Toxic Love: A Dark Enemies To Lovers Mafia Romance
Toxic Love: Chapter 32

I love New York City. I was born here, and I’ve lived here my entire life reveling in the gorgeous chaos of it. That said, getting out of it from time to time is great, too.

…Even if that getaway is less “vacation” and more “fleeing clear and present danger”.

When we first start to drive to the Hamptons, Dante is incredibly convincing at making it sound like he just needs a break from work, and that is why we’re headed out there.

Or at least, it would be convincing if I was a complete idiot.

“Old wine bottles don’t randomly produce arsenic. I googled it.”

His eyes swivel to mine for a second. “Look, this is just a precautionary⁠—”

“Someone tried to kill you!” My heart is pounding. “And my brothers! And your response is for us to just leave and⁠—”

“There are ten of my best men watching your brothers, and Maeve, and even your turd of a grandfather.”

I frown. “But you don’t even like my brothers.”

“Well…” His hand slides across the middle column of the Mercedes SUV, his fingers lacing tight with mine. “I kinda like you. So, figured I’d keep them safe, too.”

My face heats. “Kinda like me, huh?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

I turn away, grinning like an idiot out the passenger window.

“He is a real turd of a grandfather, isn’t he?”

Dante chuckles as the car accelerates down 495, and the city begins to recede.

The first few days we’re out at Dante’s house I call my brothers, and Maeve, and Bianca almost daily to check in on them, which is comforting and keeps me from freaking out. Pam, bless her heart, arranges for a courier to cart a giant cooler full of my frozen smoothies out to the Hamptons. She might not be the warm and fuzzy type, but it’s sweet of her to do. Especially since she’s also dealing with the after-effects of mild arsenic poisoning, after sneaking a little of the wine Gabriel opened up. I think she was also convinced she was going to be fired for that, until my brother assured her he was more concerned about her being okay that about a few sips of wine.

I don’t just up and forget that someone tried to poison me and those closest to me. But as the days tick by, being out here starts to feel more and more like a vacation.

Dante and I cook dinner every night. We take walks along the beach—shadowed, of course, by at least three of his men. We watch old movies, lounge around reading, and spend a ridiculous amount of time fucking each other’s brains out.

Jesus, I could get used to this.

But a week into living at Dante’s sprawling shore house, I’m starting to go a little stir crazy. It’s gorgeous out here, but at the same time, I mean, there’s only so many walks on the beach you can take.

The weather is crappy on the day I decide to go exploring. Dante’s on some work calls in his office, so I start to poke around the several thousand square feet of this house I haven’t seen yet.

I meander through the library, the pool house, the massive basement wine cellar. I check out guest rooms, sitting rooms, the massive ballroom where he threw our engagement party.

Eventually, I open a door to what appears to be Dante’s second home office. It’s small, with gorgeous built-in bookshelves and huge picture windows overlooking the Long Island Sound.

It’s the kind of home office that makes me want to get my shit together and figure out what the heck I want to be when I grow up so I can work out of it.

At least, if I was going to grow up.

I’m getting worse. The spells of confusion and dizziness are becoming more frequent. My appetite sucks, to the point that I’m basically living off smoothies, water, and the odd cracker.

…And I threw up more blood a few days ago.

I resolutely shove all of that aside.

Dying sucks, but that doesn’t mean I have to spend whatever time I have left being miserable. I mean, here I am, living in a mansion, spending my days and nights lounging around like I’m on vacation and having the most mind-blowing sex any woman has ever had with a bona fide sex god.

There are seriously worse ways to spend the last grains of sand in your hourglass.

I slump down into the comfy leather office chair at the desk. For a few minutes, I just swivel idly, looking out the window at the ocean. Then, of course, my curiosity gets the better of me and I start to paw through the desk for no other reason than I’m bored.

There are some financial records, some contractors’ receipts for work done on Club Venom. An opened invitation to some gala at The Plaza, and a buyer’s information packet on a yacht. Ooh, yacht.

Then, beneath some random papers in the bottom drawer, I replace it: a dark wooden box.

Something in the back of my brain tells me to leave it alone. It’s not mine, and it’s certainly none of my business, and I shouldn’t be snooping like this.

So, obviously, I pull it out, set it on the desk in front of me, and slowly open the lid.

Instantly, my breath sucks in sharply, a chill zipping down my spine, like I’ve just seen a ghost.

Layla’s smiling face beams up at me from the Polaroid photo, her green eyes shining, her smile wide and welcoming, and her hand raised with her fingers making a peace sign. I wince as my heart clenches sharply.

God, she was so beautiful. And fun, and bubbly. She was the life of every party, without being an attention seeker or making it all about her. Everyone just gravitated toward Layla.

…Including—for reasons I still don’t know and that I’ve been afraid to think about for the last month—Dante.

Dante, who wasn’t friends with her, yet brought her to the hospital that day.

Dante, who married her in her final minutes, and then completely shut out our entire family.

I swallow thickly as I lift the photo from the box. Beneath it is another Polaroid: Layla again, but this time, she’s taking a selfie with her arm around Dante’s shoulders.

He’s smiling.

What the fuck?

There’s a handwritten letter from Layla to Dante, addressed to him in Sicily. In it, she talks about being home for the winter holidays from Knightsblood, and about our brothers, and me, and says she hopes Dante is having a good Christmas with the Barone family.

I pull out more Polaroids from the box: pictures of Layla lounging in her dorm room at Knightsblood. One of Dante striking a silly pose in a winter coat, standing on a rock next to the ocean.

One of the two of them, huddled close together.

I feel something stab in my chest.

They don’t look like strangers who didn’t know each other. They look like best friends.

The stabbing sensation twists sharply.

Not best friends. Closer than that.

I shouldn’t have opened this.

I hate that I’m shaking, and I hate that I’m jealous, but I really hate that it looks like Dante and my own sister were a hell of a lot more than “strangers”. Angrily, my stomach churning, I start to collect everything hurriedly to shove it back in the box. In my haste, I bump the box with my elbow and tips over, dumping the rest of the contents across the desk.

I was hurt before. I felt sick and devastated and jealous beyond belief to see those photos.

…But nothing on earth can prepare me for what I replace myself staring down at, there in black and white, on the desk.

Dante looks up from his desk when I come surging into the room. He mutters something into his phone before he hangs up and gets to his feet.

“Whoa, what’s going⁠—”

“I want the truth!!” I blurt, shaking as tears stream down my face. My entire body feels like it’s wrenching in two, my heart twisting around itself as my stomach ties into knots.

Dante blinks in confusion.

“Tempest—”

“TELL ME!” I scream. “What were you and my sister?!”

He goes still.

“Go ahead!” I yell. “Go ahead and lie! Tell me you didn’t even know each other! Tell me you just happened to take her to the hospital that night! And fucking marry her!!”

Dante’s jaw ticks. “It was a complicated situation, Tempest,” he growls quietly. “As were the reasons for my actions that horrible day⁠—”

“Complicated because she was fucking pregnant?!”

I hurl the ultrasound picture with Layla’s name at the top at him. My vision blurs as I start to shake uncontrollably.

“You motherfucker!!” I scream again. “You—you⁠—”

“Tempest, listen to⁠—”

“I’m going to be sick.” I whirl aimlessly in circles as my breathing comes faster and faster. “This is so fucking…this is fucked up!” I wheel on him abruptly. “Is this some sick, twisted fetish of yours?! Fuck one girl and then fuck her little sister, too⁠—”

“I never slept with Layla,” Dante chokes through clenched teeth.

“She was fucking pregnant, you son of⁠—”

“NOT. BY. ME!!”

His voice booms through the room, momentarily stunning me and knocking the air from my lungs. Dante charges around the corner of his desk, and before I can run, he’s grabbed me by the wrists and yanked me tight against his chest.

“Listen to me.”

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” I scream and sob, tears flowing down my face. “Get away from me! I hate you! I fucking hate⁠—!”

“Your sister, Tempest!” Dante roars abruptly, shocking me into silence. His eyes burn into mine, his jaw clenching as a vein pops on his forehead. “Your sister,” he chokes a little more quietly, “saved my life, and she was my best, and for a while my only, friend.”