Page 28 of Vicious Secrets
Robyn flushes a brilliant shade of red that brings on a wave of guilt. Where did all of this sap in my chest come from?
“You came into marriage expecting safety, autonomy, and little else. Our women are raised with expectations I’d never meet. Failing as a husband would cause a rift over my succession.” I sigh and shake my head. Wearing my heart on my sleeve is dangerous, but venting this nonsense to her feels right. “I’m wired different. Fucked in the head, thanks to my parents. I was created to become the Boss, not a person.”
Robyn pales, her eyes going wide as her jaw slacks. Her hand rubs along my forearm. The warmth from her fingertips seeps through my shirt, and the scratch of her short nails sends goosebumps up my arm.
Anger climbs up my spine and collides with the pleasant feeling. Twisting over the untouched parts of my arm into white-hot claws that dig up from under my skin like rats trapped in a barrel. The edges of my vision tinge black. My chest constricts as the gentle strokes of her fingers work trails of numbness through the tension.
“Shit. Sorry,” she says and pulls her hand back with a jolt.
I don’t want her to see me break down again. I slow my breathing despite my lungs’ screams for air.
“Don’t apologize. You owe me nothing. And don’t skip your dinner for me. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Robyn runs her tongue over her teeth and smiles softly. Why does she look so content all of a sudden? Her ability to flow through emotions baffles me as much as the soft spot I’ve had for her since the engagement party. I’d love to blame the kiss in the kitchen, but that’s too simple.
She returns to her spot, and we finish our meal in near silence. I keep an eye on her to ensure she doesn’t faceplant on the plate or the floor. Despite the obvious exhaustion on her face, Robyn’s movements don’t convey it.
“You don’t have to hide how tired you are around me,” I say as I collect her empty plate before she can stand.
Robyn stares at her placemat like it spoke to her. Her chin tilts up as her head turns. Her hazel eyes are blinking so rapidly at the dishes in my hand that the motion is makingmenauseous.
“I’m capable of doing dishes,” I huff and walk off into the kitchen. Watching her brain break over a pleasant gesture pisses me off. More so than it should. I’m an adult, a bad one, but one nonetheless. My wife’s worked a twelve-hour shift and needs rest. The fucking least I can do for her is put her fucking plate in the dishwasher.
What the fucking fuck? Why am I so pissy all of a sudden?
“Doesn’t make it any less weird,” she says from the dining room. Her chair slides along the wood floor. “I’m not hiding from you. I don’t know how to act tired. It’s a skill I picked up in nursing school.”
I open my mouth to respond when my phone chimes with a reminder. My mood further sours. I don’t need to look at the notification to know it’s for a meeting with my father. He’s the Boss, but he rarely meets with me nowadays. Most of his time is allegedly spent guiding the Underbosses of other territories.
Robyn’s footsteps move down the hall and into our bedroom before I can wish her a good night. I shoot a text to Fabi on my way out the door.
Heading to Boss’. Make sure Robyn made it to bed.
Twenty minutes later, when I arrive at my parent’s mansion, Fabi pings me a response.
She’s already face down and snoring.
I’m tempted to ask him to find out if there’s a deeper meaning than her independence as to why she won’t consider quitting. The few times the topic of her job has come up, she always uses a tone that makes it sound like she’s incapable of being selfish. Which I don’t think is the truth based on the way she shoved my face between her legs the morning after the wedding.
Most of the lights in my parent’s house are off. They were probably never on to begin with. Father sticks to his office, and Mother to her sitting room or the living room. They meet for one meal on the weekdays and two on weekends. Both of them are cold but not hostile toward each other. The mansion is easily thirty rooms in total, and maybe five of them are used daily. Even when Vi and I lived here, we rarely used more than half the rooms.
My father’s waiting for me in his office. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the golden light coming from a glass desk lamp. Father’s shoulders roll as I take a seat. He shifts his weight from side to side like he’s been sitting stuck in thought and in place for a considerable amount of time. As his fingers untwine, the red marks between them prove my assumption.
Like myself, he likes data and rarely takes hasty action of any kind. He has a track record of mulling over certain types of information for too long. Rifts between blood relatives, arranged marriage proposals, and new truces.
Which is why I haven’t broached the issue of Renzo and Tiff with him. TheBoyevikAri picked up gave us nothing we didn’t already know. The Russian was confused by our questions as if we were talking gibberish. Since then, Renzo has come under threat from the Bratva. They attempted to jump him yesterday as he headed to a meeting with the Capos. The use of force against the Consigliere makes no sense and is too convenient.
I strongly suspect my Uncle is gunning for my title, and he’s trying to start a war with the Bratva to show I’m weak.
“Long day?” I ask, eying the decanter of whiskey and glass with two fingers sitting near his phone.
“Long week.” He shakes his head and lets out a dry laugh. “Didn’t take long for rumors of usurpers to ring in my ears.”
“Who?” I move my gaze to his face. I don’t want him to suspect I already know. If there’s more than just Renzo, I need that intel.
“No names yet, just talk of rifts amongst some of the Underbosses who favored my dead brothers.” He snorts and grabs his glass, taking a hearty gulp and rolling his eyes. “They’re always pissy. Why the fuck they care your wife is an outsider is beyond me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “My wife, huh? Not that I’m failing to push out the Bratva?”
