Page 30 of Thorns of Death

“Who’s been following you?” he asked in a controlled voice, but the vehemence of his voice touched my skin with a roughness that had goose bumps breaking out all over my body.

The change in him alarmed me, but I tried not to let it show.

“Your wife,” I said, sarcasm lacing my voice. “The one that doesn’t exist. Yet somehow the psycho bitch is following me.”

Without warning, he released me and took a step back, leaving me disoriented and feeling raw. But it was his gaze that gave me chills. It was cold and dark. Downright terrifying.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. I watched as his fingers flew across the screen, and even dared to peek from the corner of my eye. Disappointment swelled inside me. He was typing in Italian. Damn him.

Maybe learning Italian should be in my distant future’s plans.

Then he put his phone back in his pocket.

He lifted his gaze and cupped my face. “I’m taking care of it, and that woman will never bother you again.”

“Not your wife, huh?” I asked, my voice deadpan.

Jesus, why did it bother me so much? It was just one night of hot, incredible sex. It wasn’t as if I’d fallen in love with the man. I barely knew anything about him.

“I swear to you on the lives of my children, Amadeo and Enzo, that she is not my wife,” he said, causing me to pause as uncertainty slithered through me, making me question myself. Nobody sane would ever swear on the lives of their children. He must have sensed an opening, because he continued. “That woman is sick and has been institutionalized, and she’s not my wife.”

The sincerity in his voice and those dark eyes fooled me.

ELEVEN

ENRICO

Porca puttana.

Donatella was turning into a major problem. I shot a message to Manuel instructing him to personally go check the facility where we had the woman stashed. If she was there, how in the fuck could she be following Isla?

The fury rang in my ears at the idea that Donatella would dare get close to my woman.My fucking woman.

Cazzo, that bitch was always in the way.

I—the head of the Marchetti family—had waited outside Isla’s apartment for thirty minutes. I’d started to feel like a predator stalking its prey. Not that it had stopped me.

Just as I was about to call Manuel for a location on Isla, I saw her and followed her into the building. She looked so young wearing a casual outfit. Her flats gave her no extra height, and at five foot four, her small frame seemed swallowed by that wild hair of hers flying in the breeze. She was completely unaware of her surroundings; I couldn’t picture her as the Pakhan’s puppet to get information on me. The woman seemed too… angelic. Pure.

And that was how we found ourselves here. In her little apartment she shared with her friends.

“I amnotmarried.” I emphasized the word “not,” needing her to hear the truth in it.

She let out a heavy sigh. “But… I don’t understand. I saw the wedding photo.”

My chest twisted. Only Kingston and Manuel knew what happened that night. They were the only ones who knew the whole truth. I couldn’t tell her… Not until she was part of the Omertà and bound to my family.

Enzo and Amadeo only knew that their mother was crazier than usual. Much to my dismay, I hadn’t killed her. But still, I had to protect them.

I moved away from the kitchen and made my way back to her, crowding her space. She didn’t seem to mind it at all. Instead she leaned into my palm like a cat seeking to be petted.

Isla’s skin felt soft under my rough palms as I cupped her face, and I let myself drown in her deep green eyes. She was so damn young, although something in the way she carried herself seemed beyond her age. Her twenty-three to my forty-three. Despite everyone believing me to be forty-five. Fucking close enough. Age was just a number, wasn’t that right?

Isla stood facing me, her defiance wilted a bit by my vow. I never fucked around with the lives of my family, and especially not when it came to Amadeo and Enzo. I was all they had left.

The slim column of her graceful throat worked as she swallowed, watching me as if deciding whether she should believe me. Finally she bit her lip. “So, you’re not married?”

“Do you trust me?”