock over what had just happened. I’m a mafia daughter—and now I’m a mafia wife—but that doesn’t mean shootings don’t rock me to my core.
But Catoinsisted. He had been shot himself.
He was dripping blood, teeth gritted in pain as he wrenched me back to reality and told me we needed to get the hell out of there.
I realized only a few seconds later, as sirens blared in the distance, that he wanted no involvement with law enforcement. Even if he was one of the victims.
So now his driver Edgar has taken us to a high-rise building a few blocks away, where we’re riding an elevator to a penthouse apartment I didn’t know existed. Apparently, Cassian isn’t the only Valente brother with a bachelor’s pad in Manhattan…
The shock still hasn’t worn all the way off. I’m processing the fact I’ve gone from experiencing one of my happiest nights in recent memory to being shot at and shoved down to the ground by my husband.
It happened in a matter of seconds. Cato’s shoulder slammed into me. I crumpled to the ground before I even registered what was happening, the loud pops and cracks filling the night air followed by screams of terror.
The sounds still echo in my ears, even as the elevator dings and we finally reach the top floor.
The doors roll apart to reveal a hallway with dark-paneled walls and thick carpet that muffles our footsteps.
I’m straining under Cato’s weight, struggling to keep pace as he stumbles forward. His breath is labored and hot against my temple. He refuses to admit how close he is to crumpling right here in the hallway. His pride is carrying him more than his legs are.
“This is insane,” I mutter under my breath. “You should be in an ambulance.”
Cato doesn’t answer at first. His jaw tightens, the rest of his taut, broad frame soaked with sweat and blood. He pushes himself forward another few steps, then slumps against the wall beside a matte black door. “No hospitals. Just get me inside. Keys are in my pocket.”
A second passes before I process his request.
Then I nod, sliding my hand into the front pocket of his pants, fingers brushing against warm fabric and cool metal before fishing out a heavy keyring. My hands are slippery with blood, and it takes me three tries before I manage to fit the right one into the lock.
The door swings open to a penthouse so vast and tastefully put together it feels more like a high-end gallery than a home—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city skyline, sleek leather furniture, a minimalist fireplace that glows blue with gas. It’s the kind of place I didn’t know he had. The kind of place he never told me existed.
We stumble over the threshold together.
All at once, it becomes too much.
His weight, his blood, the surreal surroundings.
I lose my grip on him. My heel catches on the corner of the rug, and we tip sideways, his body collapsing into mine as the two of us crash down onto the sofa in a graceless sprawl.
He lands half on top of me, his injured shoulder turned away, his face pressed against my chest in a way that would probably be sexual in any other moment.
But with blood drying on his neck and pain etched deep between his brows, it’s the opposite. It awakens something deeply… nurturing inside me.
Cato looked after me when I least expected him to. He showed up at the ER and didn’t leave my side for the rest of the night.
Considering our family’s history and our personal track record, he didn’t need to do it.
He didn’t need to take me out to dinner andNocturne of the Damned, and he definitely didn’t need to essentially take a bullet for me.
Because that’s what he did—he knocked me to the ground and wound up shot himself.
I don’t mind the weight of him. Not when I remember these things.
Cato Valente is my husband. We took vows, and part of those vows were that we’d be there for each other in sicknessandhealth.
“I’ll have Edgar take you home,” he murmurs against my shoulder. His voice sounds rough like gravel. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m not leaving.”
He lifts his head high enough for a look at me, thick brows furrowed. “Linetti’s on his way. He’ll remove the bullet and sew me up. I’ll be fine.”
