“Or ones who just can’t bear to be broken again.”
He lets that hang in the air between us, crackling like a live wire.
I stare at him, speechless. I simply can’t find any words.
Not only because of the raw vulnerability of it—something I never would have believed him possible of—but also because I know in my heart of hearts that what he said is the truth.
His truth.
He’s not like Enzo, or any of the other made men I know who take young brides in exchange for power, money, or family gain without a second thought to the girls’ feelings about it.
For Quinn, marriage isn’t part of a bigger game. It’s not about positioning his pawn on a chessboard like it is to my brother, or to have someone weaker to rule over with an iron fist like my husband did.
It’s about escape.
He wants to escape into marriage with the same longing I wanted to escape from it.
For me, marriage vows were the beginning of a long, horrible tumble into the dark.
For Quinn, they’re the end of it.
He’s been hurt so badly, he doesn’t think he can survive it again.
Everything I thought I knew about him was wrong.
I’m about to make another apology when he snaps, “Do us both a favor and get someone else to be Lili’s chaperone from now on. You’re too bitter a pill for me to swallow.”
He turns and walks away, shaking his head.
“Wait. Quinn, wait!”
I hop out of the SUV and hurry after him. He ignores me, striding quickly through the courtyard toward the front door. He throws it open, barging inside. I catch up to him in the foyer and grab his arm.
“For fuck’s sake, you stubborn Irishman, hold on! I want to tell you something!”
He whirls around, takes me by the shoulders, and pulls me against his chest. Staring down into my eyes with burning intensity, he growls, “Listen to me, viper. I’m marrying Lili, whether you like it or not. I’ll be good to her, whether you believe it or not. And I’ll thank you to keep your fucking opinions to yourself from now on.”
He pauses, nostrils flared and jaw clenched. He gazes at me with such searing intensity, it’s as if he’s trying to commit my face to memory.
“In fact, this is the last time I want to see you, ever again.”
Dear God, this man is impossible! “You’re overreacting.”
“Incorrect. If I were overreacting, I’d have Gianni throw you out of this house and onto your arse in the street for being so fucking disrespectful to me.”
My cheeks flame with heat. “My brother would never do that.”
“No? You want to bet on it?”
I’m about to say yes, but rethink it. There’s a good possibility Gianni would do anything Quinn asked. No matter how afraid of me he might be, he’s far more afraid of the Mob.
“That’s what I thought.”
I blurt, “I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I shouldn’t have—”
“Save your apologies. I don’t believe you, anyway.”
My hands are pressed flat against his chest. Underneath my palms, his heart pounds wildly. Instead of giving me the hard shake I know he’d like to give, he holds me captive against his body, glaring at me with the burning heat of a thousand suns.
And here I am once again, melting under his pure masculine beauty and wishing with all my heart this macho, swaggering idiot would kiss me.
But he just gave me an out from this madness. An out I can’t pass up, unless I want to make myself miserable and betray my niece in the meantime.
Lusting after another woman’s husband is unforgivable.
Especially if the woman is a blood relative.
Gazing up into his eyes, I say, “If you really don’t want to see me again, I’ll respect that. But at least let me attend the wedding. Lili will need me there. After that, I’ll be gone.”
Inhaling slowly, he stares at me in silence.
“Please, Quinn. She’s the only thing in the world that means anything to me. I know you don’t care about what I want, but I believe you do care about what she wants. And if she finds out you banned me from the wedding, she’ll be devastated. She’d never forgive you.”
“The only way she’d find out is if you told her.”
I snap, “She knows very well the only reason I wouldn’t be with her on her wedding day is if I were in a coma!”
“That can be arranged.”
I know it isn’t a threat, because the corners of his mouth turned up.
He’s teasing me.
Relieved, I roll my eyes. “So we’re agreed?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. His hands tighten around my shoulders. My heartbeat goes haywire.
Then, in a weary voice that sounds like he’s a thousand years old, he says, “Aye, viper. We’re agreed. The wedding is the last time we’ll see each other.”
“Okay. Oh…wait.”
“What?” he growls, aggravated.
“What should I tell her about all the rest of the times?”
“What times?”
“Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays.” I gasp in horror. “Christmas! Oh, God, Quinn, what am I supposed to tell her about why I can never come visit her for Christmas?”
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you unleashed your demon tongue on me.”
“But—”
“You’ll think of something!” he interrupts loudly. “Jesus Christ on a fucking crutch, you’re enough to drive a man to drink!”
He releases me, drags both hands through his hair, emits a sound a rabid bear might make, and turns to head in the direction of the kitchen.
Halfway down the corridor, he turns back abruptly and shouts, “Don’t forget about my bloody supper, woman!”
He turns around and continues down the hall, leaving me seething.
He’s ordering me around again? He just banned me from seeing my own niece, and now he’s hollering commands at me about making his goddamn dinner?
And he’s calling me WOMAN?
Glaring with narrowed eyes at his retreating back, I mutter, “I hope you like spider stew.”
11
Spider
Once in the kitchen, I head straight to the wine fridge, pull out a bottle of Cabernet, and bring it over to the big marble island. I grab a corkscrew and open the wine, all the while breathing deeply to try to calm my throbbing heartbeat.
That fucking female could give me a heart attack.
And not only because of those perfect tits.
“Hey. Irish.”
I’m so startled by the voice, I drop the corkscrew and curse. “Christ! I didn’t see you there.”
Reyna’s mother sits at the kitchen table, squinting at me from behind her glasses.
It’s unnerving how she does that. It’s as if the woman can materialize out of thin air, like Dracula.
I exhale hard and add in a more civilized tone, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Caruso. I’m not myself today.”
She snorts and says something in Italian.
I don’t know what it is. I also don’t want to know. I grab two wineglasses from the cabinet and bring them and the bottle over to the table.
I sit down across from her, open the wine, pour us both a glass, and raise mine. “Sláinte.”