When Villains Rise (Anti-Heroes in Love 2)

My whole life I’d strived for that just as Elena had, to be good and strong, to protect those I loved at all costs even if my morals didn’t take a traditional bent.

I’d been the hero no one wanted.

Until, now.

And fuck me, it felt good.

So, I kissed my wife again, pouring my love for her into her mouth like water into a vase, hoping to fill her to the brim with it.

And despite everything, I thought it was a fitting wedding night for two villains in love.

Part Two

New York City

Twenty-One

Elena

We were already on the plane somewhere over the Atlantic when I started to get that feeling.

The one that tightens your entire chest and floods it with acid.

The last twenty-four hours had gone off without a hitch. Rocco and his top capos were killed, Damiano and his best men had swooped in to take their place seamlessly, showing up at their various operations as if they had always worked there. One of Damiano’s men had been shot, but he’d survive, and Damiano was excited in a feral, gleeful way that Napoli was his to rule.

He was filled with ideas and savage with the aggression of a young alpha just come into his own.

Dante and I agreed it would be interesting to see how he fared.

By the time we boarded the private jet to take us to Costa Rica, I was exhausted. I’d help orchestrate a fake wedding, gotten married myself, been in a boat chase of all things and then shot another man in the chest all in the span of a day and a half.

It was a lot for anyone to handle and I fell asleep standing up while we were waiting to climb the stairs to the plane. Dante had seen me sway, dropped his carry-on to the ground and caught me before I could go down. He swung me up into his arms and carried me easily up the steps, ignoring my protests. I was only put down in the bedroom at the back of the aircraft and then tucked into bed securely, his face annoyed as if he should have thought to secure shackles to the bed so he could force me to sleep.

It was sweet in Dante’s domineering way.

I’d opened my mouth to argue with him as he pushed my hair from my face, but I fell asleep before I could figure out what to say.

Six hours later, when I woke, the feeling had started in my chest.

There was no reason for it yet.

We were on our way to start a life in Costa Rica. Dante had even bought me a Spanish phrase book from a tourist stand in Naples.

But something felt off.

I used the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, surprised when I look in the mirror to see how much I’d changed during my three weeks in Italy. My hair was threaded with gold from the sun, my skin warmed with a tan. But it was my eyes that seemed so very different.

I blinked at the dark gray orbs, noting the smile lines pressed to their corners, the wakefulness of my expression. In New York, I’d been so unhappy and constantly exhausted from work and spiritual melancholy that it had reflected in my face in a way I hadn’t even noticed at the time. My eyes were clear of dark circles and bags, my pale, indoors-only skin was rich with color and a healthy flush, my cheeks weren’t as gaunt and my hair looked shockingly nice in its natural wavy state.

I was even wearing something different than my usual neutral suits and silk blouses. The Dolce & Gabbana dress was cut simply, sleeves with an A-line skirt but it had a bold pattern of bright flowers I’d chosen because it reminded me of Italy and I wanted to take a piece of that with me when we left.

I looked like a new woman as much as I felt like one inside my soul.

My smile hooked one cheek and then the other until it dominated my entire face.

Momentarily, I forgot about the tight feeling in my chest and exited the bathroom into the hallway leading to the main seating area of the plane.

“You should tell her.”

I froze.

“Stai zitto,” Dante ordered blandly.

Shut up.

“No,” Frankie insisted. “You’re being a stronzo so I won’t shut up. This is the women you just made your wife, D. You exchanged fede. You know what that means?”

“I may not have been born in Italy, but I speak the language better than you,” he countered, still mild, but with a current of agitation threading through his tone.

“It means ‘faith’,” Frankie continued, unperturbed. “Those rings are a symbol of faith in each other and your relationship. Don’t make her doubt it when you’ve just begun. She’s stubborn, she might not forgive you.”