When He Cheated, I Wed His Mafia Father

Chapter 2

I left the club with grief seeping into every corner of my body. I bought a bottle from a stand on the street and drank as I walked, and somehow, without meaning to, my feet carried me all the way to the Thorne Manor.

I was hurting so badly I'd drunk myself half-blind, and the kind of men who prey on that were already circling. Clinging to the last thread of clarity, I stumbled through the gates. I didn't want what had happened five years ago to happen again. Wrecking my own life over Damian wasn't a price I was willing to pay.

Something felt off. The manor, usually crawling with staff, was empty. Every other time I'd come, servants had lined the halls, not that I'd been trying to notice them. It was just that they were always whispering. To them, an actress was nothing but a fame-chasing starlet, and I was a gold digger clinging to the Thorne name.

Whenever I'd cried about it to Damian, he'd sighed like I was being unreasonable, reminding me he was only the adopted son, telling me I didn't understand how delicate his position was. Now, thinking back, an adopted son was still the future heir. Without at least his tacit permission, no servant would have dared humiliate his fiancée like that. Slowly it hit me. I'd been lying to myself the whole time. Love was like standing by a campfire. How could you not feel whether it was warm or cold?

I made my way to the living room and found a tall figure stretched out on the sofa. His features were sharp and striking, more beautiful than any Hollywood A-Lister I'd ever worked with. My balance gave out and I dropped onto the cushion beside him. He reached over and took the bottle from my hand.

"Girls shouldn't drink so much." His voice was low and rich, like a cello, edged with the mild reproach of an elder.

The words unsettled me and dragged up a memory. Damian had once taken me to a business dinner. The clients wanted me to drink, and when I said I couldn't hold my liquor, he'd smiled and told them I was being modest. Glass after glass of strong bourbon, poured straight past my lips by his own hand. It burned down my throat into my stomach until every organ inside me felt like it was on fire. By the end I was drenched in cold sweat from the pain, and he'd only laughed and said I was every bit the Oscar winner. My act of trying to dodge a drink was almost convincing. After the dinner he told me to head home alone. The cab driver took one look at my face and drove me to the hospital instead. The doctor diagnosed a perforated stomach ulcer and admitted me on the spot.

I texted Damian. He didn't show up until the following afternoon. He brought a bowl of soup, sat by the bed and spoon-fed me, and told me he hadn't known how bad it was and it wouldn't happen again. I'd always weathered illnesses alone, so the small kindness undid me. I forgave him in an instant, and told myself maybe he really hadn't known about my stomach.

A warm, dense scent of cigar drifted into my nose and pulled me back to the present. I blinked and realized my face was only a few inches from his. His breath brushed against my skin. My eyes fell to his thin lips, and unbidden the image came back to me, of Damian turning his head to avoid my kiss.

I leaned in and kissed him.

He stilled, then murmured, "You started this..."

I was too fogged to catch what he said. I slid my arms up around his neck. He answered by taking over completely, with a possessiveness Damian had never once shown me. What followed unfolded on its own. Where Damian had always been perfunctory, this man was domineering and tender at the same time, his foreplay slow and deliberate, and for the first time in my life I understood what pleasure in bed actually meant. I lost count of how many times, my whole body tossed like something caught in the surf, driven again and again to the edge.

I drifted off somewhere in the middle of it.

When I woke, I was in a clean nightgown, tucked against his chest. I glanced up and met his eyes, my face heating.

The internal line rang. He picked up.

"Mr. Vincent, the women's clothing you ordered has arrived. Would you like me to bring it up?"

Mr. Vincent? My mind went white. He was Damian's adoptive father. He was Vincent, the mafia boss whose name alone made people flinch.

No wonder I hadn't seen him on my way in. Vincent liked quiet. When he was home, no servant dared show themselves without being called for.

The stories about him, about how easily he killed, rushed back to me. I fumbled the covers aside, trying to escape. "I'm sorry, Mr. Vincent, I'm so sorry, I had too much to drink."

His mouth curved. He pulled me back against him. "I preferred the version of you who called me Daddy in my arms."

My phone rang. I seized on it to look anywhere else and picked up, and Damian's voice came through.

"Baby, where are you? Did I leave my pistol at your place? Could you swing by the office and bring it to me?"

His voice was low and hoarse, and I knew it too well. It was the voice he used when he was smoking a cigarette after s*x.

The anger I'd been holding down shot straight to my head. I cut him off, my tone flat with impatience. "Sorry, I'm busy. I'm having sex."