When She Loves: Chapter 21

I slam the car door shut and inhale the crisp morning air that’s mingled with the scent of the river. Today’s going to be a long fucking day, and I woke up wanting to burn off some energy before I get started.

It’s been three days since the attack, and the whole fucking thing’s been harder to shake off than I anticipated. Probably because we still have no idea who’s pulling on the strings.

Nero pulls into the parking lot of the gym in his black Jeep and waves at me through the window.

We walk into the building, the only ones here since it’s not even six a.m. The owner, Mike, is sitting behind the check-in desk, doing something on his computer, and he waves us in without coming out to chat. He knows the only time we’re here this early is if something’s up.

I start warming up on a bag. “Any news?” The need to end whoever shot up Il Caminetto has been churning inside my chest ever since the incident occurred.

The two men I killed were freelancers, assassins for hire who work for anyone willing to pay them. They were professionals, and their business model relies on discretion. Not that we haven’t tried to trace them, but so far, we’ve gotten nowhere.

Nero jabs at the bag beside mine. “I’ve got four of our best guys looking, but there’s nothing so far.”

“Who the fuck would try a move like this? My initial guess would be Ferraro, but he’s usually far more subtle.”

“I doubt it’s Ferraro,” Nero says, jumping away from the swinging bag. “I’ve spoken to Joe since it happened, and they seem more willing than ever to put a truce in place. They heard about the shooting, and Joe was quick to deny any involvement.”

“You trust him?”

“I do.”

I glance at Nero. He’s good at getting an accurate read on people, so I have no reason to doubt his assessment, but if not Ferraro, then who?

“The Bratva might still be holding a grudge about us not allowing them to invest in the restaurant,” Nero says.

“That wouldn’t surprise me, but I doubt they’d risk bringing war to their doorstep over one deal.”

“Their power is growing. I heard they’ve managed to push their way into the racetracks in Jersey.”

“I don’t give a fuck about that. As long as they’re not pushing up against Garzolo’s territory, they can do as they please over there.”

Nero lands a few shots against the bag. “Speaking of, I paid him a visit yesterday.”

Garzolo is one of the obvious suspects, especially after our last interaction. “And?”

“He was at his house in the Hamptons with the wife. They had a party. Plenty of witnesses. None of them saw him take a single call. Everyone said he looked at ease.”

“We should keep a close eye on him. If this is his work, he’ll try again.” I tip my head in the direction of the ring. “Let’s spar.”

We climb under the ropes and get in position.

“How the fuck did they know Cleo and I would be there?”

Nero jabs at me, but I easily step out of the way. He’s bigger than me, but I’ve got speed as my advantage.

“It had to be someone at the restaurant or Andres,” he says. “They were the only ones who knew you’d cleared the place and that you’d be in the dining room practically alone. Whoever is behind this wouldn’t have risked attacking if it had been a full house.”

I bounce on my feet, looking for an opening. “I trust Andres.” The owner of Il Caminetto isn’t someone who’d ever go behind my back. He knows better than that. “He wouldn’t try anything like this. You talked to the staff already?”

“Yeah. They all seem good.”

“What about the band?” I throw a punch.

Nero ducks. “I haven’t talked to them yet, but that’s a good idea. As far as I know, they play there often. I’ll reach out.”

I hold his gaze as we circle each other. “Good. Keep me posted.”

His jaw flexes. “I’m sorry, Rafe. I should have more by now. I know this is important. We’ll find the bastard responsible for it, I promise you.”

I grunt in response and nearly clip him in the chin.

He jumps back. “How’s Cleo?”

“Recovering.” We’ve slept in the same bed ever since the attack, so I guess there’s at least one good thing that came out of it.

But I haven’t pushed it any further. Yet. As soon as she’s feeling better, I’m going to bring our little game to a quick close.

“She’s still getting headaches, so the doctor recommended another few days of bed rest.” This time, my punch lands against Nero’s kidney, and he sucks in a harsh breath. I give him a second to recover before I land two more punches against his ribs.

“Fuck, Rafe,” Nero grunts, backing away.

I lunge forward again, swinging my fist at Nero’s head. He ducks and pivots to land a hard punch against my ribs. I grunt but don’t falter, quickly recovering and landing a few more hits on Nero’s gut. We continue sparring until sweat’s pouring down my face and my muscles burn with exertion.

I’m supposed to drive up to Albany right after the sparring session, but when Nero and I finish, I get an inexplicable urge to see my wife.

I climb into my car and look out at the Hudson River. My head is way too fucking wrapped up in her.

It’s only gotten worse since the attack. When I saw Cleo bleeding on the ground, it felt as if someone had wrenched my ribcage open and pressed the cold, unyielding barrel of a gun right against my heart. She couldn’t die. The possibility of her being gone had rooted me to the spot, spreading fear through me. I can’t remember the last time anything affected me like that.

I roll my shoulders and turn on the car. This is ridiculous. I should just go to work. But at the light, despite my best intentions, I turn in the direction of the house.

Fuck it. I’ll check on her, make sure she has everything she needs, and then I’ll get back to work.

Ten minutes later, I’m walking through the front door. I head directly upstairs, not bothering to take my coat off. This will only take a few minutes.

The door to our bedroom is cracked open. I’m about to step inside when I hear it.

“Stupid whore.”

My hand stills on the door handle.

“I always knew you’d bring havoc into this household. Don Messero should have let them kill you. He would be far better off without you.”

What. The. Fuck.

That voice coming from inside the bedroom belongs to my house manager, Sabina. The old woman’s been with the family for decades. She sure as fuck has never spoken to me like that.

Cleo mutters something in response, something that sounds like, “You’d probably declare the day a holiday, wouldn’t you?”

She sounds so unbothered. Like she’s used to it.

“Do you know how many women would kill to be in your position? To be married to our don. He deserves a real lady for a wife. A woman his family can respect and admire. Instead, he has you. You worthless, pathetic slut.”

There’s a ringing sound inside my ears. I push the door open wider and watch as Sabina walks closer to where Cleo is sitting in bed. My wife looks bored as Sabina slams a plate of food onto her nightstand. “Here. I hope you choke on this.”

What the fuck is happening here? She did not just utter those words. And then the vile bitch does the unthinkable. She tosses a spoon at my injured wife. It hits Cleo’s chest, bouncing against the duvet. Cleo calmly reaches for it and places it on the nightstand by the plate.

Rage clamps down on my lungs. “What the fuck did you just say to her?”

Cleo’s eyes snap from Sabina to me.

“Don Messero,” Sabina gasps. “I—”

I march over to them, putting myself between Cleo and the old cunt, and pick up the spoon.

Sabina’s wide eyes drop to it and terror blooms across her expression.

“I will carve out your tongue and ram it down your throat for speaking that way to my wife,” I growl. “Apologize right now.”

She turns as pale as a sheet. “I’m so sorry.”

“Not to me,” I grind out. “To. Her.”

Sabina swallows and volleys her gaze to Cleo. “I apologize, Mrs. Messero.”

“You’re done. Fired. Get the fuck out.” My throat is so tight with anger, I can’t even get a full fucking sentence out.

She takes a few steps back. “Sir, I was hired by your grandmother.”

“My grandmother is dead, and you’ll be too if you don’t remove yourself from my sight this very second. You have fifteen minutes to pack your belongings and get the hell out of my house.”

She just stands there, staring at me like I’m not making any sense.

“GET. OUT!” I roar.

She jumps. Her eyes dart between Cleo and me and then she flees.

My chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. Calm down. I can’t. How fucking dare she?

“Rafe.”

I turn to my wife. Cleo stares at me, her cheeks bright red.

“What was that?” I hiss. “Why didn’t you say anything? If I knew she behaved that way with you, I would have fired her a long time ago.”

She swallows nervously and clutches the duvet. “It doesn’t matter,” she says quickly. “I’m used to it.”

My vision narrows. “Used to it?” I grind out past my teeth. “What the fuck does that mean?”

She flexes her hands. “How do you think my parents spoke to me?”

My fists clench. I want to kill Stefano Garzolo. He might not have hit Cleo, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t harmed her in other ways. That piece of shit. He and his wife taught Cleo that she isn’t worthy of respect. That it’s okay for a fucking servant to disrespect her.

The floor tilts. The urge to drive over to Garzolo’s house right now and shove a knife through him swells in my chest.

“That. Ends. Now.” My voice is a low rasp.

She sucks in a shaky breath, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t care how people talk to me. Their words don’t affect me.”

“They affect me.”

Even though they shouldn’t. Even though it normally takes a lot more than a few words to make me angry. I’ve managed to keep a cool head with a barrel pointed at me, but seeing my wife disrespected is apparently enough to get me going.

The realization spills ice into my veins. Unease wraps around me. It gets worse when I register Cleo’s penetrating gaze.

“Why?” she whispers.

The answer is automatic. “Because you’re mine. No one gets to speak to my wife that way.”

The unease starts to melt away. Being a don means enforcing respect. That’s all I’m doing here.

Cleo gives me a bitter smile. “Because when they insult me, they’re insulting you?”

“That’s right.”

Her face becomes pinched, and she looks away. I get the sense that I’ve said something wrong. I sit down on the edge of the bed and grab her chin with my hand. A tear slips down her cheek.

“That’s enough,” I growl. “They don’t deserve your tears, tesoro. They don’t deserve to breathe the same air as you. The next time anyone talks to you that way, I will kill them.”

She pulls my hands away and looks down at her lap. “Okay.”

I frown. She doesn’t sound okay. “Cle—”

She slides down the bed, pulls the duvet up to her chin, and turns away from me. “I’m tired. I think I need a nap.”

The clear dismissal stings. Some foreign emotion pulses inside my chest, insisting that I stay here with her, but I shove it away.

She wants to be alone. I should let her. She needs to rest.

I rise to my feet and look at her for another moment before I move toward the door, the air around us heavy with things unsaid.