Page 81 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

I clutch the empty glass in my fingers.

Bronx shakes his head. “You’re better than this.”

“No, I’m not,” I mutter. “I’m just good at hiding it.”

A long pause stretches between us before he nods toward the monitors. “Get your hacker what he needs to crack that code. When the vault opens, we’ll get our answersand bury the Tribunal and anyone else who’s working against us.”

“And if Livvie is really working against you? Are you gonna do what needs to be done?”

My gaze is hard. I nod once, slow and deadly. “If she’s working with them… againstus, then I put my wife in the ground.”

Fuck, those words taste like shit on my tongue.

Because for the first time in my life…

I’m not sure I’d deal with her betrayal once I pull the trigger.

25

LIVVIE

I stand in the middle of my music room with my violin tucked beneath my chin and my bow gliding.

The lights are off, yet the milky wash of the moon pours inside. My bare feet press onto the cool floor, silk shorts brushing the apex of my thighs as I play.

A black bra top hugs my boobs, and my shower damp hair cascades down my back.

I let the bow cut across the strings, creating a beautiful scream without a real voice.

Emotions erupt from the flurry of notes. Music is the only thing I trust these days. Even more so than I trust myself.

A prickle of awareness shivers through me and I sense a subtle but undeniable presence join me. I don’t turn to face my husband when he enters, though every part of me longs to.

Instead, I continue even though the music I’m playingfalters, a brief hitch in the melody that echoes the tension creeping through me.

After our argument earlier, he left the penthouse without another word. And now he’s back to shake up my world in whatever way he thinks is fitting.

The familiar scent of my husband’s cologne hits next. Smoky, musky undertones wrap around me, curling through the heat already coiled in my blood.

I lower the violin, panting a little as I finally acknowledge his arrival with a glare.

Kingston stands at the edge of the room like a shadow pulled from the night.

His T-shirt looks damp and there’s a towel looped around his neck, dark with sweat. A black baseball cap sits low, casting darkness over half his face.

Even from across the room, I can see the gleam in his eyes, that distinct, unreadable glint that says he’s on edge.

That I made him like that.

He doesn’t speak or make a move, rather he presses his back to the wall and stares right at me.

And God help me, my knees go soft.

“Rough night?” I manage, even though my voice sounds small.

When he doesn’t answer, I set the violin on its stand, blanching a little as his unwavering gaze remains fixed on me.

After a silent beat, he drags off the damp towel and tosses it aside before lifting the hem of his sports T-shirt. With a slow sweep, he pulls it over his head.