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I understand completely. The bastard's death doesn't undo what he did to those families, those children. It doesn't erase the nightmares Melania still has. It's just an ending, not a healing.
"I wanted you to hear it from me," I say. "It'll be on the news tonight."
She nods again, then surprises me by leaning forward and pressing her lips to mine—a brief, gentle kiss that feels like gratitude.
"Take me home," she whispers against my mouth.
I lead Melania out of the café, my hand at the small of her back. The way she leans into my touch tells me everything I need to know about what she needs right now. Not words, not platitudes—just me.
The drive home is quiet. She stares out the window, still twisting that ring, but there's something different in her silence. Not grief or shock, but a lifting of a weight. Raymond's death means she never has to look over her shoulder again.
When we step into our apartment she drops her purse on the console and turns to me with fire in her eyes. Before I can speak, she's on me—hands in my hair, mouth desperate against mine.
I back her against the wall, my body caging hers. "What's this about?" I murmur against her throat.
"I don't want to think," she says, fingers already working my belt. "Make me forget everything but your name."
I don't need to be asked twice. I lift her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to our bedroom. What follows is primal—her nails scoring my back, my hands pinning her wrists, both of us moving like we're fighting and surrendering at the same time.
After, she lies sprawled across my chest, both of us breathing hard. Her skin glows with a thin sheen of sweat, her hair awild tangle around her shoulders. I've never seen anything more beautiful.
"Cazzo," I mutter, running my fingers down her spine. "If upsetting you makes you into a sex machine like that, I might need to use that knowledge more often. Make you a little angry every day."
She raises her head, eyebrows arched. "You wouldn't dare."
I give her a slow, wicked smile. "Maybe I'll start leaving the toilet seat up. Or putting empty milk cartons back in the fridge."
Her laugh is bright and unexpected, like sunlight breaking through clouds. She smacks my chest playfully. "You're terrible."
"Terribly good at making you come," I counter, enjoying the blush that spreads across her cheeks. Even after everything we've done together I can still make her blush.
CHAPTER 37
EPILOGUE
Ahotel bar in Austin. A night I’ve never been able to forget.
Hazel.
The woman who’s haunted my dreams for three years.
And now she’s emerged like a ghost,haunting the Feretti mansion.
WHY? She’s escaping something?
I pace the hallway for a minute, debating. Fuck it. I need to know.
Turning back, I hesitate only a second before pushing her door open without knocking. I want to catch her off guard, need to see what she's hiding.
What I see stops me cold.
Hazel stands before the mirror, sunglasses gone, her blouse on the chair, her fingers tracing a canvas of violence painted on the beautiful skin that I once stroked with reverence.
A dark purple bruise circles her left eye. Fingerprints mark her arms. A large bruise spreads across her ribs.
She freezes when she sees me, arms crossed over her chest, eyes wide with terror.
"I—" Her voice falters.
Something primal and violent awakens inside me as I close the door with deliberate control. Every step toward her is measured, each breath carefully regulated as I fight the rage threatening to consume me.
I reach for her face, and when she flinches—Christ, she flinches—I gently tilting her chin to examine the bruise around her eye. My gaze catalogs every mark, every bruise, committing every single one to memory.
When I finally speak, I barely recognize my own voice.
"Who. Did. This. To. You."
I have only one thought hammering in my head:
Someone is going to die for this.