Page 65 of Bad Bishop
“I don’t want to marry Angelo, Mama.”
Her face hardened. “Are you letting that dirty man touch you, Lila?”
I shook my head, so disappointed I could hardly breathe.
“Why did you never buy me any of the life-altering devices for the hard of hearing?” I changed the subject.
“What?” Her eyes flared.
“Why did you keep me from the internet?”
“What is this man filling your head with?” She scowled. “I did it for your own good. And you will marry Angelo if I can make it happen, because I still know what’s good for you better than anyone else.”
When the vehicle stopped in front of Fermanagh’s, I itched to warn her not to make any plans before discussing them with me, but knew there wasn’t any point.
My mother could move mountains and tear the moon from its place, and still, she wouldn’t be able to release me from Tiernan Callaghan’s clutches.
He didn’t let anyone touch what was his.
Even if he didn’t care for it one bit.
_______
Four soldiers escorted me into the pub and up the stairway to the apartment. When I reached my door, they stayed in the corridor. I recognized a Camorra soldier outside of Tierney’s apartment,Marco, surveilling her on Achilles’s command. I sent him a dirty look, fed up with anyone and anything with a penis.
I pushed the door open, tugging my jacket off and hanging it on the hanger. The place was dark. It was approaching eleven, and even though I was the one who didn’t show up to dinner, the fact Tiernan had left gnawed at the corners of my stomach.
I pushed the door to my room open, stepped inside, and stumbled back in shock.
The world blurred at the edges, and a red mist of fury tainted my vision.
On my bed, with the pink satin covers and fluffy pillows, was my husband, sitting next to the gynecologist’s receptionist, holding her by the hair.
They were both fully clothed, and she was stomach-down on my mattress, staring dumbly up at him. He held her at an arm’s length, far enough that they didn’t touch, close enough that I still wanted to kill him.
My sketch of Tate Blackthorn was on the floor, ripped into minuscule pieces, his piercing eyes staring back at the chaos unfolding.
Something tangible snapped inside me. I felt it crack my chest open, and all the anger rushed out like pus.
I’d had enough.
“Go ahead. Fuck her.” I shaped my lips around the words, knowing they were understandable enough, after years of clandestine speech therapy. “I’ll go find myself a plaything, too.”
Swiveling on my heel, I stalked toward the door.
Tears flew from my cheeks, hot and angry and utterly unstoppable.
He wanted to break me, and he did.
I spoke.
I spoke.
I practiced with my speech therapist, but not enough that it felt natural. It still felt like I was trying to chomp rocks between my teeth, and I never attempted to do it with anyone else. Not even Mama.
He’d taken it too far and broke the fragile trust between us. This absolute hussy of a woman, on my bed, on mysheets.
He’d smirked when he saw me. Like he wanted to get caught. But, of course he did. He did it in my room.
