Page 93 of Bad Bishop
“I feel nothing.” I wrenched my hand away, snarling in her face. Lila’s mouth hung open, those cerulean eyes sparkling with hurt and sadness.
I sidestepped her, making my way to the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”
I knew she couldn’t answer me with my back to her. I was being a cunt, and there was nothing she could do about it. I held all the power.
Then why did I feel so…restless?
If the baby belonged to Angelo, I had a huge fucking problem to solve in order to keep this woman.
And I promised her family I’d find her attacker and bring him to justice.
Lila’s heels clacked across the floor behind me, and for the first time in days, she didn’t prepare me a plate of whatever Imma had made but folded her arms and gave me a pointed look.
Ignoring her, I uncovered the saucepan on the stovetop, grabbed a fork, and ate the pasta inside while standing.
She signed something. I kept my gaze on the pasta.
She stepped into my line of vision, snatching the fork from my hand.
“What’s your problem?”
I had a bevy of them, and the shit she stirred in me was at the top of the list.
“No problem,” I said dryly. “I’m fine with playing house, Lila, but make no mistake—I don’t care about the bastard in your stomach. You decided to keep it. I didn’t stop you. But don’t expect me to pretend it’s anything more than an inconvenience to me.”
My words made her flinch, and the only thing stopping me from pulling my gun out and putting a bullet in my own head was my ironclad resolution to kill Angelo before I left this earth.
It was the first time I truly hurt Lila—not scared or intimidated her—hurther.
And it didn’t sit right with me.
Luckily, I was trained to push through any pain or discomfort.
“I see.” Her chin wobbled, and her nose pinked, but she didn’t let the tears fall. She pressed a hand to her stomach protectively. “I guess this means you don’t want to know the sex of the baby. I got my NIPT results back today.”
I stared at her coldly, leaning against the kitchen counter.
I wanted to say yes. Not because I cared. Fuck knows I truly didn’t. But becauseshedid and because making her feel better was worth making myself feel like shit. Normally, anyway. Butthis wasn’t about feelings. It was about drawing a line in the sand.
I couldn’t afford to care.
She could be gone tomorrow, if they found out it was Angelo’s baby. And I’d have no one to blame but myself for being an eejit. Because beautiful Italian Mafia princesses of respectable pedigree weren’t meant to breed with poor Irish scum who made their buck running whorehouses.
Empty. I felt so fucking empty I was surprised I was still up on my feet.
“I’ll take that as a no.” She tilted her chin up regally.
I watched her turn around and walk away. Spine straight and head held up high.
And for the first time in my life, I felt the kind of pain I didn’t like.
_______
That night, I dissolved into the person I was before she stitched me up.
I removed the eye patch before I went to bed. I used to do it all the time before she moved into my bedroom. The patch was a bitch to sleep with, needed constant readjustment, and besides, it felt good not to have the string digging into my skull.
I refrained from removing it thus far, committed to not scaring my delicate bride. Now, it didn’t matter anymore. She wasn’t staying. Angelo was the father. That was why he told Chiara he’d agree to marry her.
