Page 5 of Vicious Secrets
“Nothing’s going to change, Robyn,” he says when I’m at the halfway point.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, not looking up or stopping.
“I promise you. I’m not going to force you to change.”
This time, I do look up. My manicured brows knit together, eyes blinking slowly at the man before me. Did I miss a note in his chart about his blood alcohol content?
As my gaze rolls over him for signs of intoxication, I notice how tensely he sits. The muscles in his thighs clenched, veins in his neck bulging, and shoulders squared. I swear there is a slight twitch at the corners of his eyes.
“Would you like more anesthetic, Mr. James?”
“Mr. Dirosa. You can call me Siro.”
My stomach drops into my toes, dragging down my heart along with it. His earlier promise smacks me across the face, pinkening my cheeks. My future husband is sitting before me in all his bloody glory with his slicked-back hair, resting murder-y face, and notoriously deadly hands.
“And no, please continue,” he tacks on.
If the tension in the mobster’s body isn’t from pain, this flavor of tenseness lines up with... anxiety. What about this situation makes a man like him nervous?
My fingers twitch against his arm. I immediately turn back to the wound and start suturing again. “Brave of you to come to a normal hospital.”
“A chance to talk with you in…” He cuts himself off, his jaw grinding faintly audible. “Without your stepfather’s influence. Balances out the risk.”
My organs lurch back into place, hands pausing mid-needle pull. “Please tell me you didn’t cut yourself on purpose.”
Siro chuckles. “What’s a better alibi than an actual injury?”
I want to curse him out and call him an idiot for risking himself just so we can speak in private. But I’ve heard several stories of how he’s reacted to insults. I doubt I’ll be exempt from his wrath.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “You’ve got two more sutures. Talk fast.”
“I don’t have any intentions of completely upending your life. You can keep your job, your hobbies, your friends.” Despite his palpable discomfort, Siro’s tone is just as smooth and collected as earlier.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, fighting the urge to look up at him in disbelief.
“As the future Boss, I take my responsibilities and my role seriously. Our marriage can be fake for you, but not me.”
Somehow, the tension in the small room ratchets upward. My skin crawls. Finishing the stitches, I sit back on the stool and peer at him.
“Sorry, I’m not sure I understand.”
Siro moves to unroll the cuff of his shirt. Out of habit from years of working with fidgety drunk patients, I click my tongue against the back of my teeth. When I stand with the intention of bandaging him when it hits me what I’ve done. Siro’s fingers pause, unmoving against the fine, white fabric. He eyes me with a mix of intrigue and irritation.
“I’m trying to buy you more time to talk,” I lie, gesturing at the gauze.
His fingers spring to life, not so gently putting his shirt sleeve back in place over the fresh stitches. “I’m open to negotiations.”
The whiplash from my cringe at Siro’s careless handling of his arm weakens my knees. The shock from the mobster point-blank offering negotiations knocks me back onto the stool, rolling me away from the mountain of anger I’m soon to wed.
Well, that explains his nervous energy. How often does a man like him extend an olive branch?
“Uh, wow, alright,” I say as I run a hand over my head. “What do you expect from me?”
“We follow tradition; live together, attend events together, and when in public, you pretend to care about me to keep up with the appearance of our relationship.” Each of his words sounds full of pain, like he’s recently had his jaw wired shut. “And occasionally sex,” he adds on as if it were an afterthought, and not a requirement of a Fedeltà wedding night.
Is this a good time to ask his opinions on starting a family? Probably not.
Besides, the present I gave myself for my twenty-sixth birthday isn’t any of Siro’s business. What he doesn’t know about my tubal ligation can’t hurt him. Telling him the truth now risks killing the arrangementandmy family.
