Page 35 of From Rome, With Hate

Her chin wobbles, and it’s clear she’s still upset about what I said about that night. I know that night hurt her, but I’m tired of her making me feel like she’s the only one who’s capable of feeling. Like I’m some fucking monster.

“What am I supposed to tell work?” she asks. “My family? Friends?”

I casually shrug a shoulder. “You’re resourceful, Lark. You’ll think of something.”

If looks could kill, I’d have dropped dead the second that final word passed my lips. Her bitterness turns to hurt.

“You…” she starts, her bottom lip quivering. Her glassy, sparkling eyes do something to my insides. Something best to avoid right now.

“What?” I ask, exhausted. I need fucking sleep and peace. But I can’t have any of that when Julianna hasn’t agreed to stay here.

As much as we hate each other right now, it doesn’t mean I don’t want her safe.

“I knew marrying you was a mistake,” she admits. “I didn’t realize the price I would have to pay all these years later.”

“Same here.” I snarl.

She presses her lips together and nods in agreement before looking down at her feet.

My throat swells, and I clear it, forcing the words out. “So, do we have a deal? Will you stay until I figure this out?”

“Hmm, go back to the city and be hunted down by an unknown vigilante who wants me killed, or risk either of us killing each other here?” Slowly looking up, she tilts her head and sighs. Her eyes move over my shoulder to the cabin behindme. “My choices aren’t great. In fact, they actually suck. I suppose I’ll go with the better of the two.”

“Which is?” I give her a crooked grin.

“I guess I’d rather know when death is coming for me and by who than the alternative.”

I widen my grin, satisfied. Heat returns to her cheeks when I extend an olive branch in the form of giving her phone back.

Her gaze drops to it before she looks up at me with a pinched brow. Her arms unravel and she plucks her phone from my hand before storming past me and into the cabin.

She may hate me, but at least I got her to agree to stay.

ELEVEN

JULIANNA

I make a beeline for the bedroom, refusing to stop.

My feet ache, my back hurts, and the tears spilling from my lashes don’t help my aching eyes. I don’t even know what I look like at this point.

I head straight for Rome’s bedroom and slam the door behind me. Spinning around, I rest my forehead against the door and move to lock it but sigh, remembering it doesn’t have a lock. This house was never meant to be shared with anyone, hence the single bedroom.

A tight knot weaves in my chest as the past twenty-four hours slams into me all at once. I squeeze my eyes shut, reciting the same mantra I’ve told myself since I was the little eight-year-old girl, witnessing her mother being murdered before her very eyes.

I’m strong, I’m independent, I can handle my shit when life gets hard.

I press my hand to the smooth slate door and push myself off it. Sauntering over to the foot of the bed, I sit and slip out of my shoes. The room is the same as I remember it, with rich green and beige toned fabric complementing the wooden floors and walls. The cabin is the perfect blend of rustic and modern touches. I turn and look out the floor to ceiling windowoverlooking the pond and endless forest beyond. This house is truly existing in its own bubble. Far from the city. Far from civilization.

I’m overwhelmed with it all, the memory of being here with Rome, especially in this bedroom, haunting me by the second. I almost let it swallow me up, but I don’t.

I reach for my phone.

It’s eight in the morning—the exact time I should be walking through the lobby of my design firm. I shoot a text to my secretary, telling her I forgot I scheduled a meeting with a client first thing in the morning, and that I’d be out for the rest of the day. I buy myself a lie until I can come up with a better one. Fresh tears threaten to spill at the thought of how long I’ll be staying here. Looking around the room, I bite down on my bottom lip.

The last time I was here, I’d asked Rome for a divorce after only a few months of being secretly married. But in those few months, my entire life had been ripped apart. I’d felt hollow and alone, and ever since, I’ve been determined to fill in the gaps with the life I’ve built since leaving this place.

Rome said filing for divorce would have brought too much speculation and attention on our families. I believed him. At the time, my father was mayor, and his was head of the Italian mafia. The last thing we wanted was to pour salt in the wounds of our families’ generations-old vendetta against the other. Learning of our marriage then eventual divorce would have caused an outright war between our families.