eight

C A R O L I N E

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MY COUSIN SHOWS UP on my doorstep as I'm taking a peach cobbler from the oven, hands on his narrow hips, blue eyes pinched as if he smells something rotten.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to enter someone's kitchen looking like you've just smelled week-old milk?" I shuck the red oven mitts off my hands, tossing them to the counter, and turn to face him.

Across the room, Benito gives me a quick nod and heads back to his post outside the front door. I swear, I've never met a more stoic, work-oriented man. It makes me want to crack him open, see what's shriveled up inside.

Perching on the end of a bar stool at the island, Luca leans his elbows against the marble counter, schooling his features. His honey-brown hair sits slicked back with some kind of product, making him look older than his twenty-four years. "What the hell are you doing, Care?"

I glance at the dessert on my stovetop, then back at him, brows furrowed. "Baking. Is that not obvious?"

"I mean, what are you doing here?"

"I live here."

"Yeah, I fucking know. Why? You married my boss, a fucking capo. All for what? A nice new kitchen to bake pies in?"

Frowning, I rest my weight on the cabinet behind me. "This is a cobbler, not a pie. Please respect the difference."

He rolls his eyes. "Fuck off with that, Caroline. You're deflecting, and you know it. Why haven't you followed through with your plan yet? What the hell are you waiting for?"

My insides somersault. I knew getting Luca involved would come back to bite me, but I figured I'd have an excuse for him when he finally showed. As one of my oldest friends and technically family, I thought maybe his insight would be beneficial to my plan. And it was, but he keeps harping on the situation (or, lack thereof), as though he has some personal stake in it.

Only one person besides me has a personal stake in this, and he doesn't even know it.

Elia's confession from the other night flashes in my mind, making me dizzy. 'I like you,' he'd whispered. A foreign feeling shot through me, trying to reconcile how he can feel that way when he barely knows me.

And why I want him to mean it.

"I'm waiting for an opportunity. Not that it's any of your business."

"Oh, so suddenly, your safety isn't my business?" Standing up, he walks over to me and mimics my stance, crossing his arms over his chest. He's wearing all-black, a Montalto staple, though the contrast of the dark fabric against his skin is entirely different from Elia's.

Luca looks unnaturally pale, flushed like he ran all the way here.

The heat from his side collides with my own, burrowing deep. Mystifying. I reach behind me and grip the underside of the countertop, trying to steady myself. "I'm married, Luca. It's not your place anymore."

"You're only married because you wouldn't accept my offer."

"Because you didn't have the money or power to throw around with my father. And you're my cousin."

"By marriage only." His hand drops, sweeping over and prying mine from the counter. He links our fingers together, a gentle reminder. "Besides, that didn't seem to bother you a year ago."

"Things change." But I don't move my hand away, if only because it feels like ages since I've had a semblance of human contact. Benito is not exactly a cuddler.

"Does he know what you're planning?"

I shake my head. "He can't find out, either. I don't need any extra complications."

Elia Montalto wants to be someone's white knight. He doesn't know how I'm already making him mine.

"I could still help you." Luca side-eyes me, inching closer. His body against mine is warm, comfortable, but that's it.

Instead of sending goosebumps along my spine like he did all those months ago, when I asked him to help erase the memories of the hands before him, all I feel is regret.

Regret for changing our relationship, for giving that part of me to him just because I couldn't stand the thought of a grown man touching me before I even knew what I was doing—before I knew just how wrong it was.

Doing Luca didn't extinguish the nightmares, though. Only one man has been able to touch me since then, and have it not feel like spiders crawling over my skin.

Scooting away, I turn and inspect the cobbler; its golden-brown crust sits just below the glass rim of the casserole dish, cracked and ready to dig into. I rarely eat the dishes I make because sampling while baking fills me up, but this cobbler is an exception.

"I don't need help." Facing him, I disconnect our hands and bodies, not missing the way his eyes seem to dim slightly. But I don't comment on it.

His disappointment isn't my problem.

"So, what, you're going to just dismantle the patriarchy on your own? Do you even know what you're doing? Have you ever killed someone before, Caroline?"

The condescension dripping off his words makes my fingers curl, itching to sink into his skin. My nails dig into my palms instead.

I glare up at him, gritting my teeth. "Why, want to give me pointers?"

One eyebrow quirks, a slow smile tugging up one corner of his mouth. "I mean, I definitely think I'm a good teacher. Or have you forgotten the lessons I've already imparted on you?"

Heat floods my face, flushing my chest beneath the pink, slinky tank top I have on. "That's not really an appropriate conversation, Luc."

"You're too concerned with appearances." He steps toward me, one hand coming up to push a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. His palm cups the skin beneath my ear, holding me in place as his deep, ocean eyes gaze at me. "Why can't you just live a little?"

As he leans in, bringing his chilly lips to mine, I think about how different Elia's lips feel. Where Luca freezes me in place, rigidity lining my bones, Elia's touch melts me, a soft flame incinerating my entire body the second we connect.

Still, there's a comfort present in Luca's arms—he's the only one that really knows what's going on, and it relieves some of the burden from my shoulders.

His hands flatten against my back as he pushes his mouth forward, deepening the kiss and pressing my ass against the counter. I'm trapped, my brain warring with the familiarity of being here with him versus the kitchen we're doing this in—a kitchen belonging to my new husband.

Someone I haven't even seen in days. Just a couple of texts checking in, making sure I'm still breathing, nothing about his confession from the other night, or an E.T.A. on his return.

Luca's tongue pulls me back to the matter at hand, delving into my mouth at the same time he palms my left breast over my shirt. His hips drive into mine, seeking me out, and I open my thighs in reflex, letting him in.

"Jesus, Care." He pulls back briefly to pepper kisses along my jaw, under my ear. "I forgot how fucking explosive we are together."

I bite my lip to stifle the laughter bubbling at the base of my throat. We're certainly not anything close to explosive, but this is still kind of nice. "Luca, I don't—we probably shouldn't—"

His lips land on mine once again, silencing me, and after a few seconds, I force my brain off, letting myself fall into the moment. Closing my eyes as he explores the full expanse of my throat, wedging his hand into my jean shorts and teasing the seam of my sex, it's almost easy to imagine this isn't him at all.

"Well, well. Isn't this fucking cozy?"

I murmur an mhmm against Luca's lips, loving that I hear Elia's deep, velvet voice in place of Luca's. Safe and protected in one's arms, I still get to enjoy the danger attached to my attraction to a man I want to despise.

Wait.What is he even talking about?

My heart skips a beat as realization dawns on me. I feel the muscles in Luca's back tense up under my touch, the moment he also notices we aren't alone.

Luca freezes, our mouths still pressed together; I pry my eyes open, staring into his equally wide ones.

He jumps back in a flash, wrenching his hand from my shorts and putting several feet between us. Backing into the refrigerator, he finally stops, out of places to go.

Elia leans against the bottom railing of the winding staircase, the division between the living area and kitchen, with an unreadable expression on his face. One elbow sits propped on the banister, the other stuffed inside his suit pocket, the picture of calm and collected. But the twitch in his left eyebrow tells me on the inside, he's anything but.

And for some really fucked up reason, the rage I see hiding there turns me on.

―――――

E L I A

The beautiful nymph licks her lips, erasing the evidence of another man's saliva on her flesh. She rights her tank top, smoothing her palms down over her toned thighs, eyes locked on mine like she's afraid to look away.

Good. I want her afraid. Want to cultivate her fear and work it from her body the wayyou extract honey from a honeycomb.

My plan coming home had been to convince her to warm my bed, at least for a few hours. But that's all gone to shit now. I can't stop envisioning Luca's hand in her shorts, his mouth on her delicate, delicious flesh.

My fucking soldier, kissing my fucking wife.

I don't move from my spot at the bottom of the stairs, in part because I'm afraid of what I'll do if I get too close to them, but also because my legs feel like they're stuck. Rooted in a tar pit, burdened by the scene I just stumbled upon.

Not that I have much room to talk, considering my actions with Siena.

But still. Caroline fooling around with one of my men is a liability. If anyone found out, not only would my credibility be shot, but she'd be in danger.

More so than she already is. Just by marrying me, there's a target on her back, and it doesn't help that Kieran and her father are still sniffing around, looking for ways to drag her from me. If they knew we were unfaithful to each other, they'd use it against us.

My immobility has nothing to do with the way my heart spasms when I imagine someone else touching her—nothing to do with how my lungs constrict, how breathing feels like inhaling fire.

Luca, for his part, has the decency to look ashamed.

But it's not enough. Not for this.

One of my fingers taps along the wrought-iron banister, the dull thud somehow deafening in this house. Neither of them moves or blinks. They keep their eyes trained on me, waiting for the strike.

"When I said to make yourself at home, mio amore, this is hardly what I had in mind." I aim for humor, trying to rid myself of the vibrant green coloring my vision. "Certainly not with your cousin."

"Step-cousin," Luca mutters.

Caroline sucks in a breath, pressing one hand into her stomach as if to steady herself. "Elia, that wasn't what it looked like."

"No?" I cut my gaze to Luca, whose shoulders seem to slump forward slightly at her insistence. Sliding my eyes back to my wife, I raise an eyebrow. "What was it, then? Were you, or were you not, making out with a man you're not in any way married to?"

She swallows, the curve of her neck rippling. "I was, but it's not—we aren't—it wasn't like that. There's nothing going on here."

"Interesting." Pushing off the staircase, I meander further into the kitchen and prop myself against the island. A quick sniff fills my senses with fresh baked goods, nearly sending me back in time to a period of my life I refuse to acknowledge, and I shake my head to collect my thoughts. "Pasini, do you concur with Mrs. Montalto?"

"Harrison." He drops his chin, tearing his eyes from mine. His voice is so soft; I almost don't catch the response.

"Excuse me?"

I see Caroline shift forward from the corner of my eye, inching her way in my direction. I'm not sure if she's wanting to choose sides or get close enough to attempt to incapacitate me, but I have some serious news for her if she brings her tight little body any fucking closer.

My heart swells in my chest as her sweet scent assaults me. Fucking hell, she's distracting. Behind the seam of my pants, my cock stiffens, coming to life at her proximity.

But I'm on a mission, and Montalto men are nothing without their willpower.

His eyes linger on her—a desperation I recognize all too well stuffed down as far as he can get it. There's a longing as he watches her, silently pleading. "Caroline, please. Don't do this."

Fuck. That.

As I cross the distance between myself and the young soldier, eating up the space like a man starved for violence, flames burn low in my abdomen, clenching around my organs. My heartbeat kicks up, a rapid-fire against my ribcage, making me lightheaded.

Rage clouds my vision and judgment, and before I have a chance to consider the consequences, my fist connects with Luca's jaw, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Spittle squirts from his lips as he bounces against the floor, hands immediately flying to his face.

I expect a scream, or a gasp, from behind me, but there's only silence. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, igniting my every nerve ending until all I can see and think and feel is murder.

Bending down, I grip the roots of his hair and strike his face against the marble before he has a chance to get back up. Blood spurts from his eyebrow as it breaks open, and I can hear the faint crack of his nose as it collides with the floor.

Getting to my feet, I dust off my suit jacket and exhale through my nose, steeling myself against how fucking good this all feels.

My black soul vies for the violence. The corruption. The power.

It's been so long since I really allowed myself to give in, but now that I have, I'm afraid I might not be able to stop.

My mother is probably rolling in her grave.

Pulling my calf back, I position my boot so it's aligned with his groin and kick forward with every ounce of anger coating my blood. It feels thick and evil, like hot molasses in mid-July, blurring my eyesight.

I kick until the only thought piercing my conscience is about my wife, and that this man had his hands on her. Something I vowed to protect her from, regardless of intent. Shame floods the recesses of my brain, a lighthouse calling me to shore, as I realize my absence this week maybe drove her to him.

What kind of a fucking husband just disappears on his wife?

My foot seems to continue of its own accord, propelled by the darkness within me, repeating the motion until his gurgling is the only sound present in the entire room. The distant noise of curdling liquid pulls me from my thoughts and grounds me in place.

I blink, feeling as though I've just woken from a blackout.

Luca's body curls into the fetal position, the response probably a reflex and defense mechanism, as he chokes on his spit and blood. I slam my fist once into the wall to shake myself out of this—to keep myself from killing him right here in front of Caroline.

Caroline.

Wheeling around, I notice she hasn't moved from her spot by the island. Her clear, blue eyes hold onto mine, an ocean of emotion swirling in their depths.

But I don't give her a chance to act on them—to run. Instead, I close the gap between us, cup her jaw in my bruised, bloodied hands, and crush my lips to hers.

There's only a hint of hesitation, the slightest gasp as she opens her mouth, and I tilt my head, adjusting so we fit better together. So, I can climb deeper inside.

And then, while her cousin—the man she nearly reached third base with—lies in agony, she raises up on her tiptoes and kisses me back.