Ruthless Monarch

“Come on, let’s go to the living room. We can talk there, and you can fill me in on what’s going on in your life, and I’ll do the same.”

It must be shock from how big this place is or something because she still has a weird look in her eyes. But when I start to walk, she snaps out of it, following me out of the foyer, down the hall, and into the living room.

“This living room is giant,” she finally blurts out, looking wide-eyed. “The whole house is, actually. He’s like a billionaire, huh?”

I don’t know what to say to that.

The only thing I can do is shrug, not feeling comfortable talking about my husband’s finances.

“I think it’s a family home. Passed down from generation to generation. I never really asked Matteo. He told me a little bit about it, but I’m not really sure.”

“Well, it’s magnificent, no matter what. It seems your impromptu decision to marry a mob boss paid off.”

My eyes go wide at what she says.

The bite and bitterness to her tone not lost on me.

I have no idea what’s crawled up her ass, but I don’t like it.

“Listen, I know you are upset with me, but don’t you think it’s gone too far? Yes. I married Matteo without telling you.

“Yes, I didn’t invite you. But there are things you don’t understand about the circumstances. I had no choice to do it the way I did. I’m so sorry I hurt you, but I couldn’t not . . .”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“My father . . . he threatened.” I shake my head back and forth. Not able to say more.

Although so much of this concerns her, she doesn’t know a lot of it, and I don’t even know how to tell her. I don’t even know where to begin.

“And what of me, you can’t trust me?”

“I’m sorry, can we please talk about something else?”

I think she’s going to argue. I think she might even sit up, stand, and then demand to be driven somewhere else, but she doesn’t, which is slightly shocking to me.

“Can you at least tell me if he’s horrible to you? Would you at least be honest about that?”

“Truth?”

“I always want the truth from you.” Again, her words hang in the air. The air that now feels oppressive with my lies. But am I really lying? Is withholding information a lie?

Many, many years ago as a little girl too young to understand the ramifications of my actions, I made a promise to a very bad man.

At the time, I didn’t realize what I was getting myself into. Had I known then what I know now, I would’ve dealt with the consequences of my actions instead of making a deal with the devil.

My father.

It’s funny how twelve years later, I made a different deal with a different devil. I can only hope this one will turn out better.

“Believe it or not, he’s actually been good to me.”

Great, if you consider him in bed.

“So is it real now, is it a real marriage? Are you ever coming back to the city?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit, running a hand through my dark locks.

“Does he even have a residence in the city?”

“He does. It’s nothing like this place.”

“What do you mean?”

For some reason, I feel as though I’m not supposed to talk about his apartment in the city. He didn’t specifically say anything, but I also didn’t tell him I would. I’ve vaguely remembered him saying people don’t know where it is, but telling her where it is and what it looks like are two different entities. We’re already fighting so much I can feel the tension in the air. What’s the harm?

“He actually owns a warehouse. It’s really cool. From the outside, you would think it’s a dump, but inside, it’s state-of-the-art. The rooms are beautiful. Nothing like this, it’s modern contemporary, a bit sterile, but beautiful nonetheless.”

“Must be nice.”

I lift a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, I just mean it must be nice to have two beautiful homes. That’s all.”

She gives me a smile . . . but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. A part of me thinks she’s jealous.

And from her point of view, I can understand how this all sounds a bit crazy.

Hell, to me, it sounds crazy, and I have all the information.

To her, she has so little of it.

You could tell her.

The dumb insistent voice in my head cuts through, demanding I give it voice.

I can’t, though.

That was the stipulation.

Never tell Julia.

Never tell Jonathan.

The money would stop.

I have done all that I have to take care of the family, all to get so close to finding a way out.

“Tell me what you’ve been up to,” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from Matteo and me.

By the way she smiles, it appears she’s okay with this segue.