Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen
LIORA
After my chat with Agnes, I returned to my room, still reeling from the shock and mortification of what I’d done.
The way I acted so indifferently toward Lorenzo’s sister just moments ago haunts me. I really shouldn’t have brushed her off like that.
I should have read the signs — which were vivid, by the way.
Her politeness. Her familiarity with Agnes. Lastly, the way she was so close to him. I suspected something was wrong for a cold-blooded monster like that to feel warm around a woman.
But what I didn’t realize was, that wasn’t just any woman; it was his own sister.
Shit. What the hell was I thinking?
How could I not have seen it? It was right there in front of me.
I can’t believe I seriously thought she was his girlfriend.
Yeah, she’s beautiful all right. And she also totally gave off that bombshell vibe — in both fashion and looks — but now, rethinking our earlier conversation, I realize I foolishly missed the signs.
She showered me with care and kindness. Made me feel welcome with warmth.
Only a good sister could do that. Not a conniving mistress.
Damn.
My heart brims with remorse as I approach the chair by the floor-to-ceiling window, goosebumps of shame still pricking my skin like needles.
The urge to apologize to her — or at least treat her better the way she treated me — overlaps with my guilt.
But I know it’s too late for that.
I can’t help but wonder if she noticed my hostility. Would she say anything to her brother if she had?
What if she never speaks to me again?
What if… she retaliates later by punishing me cruelly?
I swallow hard as countless conflicting thoughts cause a traffic jam in my head, leaving me unable to come up with any meaningful conclusion.
At the end of the day, all that’s left for me to do is apologize when next I see her. That should be in the morning since she said she looked forward to chatting with me.
Sigh. You really screwed up, Liora.
But I’m only human.
I inhale and exhale sharply as I settle into the chair, running my fingers through my hair in exasperation. My gaze drifts toward the glass window, taking in the night view of New York City.
My eyes scan the skyline, my mind gradually straying from idle observation to the man I’d seen earlier in the living room.
Him.
So he’s finally back, I guess. Took him long enough.
I wonder what he went to Russia for.
Isn’t that country like the center of Mafia gangs?
What really is their job anyway? Aside from killing people, of course — and dealing drugs.
Is there something else they do for a living, or rather for sport?
But their jobs are mostly illegal.
I wonder if Lorenzo is a criminal.
Huff. What the fuck am I even saying? Of course he’s a criminal. A murderer, to be precise.
I’m lucky I’m still breathing under his roof, given how much I’ve provoked him since we got married.
My heart tightens as I’m reminded of the forced union once again. But I push the ache aside.
I release another sigh, lost in thought as I stare down at the cars moving along the street below. I also see a vendor selling donuts to buyers at a kiosk.
I watch and envy them quietly. They have freedom — at least they can go out, buy as many donuts as they want, or do whatever they please without being shadowed by armed bodyguards like criminals.
As it seems, freedom is one hell of a luxury I can’t afford right now. And the irony that I’m living in a luxurious home doesn’t make it any better.
How long exactly am I going to live in this place?
How long will I cry and beg before he decides to let me go?
Is there any hope at this point? Mafia men are ruthless and heartless. And...
I’m suddenly pulled out of my thoughts when I hear a knock on my door.
My nostrils flare in confusion before I flick my gaze toward the door from where I’m seated.
Who could it be?
Agnes wouldn’t come up here to disturb me at this hour, would she?
She was the one who chased me out of the kitchen when I even attempted to help, insisting I needed rest.
Well, if it’s not Agnes, then I can only assume it’s Carmen — since the other option in my book doesn’t usually bother knocking before barging in. He doesn’t even know the meaning of privacy or permission.
I don’t realize I haven’t answered the door until a second knock comes. That’s when I draw a sharp breath, clear my throat, and call out for her to enter.
Carmen.
“Come in.”
I shift in my burning seat and brace myself for her arrival, preparing to apologize while I have the chance.
I hope she lets it slide after my apology. I hope she doesn’t hold grudges like my bitch sister, Sky.
The door unlocks with a soft click, and I’m completely blindsided by the person it reveals.
No fucking way.
My heart leaps into my throat, my nerves unraveling with disbelief as my eyes instinctively rake over him.
He’s changed from the black business suit from earlier into a white singlet and a pair of grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips, outlining the lengthy shape of his—
Fuck this.
I quickly shove away my unruly thoughts and force my gaze back to his face. Barely.
He’s still lingering in the doorway, his larger-than-life frame occupying the entrance.
His eyes lock on me — fierce, not-too-cold, but laced with danger still. It makes my insides twist with anxiety.
What is he doing here?
I try and fail to ignore the extravagant map of tattoos covering the exposed part of his chest, his arms, even down to his fingers. They form a connected pattern I can’t quite decipher from where I’m seated, but I’ll painfully admit — they look sexy on him.
I didn’t realize a man could look so hot covered in that many tattoos.
I clear the haze clouding my head and focus back on him, my lips suddenly too heavy to part.
Tension plays push-and-pull in the silence stretched between us. Even without speaking or moving, he still affects me — in ways I can’t even understand.
His nonchalant stance. His calculating gaze. And his terrifying dominance.
His scent has already engulfed every other fragrance in my room, and it’s exhilarating.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
When the eye contact between us starts breaking me inwardly, piece by piece, like I’m facing an interrogation for a crime I didn’t commit, I finally look away, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
God, why does it suddenly feel so hot in here despite the air conditioner?
I take shallow breaths as I stare out the window, still waiting for him to state his reason for being here and leave...
Or has he come to scold me for how I behaved toward his sister? Did she tell him?
I should have guessed she would.
Maybe she did noticed after all.
My thoughts scatter when his deep, alluring voice finally cuts through the silence.
“Heard you—uhm...” he pauses, clearing his throat.
I blink, my brows creased in surprise. Did I just hear... hesitation in his voice?
I shake my head.
Probably not. That would be a blasphemous assumption.
A man like him doesn’t stutter — maybe he just had something in his throat.
Regardless, my back remains turned to him.
I still hate him very much, and I want him gone. But since I already know he won’t leave so easily, I decide to ignore him until he gets tired of standing and walks away.
“How have you been, esposa?”
My breath catches.
My heart literally melts like butter on flame at the nickname laced into his question, and I feel every ounce of resentment I have toward him slipping away.
God, what the hell is wrong with me?
My cheeks must probably be stained with crimson by now. I sigh.
It takes every ounce of self-control to regain my composure — he didn't seem to notice I lost for a second — before I swallow the soft block in my throat.
Then, without turning toward him, I answer flatly, “Good.”
There’s a pause before his deep, steady voice reaches me again.
“Have you been eating well?”
I can’t suppress the urge to roll my eyes at his pathetic attempt at caring. Who the hell put him up to this? Because he’s doing a terrible job.
After drawing in a breath, I cast him a glance, letting my blank gaze linger on him for a second.
There’s emotion in his eyes — genuine concern — and it fazes me.
But I promptly snap myself out of it and ask the question that instantly comes to mind. “When do I get my phone back? Will I ever?”
He studies me before replying, “In due time, yes. You will.”
“When exactly is this ‘due time,’ husband?” I say with heavy sarcasm, arching my brows. And his jaw clenches with annoyance, or amusement. I'm not sure.
But I don’t care—
“When you start behaving like a good girl.”
A spark of sensation ignites within me at his taunting response. I highly doubt he meant to flirt, but my body reacts to it anyway.
My heart flutters with warmth from the sparks of thrill zapping through me, and my mouth hangs open slightly, but no words come out.
No words could.
In my haze, I catch the self-satisfied smirk curling onto his lips before he says, “Go to bed, mi esposa. Goodnight.”
With that, he pulls the door closed effortlessly behind him.
And then, he’s gone. Out of sight.
No more tattoos. No more imposing presence. No more menacing smirks.
And definitely no more Lorenzo Sorrentino.