Chapter 25: Domenico - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

The private elevator opens to the penthouse foyer, and she’s there.

My wife’s sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, wrapped in one of those soft blankets she likes. Her eyes are half-closed, but they snap open the second the elevator chimes.

Before the doors finish opening, she scrambles to her feet, the blanket falling away from her shoulders. “Hey.” Her voice cracks on that one word.

“Hey, baby,” I reply, my eyes trailing all over her.

She’s been crying again. I can tell by the puffiness around her eyes, the way her lower lip looks slightly raw, like she’s been biting it. She takes one step toward me, then freezes. Her eyes drop to my hands, my shirt, the dark spatters across the front of my jacket.

“Domenico.” My name comes out sharp, panicked. “Are you hurt? Why are you bleeding?”

Ah, fuck. In my haste to get back to my wife, I never thought to make sure I didn’t have any blood on me. Kira’s hands are on my chest before I can answer, pushing the jacket open, fingers pressing against my shirt, searching for wounds.

Her touch is frantic, uncoordinated, her palms flat against my sternum, then sliding to my ribs, my stomach. She’s checking me the way someone checks a child who’s fallen—all urgency, no method.

“It’s not mine,” I say, catching her wrists.

She stops moving but doesn’t pull her hands away. Her eyes are wide, fixed on the blood spatter across my shirt, dark and dried to a rusty brown.

“Whose is it?” she asks.

“It’s not mine,” I repeat as I let go of her wrists.

Her mouth tightens, skepticism flickering behind her eyes. She’s too smart for half-truths, even when she’s hollowed out by grief.

I step past her toward the bedroom. “I’m going to shower.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, following behind me.

“Mm.”

The bathroom light is too bright. I turn it on anyway and start peeling off my clothes. Jacket first, then the ruined shirt, balling it up and dropping it in the hamper where Donna will find it tomorrow and know better than to ask questions.

As I finish undressing, I feel more than see Kira hovering in the doorway. Since she isn’t saying anything, I ignore her and walk into the shower.

It only takes a few minutes for the water to be hot enough to burn. I stand under the spray with my hands braced against the tile and let the water sluice the blood from my skin. It runs pink at first, then clear, swirling down the drain in patterns I don’t bother tracking.

My muscles ache. My knuckles throb. The split skin on my right hand stings when the water hits it, but the pain is distant, secondary to the relief of washing the shit off my body.

When I step out, Kira’s still there. She’s sitting on the closed toilet lid now, the blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes track me as I grab a towel and dry off.

That’s when she sees my hand.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, her tone accusatory.

“It’s nothing.”

She stands up. “Sit.”

I don’t argue. I sit on the edge of the tub, towel around my hips, and watch as she crosses to the cabinet and pulls out the first aid kit. Her movements are slow but deliberate. She’s doing this the way she does everything lately—mechanically, like she’s following instructions written on the inside of her skull.

The kit opens with a click. She pulls out antiseptic, gauze, and medical tape. Her hands are shaking. Not badly, but enough that the bottle of antiseptic rattles against the edge of the sink when she sets it down.

“Give me your hand,” she orders.

I extend my right hand, palm up. The knuckles are split open, the skin ragged. It’s not that deep, blood just always makes wounds look worse than they are. Kira ignores me when I try to tell her that, though.

Taking my hand in both of hers, she turns it over and examines the damage with the concentration of someone reading a map. Her thumbs brush the edge of the broken skin, feather-light, and something in my chest tightens.

She pours antiseptic onto a cotton pad and presses it to my knuckles without warning. I don’t flinch, but my fingers curl involuntarily around hers.

“Sorry,” she murmurs.

“Don’t be.”

She works in silence. The cotton moves across each knuckle in slow, careful strokes. Her head is bent, her dark hair falling forward to curtain her face, and I can’t see her expression. Just the line of her jaw, tight with concentration, and the way her lower lip disappears between her teeth when she focuses.

The gauze comes next. She wraps it around my hand with more skill than I expected, folding the edges neatly, securing it with medical tape that she tears with her teeth. Her fingers are warm against my skin, and the contrast between her careful touch and the violence these hands dealt not too long ago sits in my chest like something I can’t name.

“Let me see the other one,” she murmurs.

I give her my left hand. The knuckles here are bruised, but the skin’s intact. She cleans them anyway, her thumb tracing the ridges of bone beneath the skin, and I let her because I understand what this is.

She’s anchoring herself. One bandage at a time, one square inch of skin at a time, she’s building something she can hold on to. And I’m the thing she’s holding.

When she’s done, she caps the antiseptic and puts everything back in the kit with the same careful precision. Her hands have stopped shaking, and that’s something.

Cupping her cheek, I murmur, “Thank you.”

When she called me, I had hoped she was somewhat back to herself. Stupid and wishful thinking. But still. So yeah, it sucked to walk into the apartment and have her almost be the same numb version of herself.

But my Kira’s still in there. It’s obvious in the way she just cleaned my injuries, and the small glances she shoots me from beneath her lashes.

Instead of answering, she sets the kit on the counter and looks at my bandaged hand like she’s not entirely sure what to do with it now that it’s fixed.

The towel slips lower on my hips as I stand, and Kira’s eyes follow the movement before darting away. I grab a pair of boxer briefs from the drawer and step into them, then reach for a clean shirt.

“Have you eaten while I was gone?” I ask, pulling the shirt over my head.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

She shrugs. The blanket slips from one shoulder, and she doesn’t bother pulling it back up.

I look at her and see the woman who called me home because the penthouse felt wrong without me in it. Something’s shifted. I don’t know what yet, but I can feel it in the air between us, thin and charged like the moment before lightning.

“Come on,” I say, and take her hand. “We’ll both get something to eat.”

The kitchen lights are dim, and I leave them that way. Brightness feels wrong tonight, like turning on a spotlight in a room where someone’s trying to hide.

I pull containers from the refrigerator—leftovers Donna made yesterday, something with chicken and rice that smells delicious enough. I dish it onto two plates, nuke them both for ninety seconds, and set one in front of Kira, where she’s sitting at the island.

She looks at the food as if it’s written in a language she doesn’t speak.

“Eat,” I order as I sit beside her.

She picks up her fork and makes a show of pushing rice around the plate. Then she takes one bite, chews it a million times before finally giving her teeth and jaw a rest as she swallows. But at least she’s eating. And every time she pauses, I give her a stern look.

“Where did you go?” she asks when she’s cleared half her plate.

“Are you sure you’re up for hearing the truth?”

“Mm.”

I set my fork down. “Paolo found proof that your dad was being paid by NovaGen. Bank records. Communications. Everything.”

Her fork stops moving. That’s all. Just a pause, half a second of stillness, before she resumes pushing rice from one side of the plate to the other.

“How much?” she asks.

“Started at five thousand a month, but it quickly went up from there.”

I explain the payments increased as NovaGen’s protocols became more aggressive, and that Harry wasn’t just accepting whatever they offered. I mention the communications showing him negotiating for higher compensation and even requesting that her mom’s seizure medication be adjusted to keep her compliant with the trial.

“Oh my God!” she gasps, slapping a hand over her mouth. “Is that… I mean, you’re not lying, right?”

What the fuck?

I turn fully on my stool, my arm already reaching for her.

“What are you—”

Before she can finish talking, I wrap my hand around her throat, my fingers curl around the side of her neck, thumb resting under her jaw, and I force her face back toward mine. She doesn’t even resist, she just allows me to move her as though she’s made of clay.

“Look at me,” I demand, my tone harsh.

Her eyes find mine.

“You can yell at me if you want,” I growl as my thumb brushes the pulse point under her jaw. “Call me an asshole. Hit me. Do whatever you need to do, but don’t ever fucking think I’m lying to you, Kira.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just… hard to believe.”

Though I can understand that, I still don’t like that she thinks I’m lying to her.

“If you ever do that again,” I say, my voice dropping lower. “I’m going to put you over my knee and spank you until you remember that I’ve never lied to you. I am not fucking kidding, wife.”

For one second, nothing happens. Then her eyes narrow. The faintest crease appears between her brows. Her mouth tightens into something that isn’t quite a frown, but isn’t her usual blank mask either.

“Don’t you dare.” Her voice is still weak and thin. But there’s something behind it. A spark. A flicker of the woman who told me exactly what she wanted and didn’t back down until she got it.

Relief hits me so hard I almost smile. My thumb strokes the line of her jaw, feeling the tension there, the first real resistance I’ve felt from her in days.

“There you are,” I murmur. I lean in and press a kiss to her closed mouth before letting go of her.

Her glare holds for three seconds. Then it fades, and her eyes drop to my chest. She takes a breath that shudders on the way in.

“Tell me the rest,” she mumbles.

I arch an eyebrow and press my lips together, determined to remain quiet until she looks at me. It takes a couple of minutes, long enough for the silence to become heavy and awkward.

“Ask me nicely.”

“What?”

Settle in with a love story.

Head to Lokepub for more romance novels.

I study her face. The hollow hasn’t gone away, but there’s something waking up behind her eyes. Something that looks a little like the woman I married.

“I’ll tell you,” I say. “If you ask nicely.”

The ghost of a smile flickers across her lips. The corners of her mouth twitch, and for a second, I see her—really see her—beneath the grief and the numbness.

“Tell me.”

“I said you need to ask nicely,” I smirk.

“I’m not calling you ‘Daddy’ when we’re discussing my dad,” she retorts, outrage coating her words.

A part of me wants to keep pushing her and not stop until my Kira’s fully in front of me. “I never said you had to.” I tilt her head up so she has no choice but to meet my gaze. “But you can still ask nicely.”

She lets out a small growl. “Stop playing games, Domenico.”

“Ask. Me. Nicely.”

“Tell me what the hell you’ve been up to.”

I move my hand back to her throat, and this time, I squeeze until her breath stutters. “Fucking ask me.”

She shakes her head and croaks, “No.”

Leaning forward, I press my lips to hers. “Good girl,” I murmur, letting go of her.

Abandoning the rest of the food, I push my plate away and prop one arm up on the island to rest my head against as I sit sideways, facing my wife.

This position brings me almost eye-level with Kira.

“Your dad disappeared before my men could reach him,” I continue. “So Paolo, Gio, and I went to NovaGen instead.”

Her eyes find mine. Hazel, bloodshot, ringed with shadows so dark they look painted on. “And?”

“And several people who authorized what happened to your mom are dead.” I keep my voice even. Matter-of-fact. “Their CEO is alive because he’s useful. For now.”

She absorbs this without flinching. Her jaw works once, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, and then she looks down at her plate.

“Did they suffer?” she asks.

Now there’s a question I never thought I’d hear from my wife. Especially not when it’s asked with just the hint of hope wrapped around each word.

“Some of them,” I reply. “But honestly, that wasn’t the point of the mission. The CEO will, though.”

I go on to explain that NovaGen has stopped Harry’s payments and is reversing whatever transactions they can. I also tell her that every account and asset her dad has is frozen and untouchable.

“Really?” she asks, eyes wide with… something.

“Mm,” I confirm.

There it is, the almost smile makes a one-second appearance before disappearing again.

“Are you going to kill him?” Her question almost comes out on a whisper.

“Which ‘him’?”

“The CEO.”

“Yes,” I confirm. “Once he’s outlived his usefulness, I will.”

“And my dad?”

The question hangs between us, heavier than the others. I consider softening it, wrapping it in something less final than the truth. But she deserves better than that. She’s earned the raw version.

“Yes.” I hold her gaze. “When he surfaces. And he will surface, because money is the only thing he gives a fuck about, and right now he has none.”

Her hand trembles slightly as she lifts it to my face, resting her soft palm against my rough cheek. “Will you tell me when you find him?”

“If you want me to.”

“I want to know.” Her voice is steadier now.

“I don’t need details. But I want to know when it’s done.”

“Then you’ll know.”

Kira’s breath catches. A single, ragged inhale that she tries to swallow back. Her eyes shine in the low light, and for a second I think she might cry, but she doesn’t. She just sits there, with her hand on my face, and the silence between us fills with everything we’re not saying.

“I have more questions,” she finally says. “But not tonight.”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

She nods, and something passes between us—an understanding, maybe, or just the relief of having survived another conversation without breaking. I’ll take either one.

“Thank you,” she breathes. “But for now, I want to go to bed. Well, if you’re…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I reassure her when she trails off. “Let’s go to bed.”

We leave the kitchen and get ready for the night. While she’s in the bathroom, I strip and slide beneath the covers. When she appears in the doorway, I catch a glimpse of her naked body before she switches off the light and climbs in beside me.

As soon as she’s settled on her side, I slide my arm around her and pull her back against my chest. She fits against me the way she always does—the curve of her ass snug against my hips, her spine aligned with my sternum, my forearm crossing her waist. Her hair smells like her and whatever shampoo she uses, and I greedily breathe it in.

“Why did you call me?” I ask.

Her body goes still against mine. Not tense—just attentive, the way an animal freezes when it hears a sound it can’t place.

“You barely looked at me when I left,” I continue. My voice is quiet in the dark. “Told me you didn’t care where I was going. Then you call because the penthouse feels wrong without me. I’m trying to understand the math, baby.”

She’s quiet for so long I think she might have fallen asleep. Then her hand finds mine where it rests on her stomach, and her fingers curl around my bandaged knuckles with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.

“I tried to sleep,” she says. Her voice is so low I have to strain to hear it. “After you left. I laid on the couch for hours. Closed my eyes. Counted. Did all the things you’re supposed to do.” A pause. “The apartment was too quiet, and I kept thinking I heard you in the hallway. But then I’d remember you weren’t here, and it was like… like the air changed. Got thinner. Harder to breathe.”

She squeezes my hand.

“So I called you.”

Something hot and possessive uncoils behind my sternum. It’s not pride, exactly. Something darker, more fundamental—the satisfaction of being necessary. Of occupying a space in her life that can’t be filled by anything else, not even grief.

I tighten my arm around her waist. Pull her closer until there’s no space between us, until I can feel every breath she takes as a movement against my chest.

“Next time,” I say, “just say that. ‘Come home, I can’t sleep without you.’”

She makes a sound—not quite a laugh, something softer, worn at the edges. “You’d have come home if I’d said that?”

“In a heartbeat.”

She’s quiet again. I can feel her thinking, the slight tension in her shoulders, the way her breathing hitches when she’s turning something over in her mind.

“I’m sorry about before,” she says. “When you left. I didn’t mean it. I was just… empty. Everything felt like too much, and the easiest thing was to feel nothing at all.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.” I press my lips to the back of her neck, just below her hairline. Her skin is warm. “I’ve been empty before. I know what it looks like.”

She relaxes by degrees. First her shoulders, sinking back against my chest. Then her spine, the rigid line of it softening until she’s molded against me. Her hand stays curled around mine, her thumb tracing idle circles over the edge of the bandage where it meets skin.

“Sometimes I forget you lost someone too,” she whispers. “How did you survive losing your wife?”

My breath stutters at her question, mainly the way she asks it. I’ve just made a whole fucking thing about saying I wouldn’t lie to her. And… I won’t. So I can’t even hide behind the rumors about me killing my ex-wife.

Yes, I’m aware of those. Hell, I was the one who started them with Gio’s help. It’s never once bothered me what people might or might not think. Until now.

Fuck!

I’ve had a hundred opportunities to tell her the truth. And I will, but not tonight.

“Go to sleep, baby,” I murmur, tightening my arm around her.

She’s quiet for a moment, and I wait for her to push, but she never does.

I hold her and don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t do anything except breathe with her, in and out, my chest rising and falling against her back in a rhythm so slow it could be measured in heartbeats.

Her breathing changes. Slows. Deepens. The hand around mine goes slack, fingers loosening until they’re just resting against my skin. Her body grows heavier against my chest, the particular heaviness of someone sliding into sleep, all resistance gone.

“I love you,” I whisper.

When I first said it at NovaGen’s headquarters earlier on, I didn’t even notice. It wasn’t until I was driving back to my wife that I realized not just what I’d said, but the rightness of it. I love Kira—I’m in love with her.

I say it again anyway. Just to hear it. Just to feel the shape of it in my mouth. She mumbles something incoherent and tightens her hand around my bandaged knuckles like she’s holding on to something she’s afraid to lose.