Page 82 of Freed
My voice lowers. “Is that why the wedding was rushed?”
She stares at me like she wants to slap me. Or kill me.
“Go to hell.”
Not a denial. My heartbeat turns murderous.
I step closer. “Answer me.”
Her breath catches. She shakes her head once, hard, like she hates me and pities me and wants me far away from her all at once. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
“Then I’ll ask something else.” I stop right in front of her. “Did you really think he would settle for someone like you if you weren’t pregnant?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve struck something raw. Her whole face changes. And for the first time since the thought took hold, something cold slips in around the edges of my certainty. But it is too late. I’ve already seen the fast wedding, the untouched wine, the hidden body, and built a story out of all of it. One in which Dante Russo put a child in her and wrapped her in white before anyone could ask questions. One in which I was too late.
Elizabeth’s voice shakes when she says, “You are the cruelest man I have ever known.”
Then she shoves past me. I catch the faintest brush of her shoulder against my arm, and even that small contact feels like being cut open. Because the worst part is that I still don’t know if I’m wrong.
16
Birdie
Oh my God.
He knows.
The realization slams into me so hard I nearly sway where I stand. Not because I said anything. Not because I slipped. But because of a freaking roast beef sandwich.
I almost laugh at the insanity of it, except I’m far too busy trying not to throw up. Of all the things that could have given me away—my body, my tears, my refusal of wine, the rushed wedding—it might have been a stupid sandwich that cracked my secret open.
My mind races. Has he truly put it together? Or is he only circling it? Did he notice enough to be sure, or just enough to start asking questions I can’t afford to answer?
I don’t get the chance to decide which possibility is worse.
He follows me into the hallway, his footsteps heavy and deliberate behind me.
“Come.”
I turn. “Where are we going?”
“I’m a man of my word,” he says, not even looking back as he keeps walking. “We’re going to my office to call Russo.”
I stop dead. Call Dante? No. Absolutely not. Not now. Not with Lorenzo staring at me like he’s one breath away from ripping the truth out of my chest with his bare hands. Not with suspicion riding him this hard.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
That makes him stop. Slowly, he turns to face me. The look on his face steals the air from my lungs. There’s no softness in it. No patience. Just that dark, terrifying calm he gets when he’s already decided how this is going to go and everyone else is foolish enough to think they still have choices.
“Well, too fucking bad.” His voice is low and edged with steel. “There are a few things I want to ask him.”
Ice slides down my spine. He’s not doing this for me. He’s doing it for himself. To test Dante. To bait him. To listen for hesitation, lies, guilt. To confirm whatever horrible theory is already forming in that ruthless mind of his. And there’s no way for me to warn Dante what Lorenzo suspects.
He takes one step toward me.
“If you don’t come on your own,” he says, “I will carry you.”
I believe him instantly. That’s the worst part. Not because of the threat itself, but because I can see he means it. There’s no bluff in him. If I refuse, he’ll haul me there over his shoulder like he did outside the boutique, and this time I don’t know if I’m more afraid of the humiliation or of what Dante might say once Lorenzo gets him on the line.
