Page 40 of The Ache That Stayed

“Yes,” I said.

She didn’t like that answer.

“Call me if anything feels wrong. Anything.”

Her chin lifted.

“I can handle myself.”

“I know.”

I kissed her slowly this time. Deeper. Reassuring.

Outside, Santino stood by the car, hands in his pockets.

“Keep me updated,” I said.

He nodded once in response. I held his gaze longer than necessary. Then I got in the car.

As we pulled away, I looked back once.

At her. At him.

Something had shifted between them while I wasn’t looking. The air between them felt altered somehow. Too aware. Too unfinished.

And for the first time in years, an unfamiliar unease pressed beneath my ribs. The instinctive understanding that the most dangerous things rarely force their way inside. They’re invited.

I finally allowed the thought to surface—not all threats come with weapons. Some arrive wearing loyalty long enough to be invited inside. And I had left them under the same roof.

CHAPTER 11

Roxanne

The house had been quiet all afternoon. Not peaceful. Just eerily tense.

The kind of quiet where you can hear someone breathing in another room and pretend you don’t. The sound carried differently in the house after Marcello left.

Like it was reminding me constantly of Marcello’s absence and the not-so-welcome presence of the asshole himself.

The kettle boiled louder. The wind pressed harder against the windows. Even the wooden floors seemed to creak with accusation under my steps.

I could do this.

I’ve dealt with annoying pricks before. I deal with them all the time—men who feel they know better. And I’ve dealt with Santino before.

We always tended to get on each other’s nerves, playful banter resonating through the walls of the villa in Sicily. Ronnie once joked we looked like an old married couple, which led to him being banned for nearly three months.

Some days Marcello hated the camaraderie we shared, and some days he just enjoyed our bickering.

I won’t lie. Marcello changed over the three years we’d been together—guess I owe it to him becoming a father. But some things about him never softened. Especially when it came to me. He always made it a point to remind me that I was his.

Not with theatrics or pomp. Marcello never needed theatrics.

One touch from him carried the kind of authority other men killed for. One hand at the back of my neck. One look sharp enough to silence an entire room.

And then he’d kiss me like the rest of the world stopped existing the second his mouth touched mine. Like a silent reminder to the world: she’s mine.

But dealing with Santino now was different.