Page 31 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

The bastard wants her. He’s in fucking love with my wife.

And maybe there’s something on her side too. More than what she’s letting on.

The short ride back to the penthouse is silent. And deafening.

Once we’re back in the penthouse, alone, I finally unleash all the pent-up rage curdling in my fucking veins.

“Do you have a death wish or are you just that stupid?”

“Maybe if you told me the truth, I wouldn’t have to go looking for it,” she snaps with a flip of her head.

She turns and limps toward the bathroom, dismissing me, and it pisses me the fuck off.

I grab her by the arm. “You don’t get to walk away, princess. Not from me. Not ever.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she snarls, waving herleft hand in front of my face. “Because I have this gaudy monstrosity on my finger, right? The tie that binds? The fucking shackle around my life?” She clutches her throat. “More like a goddamn noose!”

“Stop being so dramatic,” I say, releasing her arm and walking past her.

Under the kitchen sink, there’s a first aid kit. I know it’s a weird spot but there are a lot of knives in here so I always thought it was kind of fitting to be here, just in case. I bend down and grab it, then flip it open on the granite countertop.

A frustrated breath escapes her lips and she folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t need you to nurse me back to health,Florence Nightingale.”

I stop pulling out Band-Aids and alcohol swabs and level her with a look. “Can you take a break from being a bitch for just one minute? Take off your pants.”

An eyebrow lifts but no words follow.

It’s a fucking miracle.

“Take off you’re fucking pants, Livvie, or I’ll hack them off with a blade.”

She rolls her pretty eyes and slowly shimmies out of the leggings, careful to avoid rubbing the fabric against her cut-up knees. Once she’s in her panties, she puts her hands on her hips.

“Congratulations, you got my pants off without any begging.”

A dry chuckle escapes my lips. “You really are unbelievable. I’m trying to help you, even after I saved your fine ass from holy fucking hell in that alleyway. Jesus, show a little gratitude.”

“Oh, wow.” She folds her arms. “There we have it.Kingston doesn’t do anything for free. Now I owe you for stalking me?”

I sigh. “Yeah, princess, you owe your husband for showing up at the right time. So shut the fuck up and sit down.”

I nod at one of the counter stools.

Reluctantly, she inches toward me and places her hands on the edge of the counter to hoist herself onto the stool. Her face screws up in pain as she swings herself onto the seat to face me.

I take a little pleasure in cleaning her wounds and watching her wince in pain. I use extra swabs to prolong it because she deserves it after what she did.

And this little show of goodwill doesn’t mean I forgot what I saw through the café window, either.

“It’s clean,” she says through gritted teeth, gripping the counter so tight her fingertips turn white. “I can sort it from here.”

“Nearly done, princess. I don’t mind the aftercare. That's the sort of guy you married. One who’ll tend to your bruises and mop up my cum from your cheeks.”

Biting back a smirk, I bandage her knees, then repack the first aid kit while she examines my handiwork and mumbles something under her breath.

“What was that, princess?”

“I said ‘Thank you, asshole,’” she bites out. “Happy?”