"I’ll kill you."
I laughed. So did he.
* * *
Three days later, the hospital discharged me, and I finally met the judge. He slapped me with an additional charge of resisting arrest—they had to cover up the beating somehow—and felony arson. He allowed me to post bail, but I could not leave the state until my court date, which was three weeks from now. Ethan's connections in the local police department fucked me. I couldn't leave the country, and he was in already in Paris with my wife.
I was done retaliating with carefully placed money wires and silly tabloids smearing his character. He’d taken her—again. He’d keep fucking with us until he physically couldn’t. Ethan would stop torturing me when he was dead.
One of us had to go, and it was going to be him.
So I called my cousin and told him I had an emergency. I needed to meet Vincent Cesare.
A man in a three-piece suit waved a security wand over my arms and legs. Three more picked through my belongings, dropping my car keys and phone into a plastic bag. That man handed them to Damon, who shoved them in a microwave.
I raised my eyebrow at him. "What’s that for?"
"It’s a natural Faraday cage. No wireless communication in or out," Damon explained. "Vincent is very careful."
"Good."
While I didn’t trust Vincent, his reputation was solid. He’d followed through with Ethan. He was cautious. I didn’t trust men who took liberties with security, which was ironic because I’d come here with none.
I followed Damon through another set of doors. Getting here was an experience. I didn’t even know where here was. I had to ditch my bodyguards, park my car into a random hotel’s parking garage, wait for a call, switch into another car, drive to a deserted location, wait for three men to show up, who then put a bag over my head, and drove me—somewhere.
It smelled like a deli. A prosciutto-like stench saturated the air, but when I walked through the doors, I saw a casino. Or a backroom den of illegal gambling. Felt tables were covered with poker chips and loose cash. Shadowy figures moved in a smoke-filled room. A man who looked like an accountant counted bills, a handgun laying within easy reach.
A thrill shot into my gut. I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.
"Hello, I’m Vincent."
I recognized that gritty tone from our five-second conversation and my gaze swiveled to its owner. Everything about him was dark. He seemed to blend, rather than hide in the shadows. He sat at a wooden table, surrounded by suited men who were built like bodyguards. Several more stood in the perimeter of the room.
Vincent smiled as though sensing my anxiety, and swept his chair back as he stood. He didn’t look like a hardened criminal, but he oozed power and confidence.
I shook his hand, noticing that he was married. "Graham."
"Nice to finally meet you. Please, sit."
I took the chair, Damon sitting beside me.
Vincent's dark eyes glittered with amusement. "What can I do for you, Mr. Hawthorne?"
“I want Ethan Blackwood dead.”
No one reacted, except Vincent. His smile grew until it carved deep dimples into his cheek. It was as though I’d cracked a joke.
“Most people use hit or taken care of, and then I have to dig around to make sure that's what they want. You're not ashamed. I like that."
Vincent was way too perceptive.
“He deserves to die."
Vincent studied me over his clasped fingers. “May I ask why?”
“I need a reason?”
Vincent scanned me, his eyes like dark flames. "We did what you wanted. Broke his arm. Your cousin said he agreed to the sale."
"Then he retaliated," I ground out. "He torched my wife’s restaurant, pinned the charges on me, and beat me until my spleen fucking ruptured."
"Show me."
I ripped open my shirt and showed him the dark purple stitches and the angry red weals all over my body.
Vincent’s brows lifted in a show of surprise. "Looks pretty bad, but killing him seems like an overreaction."
"He kidnapped my wife."
"Where?"
"I’m not sure. She managed to send me a message, but he could’ve lied about where he was taking her."
"Sounds like a job for Interpol." Vincent still looked unmoved. "Wasn’t she with Blackwood for a while? Are you sure she didn’t go back to him?"
"Yes." I hated sitting here, answering his questions. "There’s no way for me to fly abroad. I’m stuck until my court date in three weeks. I need your help."
"We’re not touching Blackwood. No one will." His smile flattened as he watched my reaction. "The only reason I agreed to this meeting was to tell you to put this foolishness behind you."
"Not going to happen."
Irritation flickered across his brow. "He’s a billionaire. You’re not asking for one murder. Have you any idea the sheer scope of a job this big? It would be huge. Lots of moving pieces."
"You had no problem breaking his arm."
"We scoped the area for weeks. Took out the cameras. Planned an exit route. Adding a body to the mix complicates everything, and you don’t even know where the fuck he is."
"It’s a matter of time before he’s photographed somewhere."
“I know you want him gone, and I hear you, but I won’t kill him. Even if we wanted the job, you’re talking about taking out his entire security detail. You want to involve innocent people to your body count?”
For one terrible moment, I did.
“It is way too much risk," he repeated. "Not worth anybody’s time.”
“There has to be a way.”
Vincent’s tone became harsh. "There is, but I have no obligation to you. You are not one of us."
My self-restraint was close to snapping. Naomi was somewhere with that fucking psycho, and there wasn’t anything I could do.
“Have you tried diplomacy?” he suggested.
I glared at him. "Is that a fucking joke?"
"Be careful how you speak to me, Graham." A sneer tiptoed across his face. "You’re a long way from home."
Under the table, Damon kicked my foot.
Grief made me reckless. I didn’t care that Vincent could kill me and bury me under an hour.
My wife was taken.
He leaned over the table. "I will not murder your brother. And one day, you’ll thank me for it.”
"I’d rather shove my fist into a blender."
"You will drop this." Menace dripped from Vincent’s every word. "Or I’ll be forced to think of you as a liability instead of a resource. I swear on my children’s heads."
Damon turned his head. "Graham."
"Fine," I said.
Vincent retreated. "We’re done."
I refused to move until Damon grabbed a fistful of my jacket and yanked me upright.
I shoved him. "Don’t touch me."
Damon pointed at the door. "Get out."
More rage burned from his eyes than I’d ever seen. When we left the room, Damon pulled me into an office and slammed the door.
"You idiot," he snarled once we were alone. "Insulting the boss—do you have a death wish?"
"No."
Damon shoved me into the wall, his fist hovering inches from my face. "You might have nothing to live for, but I do."
Something tore inside me. "He has my wife."
"Then take her back," he snarled. "You made a vow to her, not to your revenge."
I stared at him, insides twisting with agony. I wanted to board a plane and scream her name into every corner of the world.
For Naomi, I'd do anything.
Naomi
He didn’t take us to Paris.
We landed somewhere in Italy, and from the airport, a car took us through a gorgeous landscape of gently rolling hills. The vibrant green popped under a crisp, blue sky. Farmhouses with tiled roofs, hay bales, and vineyards dotted the view.
Eventually, we arrived at a breathtaking villa with a dark tiled ro
of. The wrought-iron door that opened into a courtyard furnished with patio sofas and tables. The walls were stone, and the interior was simple lines and distressed wood. It was beautiful, but I couldn't take it in when my husband was hundreds of miles away.
Ethan took our suitcases inside. I went outside and my stomach clenched with nausea. The mild weather whipped through the tall cypress trees and potted plants. A door behind me opened, and Ethan stepped out in a short-sleeved shirt.
He smiled, joining my side. "It’s beautiful, isn’t it?"
Incredible. "This doesn’t seem like you."
"How so?"
"It’s a slower pace. There’s no one around." I blocked the sun and looked into the horizon. "How will you hang out with your dozens of lackeys?"
"I don’t particularly enjoy their company, anyway."
"Where will you go for cocktails?"
"There’s several barrels of Chianti wine in the basement. I think I’m good for a while."
Bingo. "So we’re in Tuscany?"
A frown flickered on his forehead. "No comment."
"You said no more lies."
He faced me with a knowing grin. "I knew you’d contact Graham. Don’t worry. I’m not mad. It doesn’t matter, anyway."
"Why?"
"I don’t want to talk about him."
My heart jammed in my throat as I nodded. "Ethan, you can’t keep me here forever."
"Not forever." A smile carved dimples into his cheek. "Just until you fall in love with me."
"Are you insane?"
Ethan didn’t look at all surprised to hear me say that. I saw myself running into the fields to beg someone for help, but how could I leave the country when he kept my passport under lock and key?
Why was he doing this?
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe a few months of drinking fine wines and touring the countryside will change your mind."
Months? "And if I run away?"
"Like I said, I'll enjoy the foreplay." Ethan approached me, his voice darkening. "Go ahead. I'll give you a head's start."
He was taunting me. Or maybe he was that twisted.
Try me, you bastard.
I was sick of his games. Keep me here until I fell in love with him? What a load of bullshit. He wanted me to do whatever he wanted. Love had nothing to do with it.
I walked into the vineyard and glanced over my shoulder. Ethan watched, hands in his pockets. I headed toward the closest farmhouse, where someone toiled in the field. I picked up the pace and looked behind me. Ethan strolled the vineyard. He'd catch up soon.
"Hey," I waved at the olive-skinned man, who straightened at my approach. "I need your help! Please!"
Suddenly, Ethan’s arm wrapped my waist. He waved at the dumbfounded man and rattled off an introduction in Italian. Immediately, the man’s confusion smoothed into polite interest. After a few minutes of small talk, Ethan wheeled me back to the villa. Ciao was the only word I understood.
Ethan dropped his arm once we walked out of sight. "Nobody here speaks English."
I simmered with a quiet fury. "You brought me here because you knew I didn’t speak the language."
"That’s not the only reason. I knew you’d like it here."
He walked behind me, palming my back as though to remind me he was my jailor.
I whirled on him once we got inside. "Is there no end to the depths you’re willing to sink?"
"None," he admitted. "Want a drink?"
I clenched my fists as he opened a cellar door. He strolled down the stone steps. Deciding it might make it easier to talk to him, I followed. The steps led to a cold room walled with stone. Glass doors separated the wine from the rest of the cellar. A long wooden table sat in the middle. He unlocked the door and waved me forward.
Once I walked inside, the glass made a tight seal. All sound disappeared. It was a lot like a prison cell. My heart lodged in my throat when Ethan faced me.
"Did you bring me down here to scare the shit out of me? Because it’s working."
"I wanted a drink. That’s all."
Ethan grabbed two wine glasses and slid them across the table, selecting a bottle. He uncorked it, pouring my drink first. A stream of dark red gushed from the bottle. He sat next to me, arm sprawled on the table.
I drank as Ethan watched me. "What are you thinking?"
His eyes twinkled. "You won’t care for it."
"Tell me, anyway."
Ethan swirled his glass before tasting. He raised his eyebrows in appreciation and set it down. "I’m thinking how much I’d like to fuck you on this table."
I wished I never asked. "Don’t talk like that."
"You didn't use to mind our banter. You loved it."
I stood, fingers clenched around the wine glass. "You’re trying to relive the past, but I’m not interested."
"We were happy, Naomi. I was happy."
"Were," I growled. "That’s in the past."
He looked at me, long and hard. "Not for me. I have no idea what went wrong."
I didn’t want this conversation, but maybe it’d give him fucking closure.
"You were emotionally unavailable. Distant. Whenever I asked you personal questions, you’d shut down. In five years, you never mentioned a brother."
"I’m not big on family. You know that."
"That was the other problem," I said, pacing the room. "You didn’t want kids. Kept stringing me along. Did you think I’d be okay with that forever?"
"Then you should’ve made an ultimatum," he snapped.
"With what power?"
The walls absorbed my shout, and a ringing silence hovered between us. I finished the drink and slammed it on the table, leaving him to stew.
* * *
Escape was impossible.
His pretense dropped the moment we arrived. He took my phone. He kept my passport. He slept beside me and stirred at my slightest movement.
I was trapped.
Every morning began the same. I woke to the scent of freshly roasted coffee. In the kitchen, I usually found a plate of Italian pastries and cold cuts. I was generally too sick to eat anything but a piece of buttered croissant.
My scheme to lower Ethan's defenses fell through. I wasn't a liar, and Ethan saw through it, anyway. He tried to be nice.
God only knows why, but he tried.
He was maddeningly patient with my sullen silences. He suggested we go on walks. I said yes because anywhere different was an opportunity to escape, but he never left my side. He wanted to repeat the past. I wanted to escape it.
It was the second week of being here.
Two weeks without a word from Graham. I missed my husband’s warmth, his sarcastic smiles, his body. My heart screamed for its other half, but Graham wanted nothing to do with me. Two weeks, and not a word from him. When Ethan allowed me access to my phone, it was always supervised.
Did Graham receive my email?
Did he even care I was gone?
I had to believe he did. If I ever wanted to contact him, I needed to be on Ethan’s good side. Flattery didn’t work. Affection bolstered his suspicion. Maybe I needed to stop trying. It was hard. I only wanted one thing from him—a ticket home.
Ethan stood in front of a mirror, struggling with the buttons on his dress shirt. He growled and tossed it aside.
I picked it up. "Let me do it."
I wrapped the shirt around his broad shoulders and started with the cast. I buttoned it for him, top to bottom. When I got to his belly, I heard his sharp intake of breath. He looked on the verge of losing the control he coveted so much.
Jesus.
Being stuck here with me was bad for him.
I stepped back. "Want to go on a walk?"
He nodded. "I’ll meet you outside."
I went to the courtyard. Ethan emerged a few moments later. Sunlight kissed his face. He smiled. I forced a grin. We walked from the villa, Ethan’s hand swallowing mine as though I might run off. It was utterly quiet. Growing up in Manhattan, I w
asn’t used to the lack of constant sound. Cars rarely passed by.
"Graham broke your arm," I blurted. "Not me."
Ethan looked startled at my outburst. "I know."
"Do you remember the hospital visit?"
Ethan said nothing for several long moments, weariness dragging his shoulders. "Every word."
"Then you know why we're never getting back together," I said it as gently as I could, but a challenge built in his eyes.
"I’m not perfect, but neither is your husband."
I said nothing to that because it was true.
"Do you know his thugs got me?" He flashed me a bitter smile. "You."
An unpleasant flush filled my cheeks.
"I got a message from Naomi begging me to meet at a bar in Brooklyn. I go in there, and you're nowhere to be found, but three of his friends were. The sound of my arm breaking is something I won't forget until I die."
My head pounded with that horrifying detail. "That’s awful."
"I don’t blame you. I blame your gangster husband."
"He was protecting me from you."
Ethan boomed with laughter. It almost chased the cold from my heart. "He sent mobsters to break my arm, and I’m the monster?"
"I never said it was right."
"But you’ll forgive him for it."
"Yes," I admitted. "I hate what he did to you. It was wrong, but I understand why he did it. But you, Ethan? I’ll never understand why you treated me the way you did."
"I was good to you. I gave you everything you wanted." He shot me a look as though daring me to deny it.
Except for free will.
"I don’t want to do a post-mortem on our relationship. You and Graham have to stop fighting."
"He broke my fucking arm, Naomi."
"And you manipulated me into dating you, made him break up with me, and countless other things. He takes me back, so you retaliate. Now he’s dragging you into bars to beat you. When’s it going to stop?"
"I already paid him back."
I stopped, my heart pounding. "What'd you do?"
He swiveled to me with a cruel grin. "Are you sure you want to know?"
I ripped my hand from his, stomach filling with nausea. Suddenly, the reason for Graham’s silence took another possibility.
The Marriage Debt Page 18