Chapter 6 - Blood On The Marble
By midnight, the estate was locked down like a military fortress.
The perimeter was secured, the intruders had been removed, and the local police captain—firmly on the Valente payroll—had already filed an incident report blaming the gunfire on a localized electrical explosion at a power transformer down the road.
Inside the master bathroom, steam filled the air as hot water poured into the clawfoot porcelain tub.
Isa sat on the edge of the plush sofa in Richi’s bedroom, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater that belonged to him. A small white butterfly bandage sat on her forehead, applied by the family doctor twenty minutes earlier.
Richi emerged from the adjoining dressing room wearing clean gray sweatpants and a dark t-shirt. The sight of the lethal mafia boss in domestic clothing was jarring, yet intoxicatingly intimate. He carried a silver bowl of warm water and a fresh washcloth.
He knelt between her bare knees on the rug without a word.
""You don't have to do that,"" Isa whispered, her cheeks warming as he dipped the cloth into the water.
""Be quiet,"" Richi murmured gently.
He took her bruised right hand, lifting it to wipe away the faint streaks of dried blood from the shattered glass. His touch was painstakingly tender, completely at odds with the man who had shot an assassin dead an hour earlier without blinking.
""Salvatore’s faction was financed by the Castiglione family in New Jersey,"" Richi said quietly, his eyes focused on her delicate fingers. ""They knew my father had recovered his health. They knew that as long as Matteo was strong, the council would never sanction a vote of no confidence against me. They wanted him dead so the syndicate would splinter.""
""And me?"" Isa asked softly. ""What did they want with me?""
Richi went very still. He placed the cloth into the bowl and raised his gaze to meet hers.
""They wanted to use you to break me.""
Isa’s breath hitched in her throat. ""Richi...""
""I have never cared for a woman in my life, Isa,"" he confessed, his voice rough and stripped of all arrogance. ""My mother died of cancer while rival families tried to bomb her hospital room. I learned young that love is a target painted squarely on your chest. When you walked into my father's kitchen, I told myself you were just Julian's daughter. A debtor to keep under surveillance. A pretty distraction for a lonely old man.""
He leaned closer, his warm hands cupping her knees.
""Then I saw you standing in the kitchen doorway with flour on your apron, making my father laugh. I found myself leaving board meetings worth fifty million dollars because I couldn't stand the thought of missing your dinner. And tonight... when I saw that bastard holding a blade to your throat, I felt a terror I have never known in all my years of bloodshed.""
Tears welled in Isa's eyes. She reached down, threading her fingers through his damp, dark hair. ""I’m not afraid of your world, Richi. But I am afraid of loving a man who sees me as a debt to be collected.""
Richi stood up smoothly, pulling her up with him until her bare feet were standing on the tips of his. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper—the original ledger of her father's multi-million dollar Chicago debt.
Without taking his eyes from hers, Richi held the paper over the glass candle burning on his bedside table.
The flame caught the corner. Orange fire devoured the ink and parchment, turning the twenty-million-dollar shackle into black, floating ash that fell harmlessly onto the marble hearth.
""The debt is gone,"" Richi declared, his eyes burning with absolute devotion. ""You are completely free, Isa Hayes. You can walk out of that front gate tomorrow morning with a clean slate and ten million dollars in your bank account. You owe me nothing.""
Isa looked at the ashes, then looked up into the rugged face of the most feared man on the East Coast.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their lips were millimeters apart.
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""What if I don't want to leave?"" she whispered.
Richi didn't answer with words. He swept her off her feet into his arms, carrying her toward the king-sized bed as the rain outside washed away the blood on the terrace below.
