Page 59 of Rosetti Family New York
She’s standing rigid, face lifted in defiance, while that Albanian fuck holds her chin between his fingers like she’s some kind of prize. Something primal snaps inside me.
No hesitation. I raise my gun and put a bullet through his skull. Chaos erupts. The second his body hits the floor, his men scramble for weapons, but we’re faster. The air explodes with gunfire, shouts, and the wet sounds of bodies hitting concrete. I move through it all, a predator unleashed, taking out anyone who gets in my way. A bullet grazes my arm, the sting barely registering through the red haze in my mind. One by one, they fall, blood splattering the walls, pooling on the floor. I keep moving forward, toward her.
She’s still standing there, frozen, her wide eyes locked on me.
“Eleanor,” I rasp, stepping over a body.
Her lips part like she wants to say something, but then a figure lunges from the side—a last desperate Albanian. My instincts take over. I grab the fucker by the throat, slam him against the wall, and put a bullet in his gut, letting him slide down in a heap.
Then, finally, I reach her.
My hands are on her the moment I'm close enough to touch her. They're frantic, and I don’t give a shit if she knows it. I’m checking for wounds, for bruises, for any sign that those bastards hurt her in any way. I squeeze her arms—too hard, too desperate—searching for anything that might be broken. Those bastards touched her, those fuckers laid hands on my wife, and I’ll make them pay a thousand times over if she’s hurt. I’ll take their lives, their families, and burn their entire fucking world to the ground if they left a single mark on her.
My mind is a blur of rage and panic. Her dress is slick, but I can’t tell if it’s her blood, if she’s bleeding out right in front of me while I stand here with my useless hands. Her skin is pale—too pale—and smeared with dirt. Her hair’s a fucking mess, and I want to wrap all of her up in my arms, shield her from the world, but I need to know she’s okay first. I need to know she’s whole.
I didn’t make it in time. I didn’t stop them before they took her and tied her up and left her looking like this. I didn’t fucking protect her.
My chest is so tight I can’t breathe. Her eyes are still locked on mine, and I can’t fucking read them, can’t look deep enough to find the answer I’m dying for. Why can’t she say something, give me even a word so I know she’s still here with me? I’m going out of my mind trying to see if she’s okay, and all I’ve got is silence.
I can’t stand it.
“Are you okay?” My voice is sharp, edged with fear.
She blinks, swallows hard. “You came,” she whispers.
I cup her face, my thumb brushing a smear of blood that isn’t hers from her cheek. “Of course I fucking came.” The words are too raw, too close to something I don’t want to name.
She stares at me, her chest rising and falling too fast, her eyes searching mine for reassurance. “I was so scared you wouldn’t make it in time,” she admits, her voice cracking slightly.
I meet her gaze firmly. “I would never let anything happen to you. Not now, not ever.”
Her grip tightens on my jacket, and then, without warning, she surges forward, pressing her face against my chest. Not crying, not speaking—just holding on.
I wrap my arms around her, harder than I should, pulling her delicate, shivering frame against me. Her trembles send a jolt of anger and relief and need through my own body, the fear she won’t hold it together making my grip even tighter. I can feel the quick, frantic rhythm of her heart against my chest, the fast rise and fall of her breaths against me. But she's here. She’s flesh and blood beneath my touch, and she’s real.
God, I need her. I need her more than air, more than anything else this life can offer, and I don’t care that she knows it.
I soak in her scent, her warmth, the wild tangle of her hair. The thought of never holding her like this again had torn me apart. I can’t keep the edge of panic out of my voice as I hold her, as I let her take up every last corner of my world.
“You’re safe now,” I murmur softly into her hair. I let her stand there, just holding onto me. I let her, because she’s mine. And anyone who tries to take her from me again will fucking die.
31
Eleanor
Isit on the edge of the massive bed in Leonardo’s room, my hands clenched in my lap. Juliet is safe, sleeping in the bedroom next door, but I can’t unwind. My dress is ruined, torn and stained, my body aching in places I hadn’t noticed before. The adrenaline is long gone, leaving only exhaustion and the weight of what I’ve done pressing down on me.
After Leonardo saved me from the warehouse, when the adrenaline cooled and my trembling stopped, he was achingly gentle. He wrapped his arms around me and cradled my battered body, careful with every bruise and scrape. His touch was impossibly tender, holding me close in the backseat of an SUV on the drive back home. His lips pressed against my hair, his warmth enveloping me, making me feel safer than I’d ever imagined possible. The relief was overwhelming, a flood of emotion that made me sag against him in exhaustion. I clung to him as the car sped through the city, leaving behind the fear and rubble and thinking that maybe, just maybe, I’d done the right thing.
But as soon as we reached the mansion, everything changed. He didn’t leave my side, but he withdrew, replacing his soft coos with heavy silence.
I know Leonardo too well, and I know what that silence means. His anger is simmering, a live wire between us, and I know it is aimed directly at me. I shouldn’t expect anything else after what I did, after the choices I made. I betrayed his trust, went against everything he demanded of me, and now the consequences are coming like a freight train.
I broke his rules. All three of them. Lied to him. Ran from him. Touched another man, even if it was just to make the trade, trying to do whatever would keep Juliet safe. The image of that exchange is burned in my mind, the fear in my stomach when I thought it might be over for me. I shiver, knowing how furious Leonardo must be. I deserve whatever’s coming next.
Leonardo looms in the doorway of our bedroom, fists clenched, jaw tight. His breath is heavy and uneven, like he’s barely holding back.
“You broke every damn rule, Eleanor,” he finally says, his voice a low, dangerous growl that makes me flinch. “How’d you even get past my guards? Flash them a smile and just drive away?”
