We eat. And by that, I mean Quinn feeds me small portions of carefully cut-up food, making sure to include all the veggies he can coax into my mouth as he drones on and on about the nutritional needs of infants.
After supper and the first of what I fear will be many forthcoming lectures about eating for two, he takes us into the shower, washes us down with the enthusiasm of a Labrador on its first outing at the doggie park, then heads right back to bed with me in his arms.
When he’s lying on top of me, searing my retinas with the brightness of his jubilant smile, I decide it’s time to make an adjustment to the situation.
“Pardon me for interrupting your gloat-a-thon, but has it occurred to you that I might need a rest?”
He draws his brows together. “Rest?”
“Let me put it to you this way: if I inserted an object the size of a bowling pin into your behind, do you suppose you could go right back to business as usual afterward? Would you be riding around the moors of Ireland on horseback, leaping over streams and galloping around full-speed while your poor, raw bottom took the brunt of all that jostling in the saddle?”
He looks appalled. “I knew I was hurting you!” Then, after a beat: “A bowling pin?”
When his grin returns, I give up. I close my eyes and sigh heavily.
“All right, lass,” he says, his voice warm, his mouth close to my ear. “We’ll have a rest. We’ll get a good night’s sleep. You’ll need it, because growing babies requires a lot of energy.”
“Will you stop talking before I throw myself out the window, please?”
He rolls over, drags me on top of him, and hides his face in my neck as he laughs.
I must be more exhausted than I realize, because I fall asleep on top of him almost immediately.
The dream begins with fire.
All over me, all around me, even underneath my skin. I’m being burned alive from the inside out, and there’s no escaping it.
Except it’s not really fire. It only feels like fire.
Because that’s exactly what being repeatedly lashed with a leather whip is like.
I’m naked, screaming, crawling away over a cold marble floor on my hands and knees, sobbing and pleading for mercy. My tormentor gives me none. Following closely behind as I scramble for safety, he cracks the whip over and over, separating my flesh. Blood splatters the marble. It’s warm and slippery under the palms of my hands.
A vicious kick to the ribs sends me tumbling sideways. I lie on the cold hard floor on my back with my arms out, panting, desperately begging no no no no as he looms over me, a tall figure with a shadowed face and an arm raised to strike.
As it falls, the whip parts the air with a vicious hiss like a thousand snakes descending with their sharp fangs bared, prepared to bite.
I scream at the top of my lungs, knowing no one will hear me.
“Reyna! Wake up, baby! Wake up!”
Quinn is shouting at me. Holding me in his arms and shouting.
I’m blinded for a moment, seeing nothing but blackness and hearing only my pounding heartbeat and that terrible hiss that always came right before the pain exploded over me.
When I inhale a sharp breath, I come back to myself slowly. Inch by inch, the darkness withdraws. The warmth of the room and Quinn’s arms seep in, soothing me.
I’m safe. In a hotel room in Boston, not at home in New York with Enzo.
Enzo is dead.
He can never hurt me again.
Except he can, because that sick son of a bitch lives on in my memory.
Sweating and trembling, I lower my head to Quinn’s chest.
“You’re okay, love,” he says, sounding shaken as he rocks me in his arms. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
The sheets are in tangles all around us. I must’ve been thrashing. I wonder how long it took him to wake me up.
He kisses my head, then takes my face in his hands. His eyes search mine.
“You were having a nightmare.”
My voice raw, I say, “Enzo.”
He winces. “Ah, fuck.”
He gathers me into his arms and holds me until my ragged breath has slowed to normal, and I’m no longer quaking with dread.
“What can I do?”
“Just this. I’ll be okay in a minute.”
He exhales heavily, then pulls the blankets up, holding me with one arm. He settles us back against the pillows, tucking my head under his chin and wrapping his arms and legs around me so I’m cocooned in his warmth.
We lie like that in the dark, breathing together, for a long time. It could be minutes or hours, I don’t know.
Eventually, an odd feeling overtakes me. After examining it for a while, I realize it’s peace.
I’ve never felt peace before.
In all my thirty-three years, I’ve never known what it’s like to find shelter from the storms that always followed me. I’ve been lost at sea for so long, I thought that’s what it meant to be living.
It isn’t until now, with a glimpse of a golden-haired man waving at me from shore in the distance, that I realize the storms might be behind me. My sails are full, the seas are smooth, and the wind at my back is soft and easy.
I might finally be coming home.
In a low voice, I say, “Epinephrine.”
“What?”
I pull away from Quinn, rolling over and sitting up to swing my legs over the side of the bed. I put my head in my hands and exhale a breath I’ve been holding my whole life. It shudders out of me, heavier than gravity.
“I said epinephrine. Normally, it’s used in emergency treatment for allergic reactions. But in large enough doses, it will stop the heart. And because it’s a hormone that occurs naturally in the body, it doesn’t automatically get flagged on the coroner’s report.”
Quinn lies perfectly still and silent, listening.
I lick my dry lips. “Enzo was diabetic. He had to inject himself with insulin before every meal.”
After a long moment, Quinn says softly, “You replaced his insulin with epinephrine.”
I look out the windows at Boston sparkling like a jewel in the night and think I could already be pregnant. I could already have this man’s child growing inside me. I didn’t insist he use protection. If I’m honest with myself, I didn’t even give it a second thought.
I wanted him from the start. Long before I could admit it to myself, I wanted everything he could possibly give me.
I say, “No one else on earth knows that. The official cause of death was sudden cardiac arrest. Diabetes is a risk factor for it. He also had a fatty liver and elevated cholesterol levels, so the coroner didn’t open an inquest. He was cremated, but the coroner’s office keeps biomarker tissue samples for five years. If they knew to look for elevated adrenal hormones, I’d be in prison.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “So you’ve got two years left of excellent blackmail material.”
He gazes at me with a look of deep admiration.
Which is more proof of his insanity, considering I just confessed to murdering the prior man in his position.
He says, “Antivenom.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“I have a severe allergy to spider antivenom. I was bitten by a spider when I was ten years old. The bite was bad, painful and swollen. My mother took me to the hospital, and they gave me antivenom. I would’ve survived the bite just fine, but the antivenom almost killed me. I went into anaphylactic shock.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“So both of us know something about the other that no one else does. So that you don’t feel like I have something to hold over you. And so you know I trust you with my life.”
His voice drops and his eyes shine. “Now ask me what the only thing was that saved me from dying of anaphylactic shock.”
My heart pounds painfully hard. I whisper, “Epinephrine.”
Holding my gaze, he nods.
I shut my eyes and bury my face in my hands.
Then his arms are around me, pulling me close. Into my ear, he says, “We should name the first baby Epi.”
My laugh is part sob. “That’s sick.”
He pretends to be serious. “You’re right. How about Nephrine? Epine? Rin?”
“Oh God. We’re both going to hell.”
“For sure. We’ll have front row seats.” His voice warms. “But we’ll be together.”
He drags me back to the center of the bed and holds me tightly, kissing me all over my face. I lie in his arms, enveloped by him and a huge sense of wonder at how strange the world is.
“So is that what your tattoo and nickname are about?”
“Aye. After I came home from the hospital, all the neighborhood kids started calling me Spider. It stuck. The tattoo is a reminder to let things be as they are. That sometimes struggling against what is can make things worse. And that the real danger is never what you think it is, so keep your eyes sharp and your mind open before you make a decision that could change your life. Because everything is connected, linked in a delicate chain, like the web of a spider.”
“Oh no,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’ll never be able to think your tattoo is dumb again.”
He chuckles. “Most people think it means I’ve spent time in prison, so having you only think it’s dumb is an upgrade.”
“I didn’t know spiderweb tattoos were symbolic for prison.”
“Traditionally, aye. But they can be symbolic for lots of things. A struggle you’ve had to overcome. Longing to break free from a trap. Time spent away from family.”
He adds sourly, “Or, in my case, a reminder that if I ever get bitten by a spider again, not to get the bloody antivenom.”
I start to laugh and can’t stop. I lie in his arms and dissolve into helpless laughter until my sides ache and my face feels as if it’s stuck.
When I’ve finally calmed down and am sighing, Quinn kisses the top of my head.
“Go to sleep now, lass. And no more bad dreams, understood? You never have to be afraid of anything again. You’ve got me to watch over you now. I’ll never let anything hurt you.”
I fall asleep with the image of a huge golden spider rocking me gently in its web as it stands vigilant lookout in the dark, ready to give a deadly bite to anything that threatens me.
In the morning, Gianni calls in a rage, demanding to know what I said to the other family heads to get them to postpone the vote for capo.
When I tell him sweetly that he’s forgotten I’m only a stupid, powerless woman, he hangs up on me.
Quinn shows remarkable restraint by not pouncing on me the moment I open my eyes. Instead, he suggests we go to his home so I can decide if I’d like to live there or move to the other side of the world and live in a hut so he can’t find me.
He’s trying to be funny, but I can tell how nervous he is about it.
I still haven’t committed to living with him. Or to signing a wedding license to make the church marriage legal.
The only thing we’re both on board about so far is the meeting of sperm and egg.
“Yes, I’d like to see your home. But first, I’d like to see the marriage contract.”
He quirks his lips. “You’re very interested in that contract, aren’t you?”
“There might be a few items I’d like to renegotiate.”
“Hmm.”
“What a safe response. Show me the contract, Quinn. Let’s get it over with.”
He pulls it up on his laptop.
It’s twenty-seven pages long.
Scrolling through the document, I say faintly, “What the actual fuck?”
Pacing behind me with his arms folded over his chest, Quinn says, “Did you think the terms joining two international criminal empires would be scribbled on a napkin?”
“No. I didn’t think it would be the Magna Carta, either.”
“Keep reading.”
I do. It goes into remarkable detail about trade routes, payment terms, assigned territories, who reports to whom, how disputes are to be handled, termination triggers, jurisdictions and the hierarchy of said jurisdictions’ managers. Among other things.
It’s possibly the most complicated prenuptial agreement ever created.
“What’s this section about someone named Stavros? It’s very ambiguous.”
Quinn peers over my shoulder to read. “It’s a condition Gianni agreed to fulfill as part of the bargain.”
“So what is it?”
He straightens and looks down at me. “Gianni has to kill Stavros. Personally. And show proof.”
“I see. And what did this Stavros do that Declan wanted it in the contract?”
“He’s Sloane’s ex.”
“Was he abusive?”
He snorts. “Stavros couldn’t manage to abuse a wasp that was repeatedly stinging him in the face.”
I furrow my brows. “So why does Declan want him dead?”
“It’s a long story.”
I say firmly, “Then I’ll settle in as you tell it.”
Sighing, Quinn turns away and starts pacing again. “A man named Kazimir Portnov is in control of the Bratva here in the US. He goes by Kage.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the name.”
“Declan asked for Kage’s help when Riley was kidnapped and taken to Moscow. In return, Kage got a marker from Declan. He had to do Kage a favor, no matter what it was, no questions asked.”
“Okay. I’m following.”
“Kage’s marker was that Declan had to kill Stavros.”
“Why did Kage want Stavros dead?”
“Because he’s Russian. They’re crazy.”
“Says the crazy man. Not good enough. Keep talking.”
After an aggravated growl, Quinn says, “Declan can’t kill Stavros himself because he promised Sloane he never would. And Kage, being the psychopath that he is, thought it would be bloody great fun to make his marker something Declan had promised his wife he’d never do and see how he’d handle it.”
“Okay. But why did Kage want Stavros dead in the first place?”
“Disloyalty. At least that’s what Declan told me. It could really be nothing more than Kage being Kage.”
“Stavros is Russian?”
“Aye.”
Mulling that over, I turn my attention back to the computer screen. “So Sloane doesn’t know about this marker?”
“Not what it was called in for.”
I don’t like the sound of that. Even though we’re not close yet, Sloane is someone I could see being a good friend. And I know enough about her to know she wouldn’t like this kind of back-door dealing at all.
“Which also means she doesn’t know that Declan put it in the marriage contract.”
He chuckles. “It’s not like he’d tell her, lass. If Sloane found out Declan had broken his promise, he’d be short two balls.”
Just as I thought. It’s a brilliant piece of strategy on Declan’s part, but if Sloane found out about this clever chess move of his, she’d rightly feel betrayed.
These men think they’re so smart.
But if they were really intelligent, they’d be much more afraid of their wives.
I move on to other items, asking Quinn to explain and elaborate. I get an education in the technicalities and logistics of how drugs and weapons are moved across borders, how money changes hands, how law enforcement is used to aid illegal activities or avoided where it can’t be bribed.
By the end of it, I have a good sense of the terms of the contract.
And an even better sense of where it needs to be changed to the Mafia’s benefit.
Closing the laptop, I say, “Thank you. That was helpful. Let’s go see your home.”
“That’s it?”
“Are you the man in charge of contract negotiations?”
Quinn’s expression darkens. “Declan is.”
“Then that’s it. Let’s go.”
He says firmly, “Lass. The contract can’t be changed. It’s been signed already.”
I smile at him. “But the marriage license hasn’t. And without a legal marriage, the contract isn’t binding. I saw that in section eighteen B.”
“Gianni isn’t going to ask for more concessions. He’s already over the moon about what he got.”
Yes, but I’m not. And I find myself feeling quite ambitious this morning.
I say, “We’ll see about that,” and head to the door.
