HIS BUTTERFLY BETWEEN TWO DONS

CHAPTER TWO

IF I CAN STILL BREATHE, I’M FINE.

SOFIA.

I can't sleep.

I should be sleeping. I should have taken a pill or had a glass of wine or done something to knock myself out so I wouldn't be lying here obsessing over things that aren't my business. But I can't. My mind won't stop racing, won't stop wondering who could possibly make Marco that tense.

In seven years, I've never seen him afraid. Annoyed, yes. Frustrated, sometimes. But never afraid. And tonight, underneath all that careful control, I saw fear.

I close my eyes and try to empty my mind. Try to think about nothing. But all I can see is Marco's face when he told me to stay upstairs. The tension in his jaw. The way he wouldn't meet my eyes.

Stay in your room. Don't come down.

Like I'm a child who needs to be protected from the adults' conversation. Like whatever is happening is too dangerous for me to witness. I hate feeling like this, useless, powerless, kept in the dark about everything that happens in my own home. But that's what I am, isn't it? Just the wife. Just the woman who gave Marco a convenient cover for whatever he's really doing with his life.

I wonder sometimes what he does need covering for. Why would a successful businessman from a powerful family need a wife so badly that he'd marry a pregnant teenager he barely knew? I've never asked. Never dared.

I hear a car in the driveway. My eyes snap open and my heart starts racing even though I tell myself to calm down. It's none of my business. Marco's visitor has nothing to do with me. I need to stay up here, stay quiet, stay out of the way like I always do.

But I can't help it. I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. I'm wearing a nightgown, nothing fancy, just simple white cotton that falls to my knees. My hair is down, loose around my shoulders. I pad to the door and open it just a crack, just enough to hear.

Voices downstairs. The front door opening. Marco's voice.

And then another voice. Deeper. Rougher. A voice I don't recognize but something about it makes my skin prickle with recognition I can't quite place.

I shouldn't go out there. I should close the door, get back in bed, mind my own business.

Instead, I find myself stepping into the hallway.

The house is dark except for the lights downstairs. I move carefully, quietly, staying close to the wall. My bedroom is at the end of the hall, and from the landing at the top of the stairs, I can see down into a part of the living room. But I can't see faces from this angle, just shadows and the sound of voices.

I stood near the railing, hiding behind a pillar, making myself small, and listened.

"So you don't look too happy to see me, cousin."

Cousin. So it's family then. But Marco has several cousins. I've met most of them at various family functions over the years. None of them have ever made him this nervous.

Marco's response is tight, controlled. "Listen to me. Don't cause any trouble for me while you're here. I know what you're capable of and I don't want to be affected by your careless ruthlessness."

There's a pause, and then the other man laughs. It's not a nice laugh. It's dark, amused, like he finds Marco's warning entertaining rather than serious.

"Careless? Ouch. That hurts, especially coming from you."

"You killed sixty men in two days." Marco's voice is flat, stern but still tense for some reason. "If that is not being careless, I don't know what is."

My hand flies to my mouth to stifle the gasp. Sixty men. In two days. What kind of person kills sixty people in two days?

The other man doesn't sound bothered at all. "Well, in my defense, they were being annoying and weren't giving me what I wanted. And if anyone here annoys me, I won't hesitate to do the same thing to them."

Oh God.

There's a casual threat in those words that makes my blood run cold. This isn't just some business associate or distant cousin passing through town. This is someone dangerous. Really dangerous. The kind of dangerous that kills sixty people and talks about it like it's nothing.

I shift slightly, trying to get a better angle to maybe see who's talking, and my elbow brushes against the vase on the hallway table.

Shit.

I grab for it but I'm too slow. The vase tips, tumbles, falls,

It's plastic. Thank God it's plastic. It hits the floor with a thud instead of shattering, but the sound echoes through the quiet house like a gunshot.

I freeze. Don't breathe. Don't move.

The voices downstairs stop.

"That must be your wife." The stranger said, and I can hear the amusement in it now. A low chuckle follows. "I heard you got married recently. It seems poking around in other people's business runs in the family."

Recently. Seven years ago is recent to him? Or maybe Marco hasn't mentioned me much to his extended family. That wouldn't surprise me. I'm just the convenient wife, after all. Not worth mentioning.

But there's something about that voice. Something familiar that I can't quite place. It tickles at the back of my mind, like a word on the tip of my tongue that I can't quite remember.

I should move. Should go back to my room before Marco comes up here and finds me eavesdropping. He's going to be angry. He told me specifically to stay in my room and I didn't listen and now he's going to—

"So, cousin, are you going to show me to my room or—"

"The second room. Upstairs."

No.

No, no, no.

The second room is right next to mine. There are multiple bedrooms in this house. Multiple, more than I can even count. And Marco is putting his dangerous, mass murderer cousin in the room directly next to mine?

I scramble backward, moving as quickly and quietly as I can back toward my bedroom. I can hear footsteps now, heavy footsteps coming toward the stairs. I slip inside my room and ease the door closed, pressing my back against it, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure they can hear it from the hallway.

I hear them coming up the stairs. Marco's familiar controlled steps, and the other man, heavier steps, more casual. They're talking in lower voices now, too quiet for me to make out the words.

They stop in the hallway. Right outside my door.

I hold my breath.

"This one." Marco's voice, just on the other side of the wood. "The bathroom is at the end of the hall. Stay out of the other rooms."

"Protective of your wife, aren’t you?" That amused tone again. "Don't worry, cousin. I'm not interested."

"I mean it. Don't bother her. Don't talk to her. Don't even look at her. She has nothing to do with any of this."

There's a long pause, and then, "Whatever you say, cousin."

I hear a door open, the second bedroom, and then close. Footsteps moving away. Marco going back downstairs. And then silence.

I stay pressed against my door for a long moment, trying to process what just happened.

There's a man in the room next to mine. A man who makes Marco Valentino nervous enough to give me specific instructions to stay away from him. A man whose voice sounds familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl with something that isn't quite fear but isn't quite anything else either.

Who is he?

Marco called him cousin, but that doesn't narrow it down much. The Valentino family is huge, with branches all over the city and beyond. I've met dozens of Marco's relatives over the years at weddings and funerals and family dinners. But I can't place that voice. Can't remember meeting anyone who would warrant this kind of reaction from Marco.

I move away from the door finally, my legs shaky. I should get back in bed. I should try to sleep. Should forget about all of this because it's none of my business and Marco made it very clear that I should stay out of it.

But I can't stop thinking about it.

Who kills sixty people in two days? What kind of person does that? And why is he here? Is he staying? How long?

I climb back into bed but I don't even try to close my eyes. I just stare at the wall that separates my room from the second bedroom. There's someone on the other side of that wall right now. Someone dangerous. Someone Marco is afraid of.

The house is silent again, but it feels different now. Heavier. Like the air is pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe.

I think about that voice. Deep and rough and somehow familiar. I've heard it before, I'm sure of it. But where? When?

And then there's what he said about Marco getting married recently. Like it was gossip he'd heard, not something Marco had told him directly. Like maybe this cousin has been away for a while. Away doing what? Killing?

I pull the blanket up higher, suddenly cold despite the warm room.

Marco never called him by name. Not once during their entire conversation. Just "cousin." Like he was deliberately avoiding saying it. Why?

There are too many questions and not enough answers, and I know I won't get any. Marco doesn't share information with me. Never has. I'm kept separate from his business, from his family drama, from everything real that happens in his life. I'm just the wife.

But this feels different. This feels like something I should know about. Should be warned about. A dangerous man would be living in the room next to mine, and all Marco says is stay in your room.

I wonder if I should call my mother. Ask her to keep Isabella for a few more days until this cousin leaves. But what would I tell her? That Marco has a guest and I'm nervous? She'd tell me I'm being dramatic. Tell me to trust my husband and stop asking questions I have no business asking.

My mother loves reminding me that I'm lucky. Lucky Marco married me. Lucky he gave Isabella a name. Lucky I have this big house and nice clothes and everything I could possibly need. She loves reminding me that I could have had nothing. That I could have been cast out, alone, raising a bastard child with no money and no future.

She's right, of course. I am lucky. I should be grateful.

But lying here in the dark, knowing there's a killer in the room next to mine, grateful is not what I'm feeling.

I'm feeling afraid.

And underneath the fear, something else. Something I can't quite name. A revival of something that's been dead for seven years.

That voice.

Why do I know that voice?

I close my eyes and try to place it. Try to remember where I've heard it before. But the memory is slippery, sliding away every time I try to grasp it.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I don't know him at all. Maybe it's just my imagination playing tricks on me because I'm tired and scared and confused.

But I don't think so.

I think I know him. I think I've heard that voice before, in another life, in another time. Before Marco. Before Isabella. Before everything fell apart.

The thought makes my heart race for reasons I don't understand.

Who is this man?

Why is he here?

How long is he staying?

What does he want?

And why does Marco sound so tense when talking to him, like he's walking on eggshells around his own cousin?

Who is on the other side of that wall right now?