The Mafia Boss Who Captivated Me
99

LORENZO

PROLOGUE

Rain bounces off the fabric only a few inches above my head. A constant hammering of tiny bullets bears down on the sea of black umbrellas currently sheltering the fake mourners from the driving Chicago rain. The priest stands just a few feet

in front of us, yet his words are drowned out by the storm. Or maybe it's the sound of blood rushing in my ears that makes me struggle to hear what he says.

It doesn't matter that I can't hear him. I already know the well-practiced speech falling from his lips. What a kind soul she was. How she was a light in this dark fucking world. Both true.

How God has called her home. Fucking liar. Her home is here. With me.

I step out from beneath the umbrella being held over me and blink up at the gray clouds rolling overhead. I want to feel the rain drip down my face. I want the cold rainwater to soak this goddamn suit-the one that was laid out on the bed for me this morning, as though I'm suddenly incapable of dressing myself. I want to feel anything other than this deep gnawing emptiness that consumes me-eating through my bones and feasting on my soul.

The shadow of the umbrella arches over my head again, and a growl of warning rumbles in my throat.

There's a sigh of exasperation. The shadow disappears.

A snarling order to leave me alone comes from my younger brother who stands a few feet behind me. I close my eyes and tilt my head to the sky, tuning out the priest's voice as he raises it a few octaves to be heard over the hammering rain. Water runs down my face, trickling into my ears and down my neck, soaking the crisp collar of my shirt. What if I could drown in this? Open my mouth and let the rainwater fill my throat and my lungs while everyone stands around crying fake tears and holding handkerchiefs to their faces? Or what if I simply opened her casket and crawled inside with her? Took her in my arms and lay with her for eternity, like I was supposed to.

That was the fucking deal, Anya! Forever! You promised me forever.

I see her beautiful face-etched with so much pain despite the drugs given to help ease her suffering. Her final words ring in my ears-my dearest love-and they rip a fresh gaping wound in the center of my chest. If I concentrate hard enough and drown out this entire fucking shitshow of a day, I can still feel her warmth when I held her one last time. As she slipped away in my arms. I felt her passing in every cell of my body, like it was my own death I lived through rather than hers. The devil himself dragged me to hell with the visceral tearing of her soul from this world.

Rage simmers, deep inside my gut, but it's buried by too much grief and guilt and pain to boil over the surface. How could I, the most powerful fucking man in Chicago, not save her? Despite all my money, my resources, and my family's name- a name that can move fucking mountains-I couldn't give her even one more moment. Never have I felt so powerless, so utterly hopeless and alone, as when I watched my wife take her last breath in my arms. Because I allowed it to happen. I didn't stop it. I couldn't stop it.

Tears run down my face, indistinguishable from the freezing rain if not for the sharp contrast of their heat. Maybe I will join her-wait here until they're all gone and fucking climb in there. Fall asleep and never wake up. My heart shudders violently, reminding me that it's broken beyond repair. As if I could fucking forget.

Soft fingers curl around my left hand, slender digits threading through my thick ones. My sister, Joey. And now my right; my sister-in-law, Kat. Hands that are slight and nimble against my own, but too strong for me to pull away from, like vines on the trunk of a tree.

I feel the weight of their concern as they watch me, but I keep my head tilted toward the sky. They squeeze my hands tighter, letting me know they're still here. Reminding me that their tears are as real as mine. They loved her too. How could they not? Anyone who was given the opportunity to truly know my sweet, beautiful wife couldn't help but love her. She was the best person I've ever known. The best part of me.

And now she's gone.

And I'm left to endure this life without her. Left with no heart and only half a soul and the knowledge that I'll never love another woman for the rest of my days. I promised her that when she closed her eyes for the final time, and it's a promise I will keep with my dying breath.

TWO YEARS LATER

My husband towers over me, his lips twisted into a cruel sneer as he threads his belt through his the loops of his trousers. I rest my throbbing head against the kitchen cupboard and blink away the trickle of blood dripping into my eye, too afraid to swat it away in case he sees the motion as a pathetic attempt at retaliation. I've learned that the best way to handle him when he's like this is to remain as small and as still as possible. Let him think he's won.

"And I want you and this entire goddamn house cleaned by the time I finish my shift tonight," he says, his bared teeth making him look like a diseased weasel. To compare my husband to a dog would be far too kind; dogs are loyal and protective and sweet. He fastens his belt, the metal buckle clattering loudly. "I ain't fucking you in that state."

My faint nod is met with an arrogant snort, and he glances over my almost-naked body, surveying his handiwork. With a final curl of his lip, he turns around, grabs his gun, and strides out of the kitchen-transforming into Sergeant Mulcahy, upstanding and decorated officer of the Boston PD.

As soon as the door closes, I force myself to sit up and run my tongue around the inside of my mouth. The metallic tang of blood seeps into my tastebuds, but at least I didn't lose any teeth this time. I glance at the broken breakfast dishes littering the ground around me. Coffee and cereal are splattered all over the cabinets and the new cream floor tile we picked out together a few weeks ago.

It will take hours to clean the kitchen to meet Brad's exacting standards. Getting my feet underneath me, I wince at the throbbing ache in my head, ribs, and thighs. When I feel steady enough to move, I stumble out of the kitchen and into the downstairs bathroom. With the light on, my gaze is drawn straight to the mirror over the sink, but there's no need to prepare myself for the sight that greets me. How sad is that? I can't remember the last time I looked in a mirror after one of Brad's outbursts and felt shocked or surprised by what he'd done to me. Sad and hurt-that still gets me every time-but not surprised.

I run the water and grab a washcloth, soaking it before placing it over my right eye. Then I repeat the process I've done so many times that I don't even have to think about it anymore. My muscles move of their own volition, like a machine. I always clean my face before getting into the shower to survey the rest of the damage and to clean his cum from between my thighs. Bruises on my body I can hide, but bruises on my face require more care.

Not that I care as much about that today. Sergeant Mulcahy does whatever he can to keep tabs on me. He tapped my phone to listen in on conversations with my friends, which rarely happens these days, and he combs through my accounts and books to make sure I'm only giving massages to clients he deems appropriate. Brad sees everything-everything except me.

He's so focused on controlling my life outside of these walls, he pays little attention to my life within it. So when I occasionally have a spot of car grease on my T-shirt or a scratch on my knuckles, he doesn't even notice. I always have an explanation ready just in case, but I've never needed one.

Done showering, I wrap a towel around myself and look in the mirror. There's a gash above my right eye and the deep purple bruise spreads over my entire cheekbone. Lifting my chin, I study the fingertip-shaped bruises around my neck and touch the cut on my bottom lip. I give myself a confident smile. This is the last time.

After my shower, I feel fresh and clearheaded. I thought it would be different. I thought my hands would tremble, that my heart would race, but I feel surprisingly calm. Calm when I walk upstairs and take the small orange floral suitcase from the bottom of the closet. Calm when I fill it with my essential toiletries, several pairs of clean underwear, and a few changes of clothes. I'm still calm when I walk down the stairs, suitcase in hand, and make my way through the kitchen, littered with the remnants of breakfast. I grab my purse, but I leave my cell phone on the counter. It's little more than a glorified tracker these days.

Opening the garage door, I smile when I see it. My green goddess. The 1986 Mustang that Brad and his brother, Jake, bought four years ago, shortly after their father died. The one they swore they'd fix up and take on a road trip. Neither of them has touched it since, but I've spent the last year fixing it. It's incredible what you can learn online these days. I mean, you can get yourself a degree using only a computer, right? No reason you can't learn to fix an engine that way too. Humming "Bright Side of the Road," I can't stop grinning as I pop the trunk and place my bag inside. I climb into the car and, with a deep breath, run my hands over the steering wheel. This is it. My ticket to freedom. It's been a long time coming.

I get her fired up, and the roar of the engine vibrates through my bones. It's the sweetest sound I've heard in my entire life. Excitement and trepidation coil in my gut. After checking my reflection one last time, I put on my sunglasses, hiding the worst of the bruises. Not that it matters where I'm headed, but I don't want some cop seeing my busted face and pulling me over out of concern while I'm getting there. It's a fifteen-hour drive, and apart from bathroom breaks and filling up on gas, I have no intention of stopping until I arrive at my destination.

I've got one shot at this, and there isn't a snowball's chance in hell I'm going to screw it up.