The Kiss Thief(56)

I couldn’t unsee the bloodbath between her legs, or the way her thighs shook, twitched, and tensed under mine.

I’d always had a talent for reading people. That was how I’d become a star politician, impeccable prosecutor, and one of the most formidable men in Chicago. Which was at odds with the fact that I failed to notice my young, very sheltered, nervous fiancée was a virgin. I was so blinded with rage thinking she’d slept with Angelo that I didn’t take her word for it. And she—the smart, sensitive, gorgeous vixen that she was—served me with a healthy slice of humble pie, making me finish every bite of what I’d started.

I should’ve seen it from miles away. She came from a strict Italian family and went to church every Sunday. She simply wanted me to see her as more worldly and less of a na?ve little mouse. Unfortunately, it worked. Too well for her liking.

The weight of my guilt sat squarely on my shoulders. I shredded her savagely, and she met me, thrust for thrust, her eyes on mine, her tears fierce but silent. I thought she was guilty and angry with emotion. I hadn’t realized I was bulldozing through walls I had no right bringing down.

Traditionally, in Italian weddings in The Outfit, the bridegroom was supposed to present the bloodied sheets to his peers. I had no doubt Arthur Rossi was going to die a slow, painful, internal death if I sent her sheets his way six days before the wedding. There was no mistaking what happened here. And there was no confounding Francesca suffered every moment of it. But somehow, and despite my worst intentions, I couldn’t bring myself to do that to her.

I retired to my study, resisting the urge to check in on her. I wasn’t entirely sure I should give her time, but I no longer trusted my instincts when it came to her. Typically a cruel and calculated creature, I’d lost control several times in the past month, all of them because of my young bride-to-be. Maybe it was best to take my housekeeper’s advice and let her be.

I opted to work at home that day on the off chance she’d leave her room. She’d missed her appointments, and when her mother came to pick her up to shop for her upcoming school year, Sterling sent her away, albeit with a carrot cake, explaining that Francesca was suffering from a terrible migraine. Mrs. Rossi looked distraught as her driver pulled away from the curb. Through the window of my study, I caught her trying desperately to call her daughter. Still, I didn’t have it in me to feel sorry about what happened to anyone who was not my future wife.

The day passed, as bad days do, significantly slow. All the meetings I’d summoned to my house turned beneficial and productive, however. I’d even managed to squeeze in a conference call with my public relations manager and his assistant, something I’d postponed for weeks. When I finally left my office, it was well past dinnertime.

I ate in the kitchen, not meeting Sterling’s judgmental gaze. She sat across from me, her hands in her lap, staring at me as though I just mauled a baby. In a sense, that was exactly what I had done.

“Any more great ideas? Maybe I should send her back to her parents?” I snarled when it became apparent she was not going to stop looking at me.

“You should definitely not do that.” It was the first time Sterling spoke to me in that tone. Even when I was a child, she did not treat me like one. She did now.

“I’m not going to wait for her to come out any longer.”

“You shouldn’t have waited a minute,” she agreed, sipping my fine scotch. Things were dire between Francesca and me if Sterling resorted to drinking. She hadn’t drunk an alcoholic beverage in two decades.

“Then why did you tell me to wait?” I flipped over the plate with the prime rib, sending it flying across the kitchen. It crashed against the wall.

“I wanted you to suffer the way she did.” She shrugged, standing up and walking out of the kitchen, leaving me to stew in the fact that I did, in fact, suffer.

I fixed myself a glass of bourbon, heavy on the rocks, and made my way to the east wing. Nem’s bedroom door was closed, and I pushed it halfway open without knocking, out of habit, before thinking the better of it.

I brushed my knuckles over the oak wood of her door.

“May I come in?” My voice felt stiff and rigid.

I did not ask for permission to do anything.

And I was not fond of the idea of making it a habit.

No answer.

I pressed my head to the hard surface and closed my eyes, breathing in traces of her scent. The mandarin shampoo she used. The sweet, vanilla lotion that made her skin glow. The thought she was so sore she might have needed to go to the doctor’s today flashed through my mind, accompanied by an even more unsettling idea—Francesca wouldn’t tell me if she was too sore. She would cling to the remainder of her pride. The same pride I stripped off her viciously in my quest to avenge something that did not really happen.

I pushed the door open, finding my fiancée splayed on her four-poster bed, staring at nothing. I followed her line of vision. It was a blank spot on the wall that captured her attention. She did not so much as blink when I stepped in.

I made my way to her, sat on the edge of her bed, and took a sip of my bourbon, handing it over to her. She ignored both me and the drink.

“I’m sorry,” I rasped.

“Go away,” she groaned.

“I’m not sure that’s an option,” I admitted frankly. “The more you think about what happened, the more you’ll hate me.”