“I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”
I release him and walk into the bedroom. Glass crunches under my shoe. I look down only to see the wedding band I ripped from her finger.
I called her a whore. I almost hit her.
“I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”
Won’t hurt as much. It had struck me when she’d first said it. Not a virgin, no. How badly did Marcus Rinaldi hurt her? Did he do more than she let on? And was her uncle lying when he told me that story of how her brothers humiliated her? Wouldn’t let Rinaldi touch her until after the wedding?
I shake my head, run a hand through my hair and bend to pick up the wedding band. I’d dropped it on the bed after forcing my mother’s ring from her finger.
Fuck.
Fuck me.
No. It’s not me who’s fucked. It’s her and I’m the asshole who let it happen.
I see the blood then. Not much but it’s there on the terra cotta tile. A deep red stain against the rusty orange. It comes off the ring when I smear my thumb over it. I slip the gold band onto my pinkie finger. It only goes to the first knuckle. She’s just a little thing. No match for the men who came for her.
“She was hunched over when they carried her out. Naked.”
Did he touch her? Jacob? Would he have touched her?
“No.” I pocket the ring and walk into the bathroom. If I go down that road, I will not be able to function.
This is where they surprised her. She must have been in the bath. Maybe trying to make sense of my accusation on our wedding night.
The tub is still mostly full and there’s a lot of water on the floor. A towel lies discarded a few feet away. If I know Scarlett, they must have dragged her out of the tub kicking and screaming. She’s a fighter. A survivor.
She’ll survive until I can get to her.
She has to.
“Cristiano,” my uncle calls, tucking his phone into his pocket.
“I want Jacob De La Cruz,” I say. “Alive.”
“Too late.”
“What?”
“His body was found at some docks near Genoa.”
“Genoa? That’s what? Seven hours away?”
“Chopper should be here...” we both hear the sound at the same time. “Now.”
“Where are Marcus and Felix?” I ask, as he and Antonio flank me on our way outside.
“Don’t know yet. I put men on it,” Antonio says.
The chopper lands, sending up a dust storm. I turn to Antonio. “Get Alec back to the house. I want you to watch him but don’t alert him to anything. Put a man you trust on him. I want to know who he talks to. If he makes any calls. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” He’s probably thinking the same thing I am. Why is Alec alive when they made sure everyone else was dead?
“Are you going home or coming with me?” I ask my uncle.
“I’m coming with you.”
I nod and the two of us, along with a handful of soldiers, head toward the chopper.
My uncle stops me a few feet away. “You should have told me this is where you wanted to spend your wedding night,” my uncle says. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the whirring of the blades.
“You’d try to talk me out of it.”
“And for good reason. Why didn’t you tell me? Even about the church?”
I consider my response. How much I want to give away. “You met with him,” I say, finished with games. I’ve been finished with them since I woke up from the coma. Time has become more valuable. And I’m fucking tired.
Both eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Met with who?”
“Rinaldi.”
“What?”
“Three years ago. On the balcony at the opera. I didn’t even know you liked opera, Uncle.” I study his face as I say it, laying out my cards, watching for any tells.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I have a photo. Several. You and him, in a private and very heated discussion.”
He studies me as closely, left eye narrowing infinitesimally. Then he laughs, just a quick burst of air as he shakes his head.
“It was a charity event. I’d been invited for my contribution. I can’t dictate who the opera allows in and who they bar from entry, now can I?”
“So, you just coincidentally happen to be there at the same time as the man who murdered your brother, your sister-in-law, your niece and nephews? And you’re able to hold a conversation with him knowing he’s responsible? Knowing what he did to my mother?” That last part I force out, blocking the emotion that wants to worm its way into my words.
“What exactly are you accusing me of?”
“I don’t know, Uncle.”
“Where is this photo? How did you get it?”
“Doesn’t matter. What were you talking about?”