Upstairs, I hear the television turn off. I gave Desiree a wide berth all day, and she was all business with me.
I don’t know why I didn’t think my marital status would be a deal-breaker for Desiree, but I didn’t. Fuck, if I had any idea her reaction would be so negative, I never would have told her.
No, that’s not true.
It would’ve been worse if she heard it from one of my brothers, and Madonna, I know one of them would’ve been happy to throw that at her just to screw me.
But her implication that Marne is a kept woman—like I won’t divorce her because I don’t want to let her go is way off base.
I would’ve loved for her to go on with her life. Meet some other asshole to take care of her. Relieve me of the guilt and fucking shadow that’s always hanging over me. What we could’ve been without our tragedy. The happy, nuclear family.
Aw, merde. Maybe that’s not true. It’s possible Desiree’s right. I’m a possessive asshole and I didn’t want her to be out in the world without me.
No. No. I don’t think that’s true. If she’d been respectful, if she’d gotten her life together—got a job. Maybe some good counseling. If she came to me and said she’d fallen in love with some other guy, I would’ve kissed her cheeks and told her I was happy for her. I swear to Christ.
I mean, she coulda filed for divorce. I never told her she had to stay married to me. Hell, she could’ve divorced me and taken half of everything I own. It’s not like she has to stay tethered to me to keep food on her table. She’d probably actually be living larger if she divorced me.
But maybe she’s too afraid of me.
I never hurt her—never even slapped her ass, but she was always a little skittish. She knows what I am. And she also thinks I blame her for Mia.
Maybe I do, I don’t know. The darkness in that house consumed the both of us after our little girl’s death.
All I know is that I carry the weight of all of it, right in the center of my chest. Guilt for not knowing how to deal with my own grief. Not being able to help Marne with hers. Guilt for not wanting to be with her anymore. Not wanting to live in that house with all the reminders.
What I had with Desiree—it’s over now, I know that. It was like a retractable ceiling opening up on my life. Sunlight pouring down and warming me, even with all the usual shit shows, like worry over Gio and my siblings’ wrath over the way I handled it.
But that ceiling’s closed. There’s no untangling me from the dark web that is my life. The one my father created for me and I wove even tighter around myself. I’ll never be free of Marne, or my responsibilities of running La Famiglia. Or the wounds I inflicted on all those around me by always playing the asshole.
There’s no point in even thinking about what might be different—what might be possible if I divorce Marne, because Desiree’s already smartened up.
She knows better than to give any part of herself to me.
Because I’ll take it.
Consume her.
And God knows, I would never, ever let her get away.
That’s why she was so offended about me not getting divorced. It’s not because she’s pissed I fooled around with her when I’m not available, although there might have been a little of that. No, it’s because she recognized the dark truth of the matter. She could just as easily end up on my leash. And it’s nowhere she ever wants to be.
Chapter 8
Desiree
I dream Jasper’s in his bed crying for me. I try to comfort him, but he can’t feel my arms, doesn’t hear my words. I’m a ghost to him.
I wake up to the sound of Gio’s groan. I remember it’s Jasper’s birthday before I even open my eyes. It’s been four days since Junior kidnapped me and brought me here to take care of Gio. It feels like months. And I just want to be home right now, where I could cry into my pillow all day without seeing anyone.
Of course, I knew this day was coming. I knew it like a countdown to a massive breakdown for me. Weight crushes my chest. I feel two hundred years old as I ease out of bed.
I check Gio’s vitals and add more painkiller to his IV before I head to the shower.
The tears start while I’m in there and they just don’t stop. Not like full-on sobbing, more like a steady drip. A leaky faucet that won’t turn off.
Dammit.
I get out of the shower, dry off and get dressed in my Dicky scrubs—red today.