Page 55 of A Bride for the Mafia King

I take up pacing beside the bar. After a few laps I look at him, really look at him, as he leans against the opposite wall. He’s breathing hard, his jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, filthy—covered in sticky black mud like he’d crawled through a sewer.

I narrow my eyes at his appearance. “What the hell happened to you?”

He glances down at his soiled clothes, brushing at the dried mud on his pants like he just noticed.

“Ran into a situation,” he says, tone too casual for my liking.

I arch a brow. “What kind of situation?”

His jaw flexes. Then he glances toward the closed bedroom door, the weight of everything behind it looming over us.

“Not now,” he says tightly. “We’ll talk later.”

He steps past me, heading toward the liquor cabinet. I grab his arm before he can move too far.

“Nico.”

He meets my eyes.

“What kind of situation?” I press.

A flicker of something crosses his expression—guilt? No. Something else. Something much more complicated.

“I found someone,” he says finally, voice low. “Out there. Near the site. It’s... not what you think, but now's not the time to get into it.”

His words are calm, but there’s tension in his shoulders. His fingers twitch slightly at his side.

Someone. He found someone.

I release his arm, reading between the lines, but not pushing further, yet. He’s right. Now isn’t the time.

Nico pours himself another drink with the kind of quiet that suggests he’s trying not to think too hard. I stay near the opening of the hall, every muscle coiled, listening for footsteps, voices, anything from the room where they’re tending to my wife.

The silence between us stretches.

Finally, he says, “You did what had to be done.”

I nod once, jaw tight.

“Is she⁠—?”

“I don’t know.” My voice cracks the silence like a whip. “She was barely conscious. He hit her in the head pretty hard. Tied her up. She fought back.”

Nico doesn’t ask if Yaro’s alive. He doesn’t have to.

He just swallows his own drink and mutters, “Fucking hell.”

I don’t say anything further. Too busy staring at the closed door, every muscle in my body pulled tight as wire, as if sheer willpower would keep her breathing.

Emotions race through me one after the other: Guilt. Shame. Fear.

The kind of feelings I’ve buried under a hundred bodies and a thousand lies since taking my position as Pakhan. The kind of feelings I thought I wasn’t capable of any longer.

And I realize I don’t know if I’d survive losing her.

Time passes in slow drips. I’ve paced the length of the hallway outside the bedroom so many times, I’ve worn a track in the Persian rug.

Nico hasn’t spoken since pouring himself a third drink. He just sits in the armchair across from me, nursing the glass, watching the door like he can will it to open faster.