Page 9 of Tormented Diamonds
While I don’t want to lie to Becca, I also don’t want to feed Carmine’s daughter a line of bullshit, especially if he’s even half the psychopath my father was. So, I giveher the answer she wants with the loophole I need.
“I’ll never speak a word of this to any man.”
Her shoulders sag. “I knew I could trust you.”
The moment both she and Anton are gone, I drain my glass, then head toward the staircase, my mind void of everything but the woman waiting at the top.
My present … my salvation … my everything.
I lick my lips.
My wife.
Fuck you.
I clench my fists. Two words, written in bright red lipstick across the mirror on my dresser, that mock me the longer I stare at them. They taunt me … provoke me … smear their defiance all over the glass. I’m not sure if Becca meant them as an insult or a challenge, and I don’t care. Both intentions are about to yield the same result…
Once I find her.
Calling her name down every hallway brings me nothing but empty rooms and returned silence. Apprehension and anger mix a lethal cocktail, and I’m one matchstick away from full fucking Molotov.
I’m close to having Anton organize a grounds search when my gaze lands on the narrow set of stairs at the end of the hall. The ones that lead to a permanently locked door. Each footstep sounds like a gunshot as I climb the stairs. At the top, I twist the doorknob, unsurprised to find it locked. A smile pulls at mylips.
She’s learning.
Sliding my hand into my pocket, I pull out a small silver key.
But she also has a long way to go.
One turn of the key and the lock springs free. Slipping the key back in my pocket, I turn the knob, only to meet resistance. I pause and imagine her watching all this from the other side, her lips puckered in that proud little pout.
I’ll admit, shoving a chair under the doorknob was a nice touch.
Commendable effort. Shitty execution.
Turning sideways, I throw all my weight against the slab of wood. A sharp crack echoes from the other side, followed by a heavy crash that removes all resistance and barriers.
The door swings open, and we lock eyes.
Becca is lounging on the black leather couch across from me, her hand wrapped around the neck of my most expensive imported whiskey. She’s still in her wedding gown, a glaring contrast to the hard set of her jaw and rigid posture.
Her gaze drifts to the pile of broken wood. “That works a lot better in the movies.”
“Marble floors,” I retort, gesturing toward the ground. “Nothing for the chair to grip. You need carpet for that.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
“I thought I told you to wait in my bedroom.”
She cuts that arctic stare back to me, the corner of her mouth curving up. “If you wanted a doormat who bows to your every command, you should’ve married someone else.”
“I don’t want anyone else.”
“Interesting…” Leaving the word swinging like a rusty hook, she lifts the bottle and takes a long drink.
“I got your love note.” I lean against the door and fold my arms across my chest.
“That wasn’t a love note, Gianni. It wasa suggestion on how you should spend our wedding night,” she says, her expression darkening. “As in … you should fuck yourself because you sure as hell won’t be fucking me.”
