“She wouldn’t dare.”

I arched an eyebrow. “The girl you gave away wouldn’t. Me? I might.”

Wolfe handed me the knife, leaning back on the wall as I stood in front of the man who created me holding a weapon in my hand. Could I do it? I stared at my father’s open palm, outreached and staring back at me. The same palm he’d used earlier this evening to slap me in the face. The same palm that was directed at my mother.

But also the same palm that braided my hair during bedtime after Clara washed it. The same hand who patted my own not too long ago at the masquerade, belonging to a man who stared at me as though I was the brightest star in the sky.

I held the Swiss knife with quivering fingers. It nearly slipped from between them. Dammit. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

I shook my head, handing Wolfe the Swiss knife.

My father clucked his tongue in satisfaction.

“You will always be the Francesca I raised. A spineless little lamb.”

Ignoring him and the churning in my stomach, I took a step back.

Wolfe took the knife from my hand, his face placid, grabbed my father’s hand, and sliced it open vertically, cutting shallow and wide. Blood gushed out, and I winced, looking away. Papa stood there, staring at the blood pouring from his open palm, oddly tranquil. Wolfe turned around and pulled the linen from my bed, then threw it into my father’s hands. His blood soiled the sheets as he clutched them.

“Bastardo,” my father mouthed. “You were born a bastard, and no matter your shoes and suits—you will die one, too.” He stared at my husband with sheer hate in his eyes.

“You were the original bastard.” Wolfe grinned. “Before you became a Made Man.”

Whoa. My eyes ping-ponged between them, shooting to my father.

Instead of gracing the accusation with an answer, my father had told me that his own parents died in a car crash when he was eighteen, but I’d never seen any pictures of them. He pinned me with his narrow, indigo eyes.

“Vendicare me.”

Avenge me.

“Take the sheets and get the hell out. Tomorrow morning, you may present them to your very close family members. No friends. No Made Men. And if this leaks to the media, I will make sure to personally put that knife to your neck…and twist hard,” Wolfe said, unbuttoning the first buttons of his dress shirt.

My father turned his back on us and stalked out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.

The thud of the door banging still rang in my ears when I registered my new reality—married to a man who did not love me but enjoyed my body frequently. Betrothed to a man who did not want to have kids and hated my father with passion.

“I’ll take the couch,” Wolfe said, grabbing a pillow from the bed and throwing it over on a settee by my window. He wasn’t going to share a bed with me. Even on our wedding night.

I scurried into bed and turned off the light.

Neither of us said good night.

We both knew it was just another lie.

A WEEK TICKED BY AND Wolfe and I eased back into our usual nighttime routine.

There was plenty of kissing, touching galore, licking and moaning and taunting each other with our mouths and fingers alone. But every time he went there—really there—I recoiled and asked him to leave the room. He always did. The pain I endured my first time left me scarred and scared. Not just physically, either. The way he hadn’t believed served as a reminder that we didn’t share much more than physical attraction. There was no trust. No love.

We were going to have sex, and probably soon—but only on my terms. Only when I felt comfortable.

Life crawled on. The days were busy and cluttered with things to do and places to go, yet nothing of significance happened.

My husband was growing frustrated with my refusal to sleep with him. Ms. Sterling was growing frustrated with how we shared lust but nothing else, and my father had stopped talking to me altogether, though my mother continued to call me every day.

Seven days after the wedding, I walked out of college, heading for Smithy’s waiting car. When I reached the black Cadillac, I found Smithy leaning against the passenger door with his cheap suit and black Ray-Bans. He rolled a lollipop in his mouth from side to side, offering me a nod.

“Your turn to drive.”

“Huh?”

“Big man’s order. He said it’s cool since there are no highways on the way home.”

I’d only had two lessons with Wolfe since he’d promised to teach me—my husband didn’t have much time outside of his work life—but I knew I could do it. Wolfe said I was a natural, and he wasn’t loose in the compliments department. Besides, Smithy was right—the way back to the house was urban and busy. It was perfect for practice.

“All right.” I bit down a giddy smile. Smithy threw the keys in the air, and I caught them. He pushed off the car and signaled to the coffee shop on the other side of the street.

“Nature’s calling.”

“Feel free to pick up.”

He came back after five minutes, all smiles.

“If your husband ever asks, please don’t tell him I even mentioned that I’m capable of peeing. He just might cut off my dick for reminding you that it is there.” He surprised me with the banter, and I shook my head, smiling.

“Wolfe’s not like that.”

“You’re kidding, right? Wolfe cares about everything you do or are exposed to, including annoying radio commercials and that street you hate because there’s a stray cat living there.”

“We need to find it a home,” I pointed out, sliding into the driver’s seat and dragging it forward to adjust it to my small frame. I fixed the mirrors, then sighed and turned on the keyless ignition. The vehicle purred to life. I wrapped my fingers around the wheel just as Smithy slid into the seat next to me.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

He gestured with his freckled hand toward the horizon. He had a mane of red-orange hair and matching eyelashes.

“Take us home, Frankie.”

It was the first time he’d called me Frankie, and for some reason, it made my heart flutter. My mother called me Vita Mia, my father hadn’t called me anything at all recently, and Wolfe referred to me as Nemesis or Francesca. Angelo referred to me as goddess, and I missed it. I missed him.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to him in a lifetime. I contemplated texting him to check if he was fine, but I didn’t want to enrage my husband. Instead, I asked Mama if he was doing okay during our daily chats. She said that Angelo’s father, Mike, was livid and complaining to Papa about my husband’s unfair behavior toward his son, which only put more strain on their already problematic relationship since my sudden marriage. Things didn’t look too good for the men of The Outfit these days.

I slid out of the parking space and started for Wolfe’s mansion. Our mansion, I guessed. I rounded the corner, my heart slowing down from the sudden rush of adrenaline of sitting behind the wheel, when Smithy groaned.

“That Volvo behind us is tailgating the fuck out of our ass.” His Irish accent came out when he was upset. It unsettled me to be in a car with an Irishman from Chicago even though I knew Smithy had no affiliation with the underworld and had probably been thoroughly checked before he accepted the job as Senator Keaton’s driver.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed two people I immediately recognized. Two Made Men who worked for the Bandini family. Meaty, six-foot-five type of beasts who were usually sent to handle business that required less conversation and more muscle. The one behind the wheel flashed me a rancid, rotten-toothed smirk.

Shoot.

“Speed up,” Smithy ordered.

“The street is crowded. We could get someone killed.” My eyes danced frantically, and I gripped the wheel tighter. Smithy shifted in his seat, glancing backward, no doubt regretting the moment he’d offered to let me drive.

“They’re about to bump into us. No, cancel that—crash into us. Hard.”

“What do I do?”

“Take a left. Now.”

“What?”

“Now, Francesca.”

Without thinking, I took a sharp left, heading out of the busy neighborhood we’d been driving in and galloping west. The road was clearer, and I could gain more speed, though I was still scared to push the gas pedal all the way down. I understood what Smithy tried to do. He was hoping to lose them. But he didn’t know these men chased people for a living.

“Get on the highway,” he shouted.

“Smithy!” I yelped at the same time he took his phone out of his pocket and wiped his forehead.

“Focus, Francesca.”

“Okay. Okay.”

I took another sharp turn, rolling onto the highway and checking my rearview mirror every few seconds to see if I was creating a gap between the two vehicles. My heart was bursting with fear. My entire body pricked with goosebumps. What were they doing? Why were they after me? But the reason was crystal clear to me. I’d shamed their family by getting engaged to Wolfe when I was supposed to get married to Angelo. On top of this, my husband just put Angelo in jail for a night or two over his affiliation with The Outfit (and with Mike Bandini’s accounting firm, which, I assumed, was now under investigation by the IRS).

The sound of metal scratching metal deafened my ears, and the Cadillac lurched forward as they hit us from behind. Heat rose from the doors, and the scent of burnt rubber leaked into my nostrils.

“Foot on the accelerator, sweetheart. Put some distance between us,” Smithy screamed, spit flying out of his mouth as he scrolled through his phone with shaky fingers.

“I’m trying.” I gripped the wheel harder, hyperventilating. My chest rattled, and my hands shook so bad I felt the car zigzagging between the lanes. The road was relatively clear, but cars were honking and sliding to the shoulder of the road as I tried to lose Bandini’s soldiers.

“What is it?” Wolfe’s voice boomed inside the car. Smithy connected him to the Bluetooth. I let out a sharp exhale. It was good to hear his voice. Even though he wasn’t there, I immediately felt a bit more in control.