Page 47 of Chains of Recompense
“The alliance would have been ruined.”
God, I’m so glad Raf drew the line of no sexbeforethe wedding, that I didn’t have that on my plate to think about during our fake marriage.
Evi nods, her soft gold-flecked eyes widening until they’re almost doe-like. “Raf stepped in when he realized what was happening. Offered me his arm and escorted me from the reception as if he were Sandro. He made sure no one humiliated me. He protected me.”
I blink, stunned. “What?”
Evi nods. “He didn’t announce it, didn’t make a show of it, and no one was the wiser.”
I stare at her, trying to reconcile her story with the cold, calculating man I know.
Then the pieces fall into place.
Of course he didn’t do it for Evi.
He needed the Lombardis’ support as much as her family needed the increase in status.
“He didn’t do it for you,” I mutter. “He did it for optics.”
“Maybe,” she says quietly. “But the result was the same. I wasn’t humiliated. He looked out for me, and he has since the moment I became Sandro’s wife. I don’t doubt he’ll show you that kind of loyalty as well—if you’ll give him the opportunity.”
Silence sits, dense and uncomfortable, between us.
I wrap my hands more tightly around my mug, staring at the coffee like it holds all the answers.
Because while Evi might not be wrong about Raf’s actions toward her, she doesn’t have the full picture like I do.
Don’t mistake one calculated action for kindness,I remind myself.
Raf doesn’t do things unless there’s something in it for him.
“I can only hope you’re right,” I finally answer, biting the words off like they’re poisonous as the bitterness leaks through in my tone.
Something flickers across her face.
Sympathy? Curiosity? Suspicion?
I can’t tell.
Before she can dig deeper, footsteps sound from the hallway—boots, heavy and familiar—and my heart skips a beat.
Then Sandro enters, shirtless, a sheen of sweat over sculpted muscle, hair damp and messy.
He looks like Raf, only strapped with muscle and covered in tattoos.
Yellowing bruises and fresh scars mar his ribs and stomach—a gruesome roadmap of what the Yakuza put him through.
Evi’s face transforms when she sees him, lit from within, and she rises to greet him, her hot chocolate forgotten.
He strides to her like a starving man, slides an arm around her waist, and kisses her—deeply, hungrily, like it’s been years, not hours, since he last touched her.
I freeze mid-sip.
I shouldn’t look.
Shouldn’t care.
But I do.
