Is it because of Etta Bianchi?
Do they want us dead so he can marry her?
Although Ashton wouldn’t have to die for that to happen.
Just me.
My mouth is parched, and I exhale a heavy sigh. The remainder of the ride is basked in silence. Aurielo doesn’t attempt to converse. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
He’s stressed, and based on the speed he’s doing on the highway, he’s also in a rush to get us back to the house.
He doesn’t have to tell me he’s worried. I can see the fear written all over his face.
I’m just not sure why.
We just met. He wouldn’t be that upset if I died. It’s not like he’s in love with me. We hardly know each other.
Aurielo pulls through the open gate, and it quickly closes behind us. In a matter of minutes, we’re ushered inside the house, and he tosses his keys at his brother.
“Can you park the car, Giovan?” he asks. “I’ve got a bag of Gramps’ stuff in the trunk.”
“You want me to unload the trunk too?” Giovan asks. The smirk falls from his face. “You look like shit. What the hell happened out there?”
Ashton’s eyes glint with tears, and his bottom lip trembles. He holds up his arms to me, and I pick my little tiger up, assuring him that we’re all right and safe.
“Take him upstairs. I’ll let you know when dinner is ready,” Aurielo says.
I open my mouth to object, but he raises his hand, pointing at the stairs.
“Now!” he snaps.
A shiver courses through me as I carry Ashton up the stairs. It’s not easy, and I don’t dare ask for Aurielo’s help or for him to put himself out.
I get it that he’s stressed, but it’s no way to talk to me. Maybe that shit works with his brother, but I’m not his kin.
I’m his—wife.
Yeah, like that makes a difference.
We’re not the least bit equals.
He’s the mafia, and I’m his wife. Aurielo married me to protect me, but it doesn’t seem like it’s working out that way.
We’d be better off getting a divorce. Going our separate ways and never seeing each other again.
My back is sore as hell, but I make it up to the top of the steps. “Ashton, babe. You’re getting too big. Can Mommy put you down?” I should have done that at the bottom of the stairs, but I felt terrible for Ash. The kid has been through hell and doesn’t even understand what is going on.
How do I explain it to him?
I can’t.
He clutches tighter, and I grumble under my breath the last few steps to his bedroom door. I yank open the door and sit on the edge of the mattress, relieved that his weight is now just in my lap as we sit.
“I want to go home,” Ashton whispers. His fingers tangle in my long locks as he keeps his arms snug around my neck.
“I know, babe. I want that too, but for a while, this is going to be our home.” Telling him the truth is out of the question. He’s too young to understand what I’m doing is to protect him.
But I’ve failed him.