The Woman with the Ring (Costa Family)

He didn’t approach.

Of course not.

He wanted me to come to him.

For appearances’ sake.

And I had no choice but to do so.

I was just moving down the aisle toward him when I felt it.

A hand grazing my ass.

And, honestly, I was just going to keep on moving. I’d confronted handsy men in the past and things tended to get pretty scary when you stood up for yourself. I wasn’t big or strong enough to take on a full-grown man, so I’d learned to bite my tongue and endure the indignity.

See, the thing was, I didn’t really just belong to myself anymore, did I? I belonged, in a way, to Primo. And Primo was big and strong. And he was not someone who tolerated disrespect.

I’d gotten to the table only to have him bark at me to sit while he started marching up the aisle.

Really, I figured he would give the man a few harsh words, using his intimidating stature against the stranger. Maybe even throw around a “do you know who I am?” sort of thing.

So I sat initially.

For all of five seconds.

Before there was the sound of women shrieking and silverware clattering, and something slamming down hard.

My heart leaped into my throat as I twisted around to see Primo’s hand grabbing the back of the man’s neck, yanking his face off of the table only to slam him down again.

People panicked and fled their tables while the staff stood back in shock, doing nothing. But of course they wouldn’t do anything. This was the same community that hadn’t saved a kidnapped woman, either.

I knew enough about the world I’d been born into—and now married into—to know that the mob still had a stranglehold on their communities. Whether they got that mind-my-own-business attitude from fear or respect was anyone’s guess. But either one was equally effective.

And judging by the psychotic display Primo was exhibiting, I had to imagine he ruled with fear, not respect.

I watched with a twisting stomach as he slammed the man’s head down a third time. He showed no signs of slowing down.

He was going to kill the man.

Right there in public in front of dozens of witnesses.

A part of me should have been thrilled. He’d go to jail and I’d be free. But I couldn’t just let him murder a man for copping a feel. Knock a little sense into him? Sure. But this was too much.

“Stop,” I demanded, getting to my feet.

My heartbeat was hammering in my chest, my pulse fluttering in my throat and temples. I wasn’t the bravest of women. And I certainly wasn’t brave in the face of fearsome violence. But everyone else seemed even more terrified than me. So I had to be the one to step in.

“Stop!” I yelled louder as I took a step forward. “Enough. That’s enough,” I demanded, but Primo was in his own twisted head. He wasn’t hearing me.

Blood splattered over the tablecloth.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at the man’s face. I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. And I didn’t have the kind of stomach that could handle that kind of thing.

“Stop,” I tried again. “Primo, stop!” I demanded, pressing a hand to the center of his chest.

And that, that barely-there touch, managed to penetrate through his rage where my words could not. His hand held the man’s head against the table as his gaze slid to me.

“That’s enough,” I told him, voice calm even if my insides felt like they were shaking. Because when I tell you that you could see evil in that man’s eyes, I wasn’t exaggerating.

His chest was heaving a bit but I watched as he unclenched his jaw, as he came back down into a more rational version of himself.

“Not quite,” he said.

And before I could react, he was grabbing the man’s hand in both of his, the same one he’d grabbed me with, and slammed it down on the edge of the table with a horrific cracking sound followed by the howling of the man.

“No one touches what is mine,” he announced, loud enough for anyone who was listening—meaning everyone in the restaurant—to hear. His gaze slid back to me then—unreadable—as he wiped his hands down the sides of his stomach. “Come, sit,” he said, waving toward the table.

“You expect me to sit at a table and share a meal with you after that?” I snapped, voice a whisper only he could hear.

“That is exactly what you are going to do,” he said, one hand moving outward toward me.

“Don’t touch me,” I whispered to him again, watching as that brow of his quirked up.

He didn’t snatch his hand back, but rather hovered it over my lower back as I turned and marched back to our table since it didn’t exactly seem like I had much choice in the matter.