Page 68 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

Without the weight of his name, or the shadow of his family behind him, he looks like someone else entirely. A man he could have been, if destiny hadn’t pushed his path toward blood and duty before he could even walk.

It occurs to me that Kingston never had a choice in who he could be without guns and family loyalty.

Following his reputation, I always assumed he loved this world, the structure and cruelty of it. And maybe he does.Maybe he thrives in it. But even if he does, it doesn’t mean he picked violence.

That thought lands harder than I expect.

Because he never had a choice, and neither did I. We were both born under the same weight. The same war. Ironically, I’m married to a man I was raised not to trust, and that same guy has somehow become the one person I feel safe with.

He shifts in the bed, a soft sound catching in his throat, his brows drawing together for a moment. I stay perfectly still. My hand itches to reach for him, to smooth the tension from his brow, but I don’t move. I’m already unraveling, and showing my weakness for him would make everything worse.

I’ve hated him. Fought against him. Tempted him. And touched him like he was a weapon and a savior in the same breath.

But as I study all of him now, with his muscular chest rising and falling under golden light, I begin to see him for what he really is.

A man shaped by monsters, who learned to become one before the world could destroy him first.

Breaking his trust would be a suicide mission.

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, obsessing over every little detail of his body, when my phone buzzes once on the nightstand. I reach for it slowly, careful not to stir Kingston. The screen lights up with a number I don’t recognize.

The message is short, efficient, and cold.

112 SouthPier, Red Hook. Noon. Come alone.

I read it again and again, knowing exactly who it’s from.

The Red Tribunal doesn’t sign their messages. They don’t ask. They instruct.

A warehouse on the edge of Red Hook would be the kind of place no one looks twice at. It’s the sort of spot you send someone when you don’t want them seen again.

I stare at the screen, trying to slow the sudden pounding in my chest. Whatever comes next, I won’t walk out of that meeting unchanged.

I glance down at Kingston again, thankful he hasn't stirred. I bite the inside of my cheek, considering his peacefulness. If he wakes up before I’m back, he’ll know something’s wrong. But I don’t have time to leave a fabricated story behind.

Climbing out of bed, I pad to the closet and dress in silence, shoving on a pair of black jeans, a hoodie, and sliding my feet into comfy sneakers.

I don’t bother with a full face of makeup, only applying a quick sweep of bronzer to make me look less hollow than I feel.

At the elevator, one of the guards straightens when he sees me heading his way.

“Where to, Mrs. Viacava?”

“Gelato,” I say, offering the faintest smile. “He’s craving pistachio. I’m going to surprise him.”

The guard furrows his brow. “We can have someone?—”

“No.” I step into the elevator, turning just before he shoves a hand through, holding the doors open. “You want to be the guy who tells my husband he can’t have ice cream while he’s recovering from a near fatality? Be my guest, big guy.”

He hesitates, then gives a short nod and backs up. I hit the button to close the doors before he can change his mind.

Once they close, I take a deep breath and check the time. Rather than go to the underground garage, I jump out on the ground floor and rush through the lobby.

I can’t risk being tracked, so using a Viacava car isn’t an option. Not for this.

The minute I step out into the street, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up and move fast into the current of pedestrian traffic. Midtown is alive and loud. Perfect for disappearing. I walk two blocks before ducking into the subway, tapping my mobile phone wallet to pay.

The train rattles through the tunnels, the car full of tired commuters and tourists clutching shopping bags. I sit near the back and turn my phone off as a precaution.