Page 30 of Freed
One second he’s standing in the doorway, and the next I have him slammed against the wall, my hand fisted in the front of his shirt as his head cracks back against the plaster. Fear flashes across his face.
“Your job,” I say, my voice low and lethal, “is to do as I say. Is it not?”
His throat bobs. “Yes, Boss.”
“Then make sure my wife knows I’ll be gone for a few fucking days.”
I shove him away and turn toward the door, but the idiot finds the courage to speak again.
“She’s not doing well, sir.” His voice is tight, careful. “And if you have any decency, you’ll tell her yourself.”
I stop. Slowly, I look back at him. For a second, the room goes dead quiet.
Cesaro pales like he’s only now realizing exactly what he said and who he said it to. Smart man. Too late, but smart.
“Decency,” I repeat, the word sounding foreign in my mouth. “Is that what you think this house runs on?”
“No, Boss, I just?—”
“You just what?”
He swallows hard. “She’s been asking for you all day.”
I stare at him, anger still prowling beneath my skin, hot and wild and looking for somewhere to land. Four months. Four fucking months of searching for Elizabeth, and now that I finally have something real, I’m supposed to stop and play the attentive husband to a woman I never wanted?
My jaw clenches.
But Fran is still my wife. On paper. In the eyes of God, the law, and every asshole watching my moves for weakness. And weakness is expensive.
I brush imaginary dust from my cuff and straighten it. “Where is she?”
“In her sitting room.”
I walk past him without another word, and this time he has the good sense not to follow too closely.
The halls of the house feel suffocating tonight. By the time I reach Fran’s sitting room, I’ve forced the worst of my rage back under control. Not because I’m calm. Because rage is only useful when it’s aimed properly.
I knock once and step inside without waiting.
Fran is seated by the window, a blanket draped over her legs despite the warmth of the room. She turns at the sound of the door, and for one fleeting second her face lights with hope.
It dies the second she sees me.
I know that look. She was hoping for someone else. Hermother, maybe. A friend. Anyone but the husband who treats her like an obligation.
“Lorenzo,” she says softly.
I close the door behind me. “Cesaro said you were asking for me.”
She studies me for a moment, taking in the coat in my hand, the tension in my shoulders, and the fact that I’m clearly on my way out. Her mouth curves, but there’s no humor in it.
“You’re leaving.”
It isn’t a question.
“For a few days.”
She looks down at her hands, turning her wedding ring slowly around her finger. “Do I get to know why?”
