Page 228 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
Two more days passed in tense, watchful silence.
The house felt different now.
Rafael remained distant, but not absent in the same way.
Tess lingered closer to him when she could, as if sensing the shift even without understanding it.
And I stayed in the middle of it all, waiting, observing, planning my exit like a slow burn I refused to rush.
I was leaning against the kitchen doorway one late afternoon, about to make myself a quick coffee, when my old phone—now reactivated and slipped back into use—began to ring.
The sound cut through the quiet sharply.
I answered immediately, expecting Ramiro’s voice on the other end.
Instead, a deep male voice with a thick Italian accent greeted me.
“Hey, Miss Loretta,” he said. “We’ve been trying to reach you for months. Are you alright?”
My hand tightened around the phone instantly.
My pulse followed.
“And who exactly am I speaking with?” I asked carefully.
There was a brief pause, like he was assessing me through the line.
“One of Vincenzo’s soldiers,” he replied. “He wants me to deliver a package to you as quickly as possible. When can you come collect it?”
A cold laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
“Come collect it?” I repeated, sharper now. “You expect me to leave my house and meet a stranger simply because he claims to be Italian?”
My grip tightened further.
“That’s putting my life at risk—especially since your people are actively trying to establish a base here in Spain to wage war against the Spanish mafia.”
The man on the line let out a dry, unimpressed chuckle, the sound carrying a faint edge of arrogance.
“Didn’t the Spanish also come into our territory to build their own bases?” he replied smoothly. “Expelling them has proven... difficult. This isn’t personal. It’s business.”
A pause, then his tone shifted slightly—less amused, more pointed.
“Being married to Rafael Pérez doesn’t mean you owe him your loyalty. Anyway, I’ll be waiting for you atMar de Cenizasrestaurant. It’s only a ten-minute drive from where you are now.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“If I don’t see you there by 4 PM tomorrow,” he continued, “I’ll have to return the package to Vincenzo.”
My eyes narrowed instantly. “Tell Vincenzo to contact me himself.”
A soft scoff came through the line. “We soldiers cannot reach him directly—only his underboss and enforcers can. Don’t you know how this works?”
There was something irritatingly casual about his tone, like he was discussing dinner arrangements instead of mafia chains of command and implied threats.
“What are you so afraid of?” he added, almost mockingly. “Bring as many security men as you want. Walk into the restaurant, take the package, and leave. Simple. You can even bring Rafael himself if it makes you feel safer.”
My jaw clenched.
