The Mafia's Racer Bride

Chapter 8

Kelsey Schmidt

I don’t have any idea how to reply to Sofia’s frantic text messages, and even my team principal, Gabe Turner, is trying to reach me because I'm missing in action. I have already missed two important days of training, and an upcoming race is around the corner at Laguna Seca. Anthony and I haven’t even talked about my racing career yet, and my chest tightens at the thought of how I will ever start that terrifying conversation with him.

I carefully tuck my hair behind my ears as I nervously read each text message from my best friend Sofia, scrolling down through a wave of mounting guilt.

“Kelsey, are you okay?”

“You have training today.”

“Did your father hurt you again?”

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m worried sick now, Kelsey.”

I turn off my phone screen with a sharp click and decide to ignore them all, burying the guilt deep inside. I don’t know what to do while I am stuck here in Anthony’s penthouse.

I leave the phone glowing softly on my bedside table and slip out of the guest room to eat breakfast. It is my very first official morning as Mrs. French. I instinctively reach up, my thumb carefully twisting the smooth gold wedding band on my left ring finger that Anthony slid into place yesterday inside the courthouse. He wears an identical gold band on his own hand.

It’s a simple gold band, but it screams quiet, terrifying elegance.

“Hi,” I greeted Anthony quietly. He is already sitting at the head of the table, dressed immaculately in a tailored three-piece suit, looking completely ready to head off to his work. After our quick wedding yesterday, he dropped me off here at his penthouse, left immediately for work, and I heard the heavy click of the elevator until he returned late at night around ten.

“Sit down.” As always, I stand frozen for a heartbeat, waiting for his verbal permission before I pull out a chair.

There is an incredible spread of food laid out across the table that we could never possibly finish, but my eyes immediately zero in on one detail. There isn't a single strip of bacon or any kind of meat in sight. Instead, a pristine plate of avocado toast topped with a perfectly poached egg sits right where my plate usually goes. I completely ignored the towering stack of pancakes and reached for the toast.

“If you want more, you can just tell the cook,” Anthony says smoothly, lifting a ceramic mug to take a slow sip of his black coffee. “I’ll be working all day and will be back late. The housekeeper will prepare your lunch and dinner.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, keeping my gaze low.

I don’t have the slightest idea how I am going to survive, spending my whole day here doing absolutely nothing except staring out the massive glass windows and counting the tiny cars crawling far below. I am desperate to get back on track and where I belong, but I am paralyzed by uncertainty about what Anthony is planning for me.

I take a bite of the avocado toast and have to physically stop myself from moaning out loud at how incredible it tastes.

I sneak a glance up at Anthony. For a split second, a flash of warmth and hidden happiness flickers in his dark eyes before he instantly wipes it away, masking his expression behind a wall of frost. The sudden intimacy feels so overwhelmingly awkward that I quickly drop my eyes to his plate. There is nothing on it at all. Is he only having black coffee for breakfast?

I scan our table again and wonder with a jolt if he isn't eating because there is no meat served. Is the housekeeper still in the kitchen cooking? Is she busy preparing something else just for Anthony?

Minutes tick by in heavy silence, but no new food arrives. Anthony still hasn't touched a single bite.

“Are you not going to eat anything?” I slowly ask, watching him cautiously from beneath my lashes, terrified that my simple question would irritate him and make him regret bringing me here.

He simply takes another slow sip of his coffee, sets the heavy mug down on the table, and replies evenly, “I only like to have coffee this morning.”

I look back down at our table. There is so much food here, and I know I can't finish it all. Is all of this going to be wasted again? It makes my stomach turn because millions of people are starving and can't even buy a loaf of bread, yet here we are surrounded by excess. I vividly remember being locked away, starving in my own home, while my father threw money away.

“The leftovers will be packed and given to the homeless shelters around downtown,” Anthony says, reading the heavy worry straight off my face like an open book. “Eat everything you want before the housekeeper clears it away.”

I immediately nod, but another question bubbles up in my throat about what is missing from our spread, though I clamp my mouth shut because I'm terrified of talking too much.

When I finally finish eating, Anthony finishes his dark coffee at the exact same time as me. I stay frozen in my seat. I don't want to push my luck, but the question keeps gnawing at me.

“Something bothering you?” Anthony asks, lifting a crisp linen napkin to wipe his mouth.

“Why don’t we have any bacon or meat on the table?” I cautiously ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

My primary rule for survival is never, ever making Anthony mad. He always projects this cold, untouchable aura. That’s fine by me, as long as he doesn't grow sick of my useless presence in his home.

“You don’t have any meat for yourself, Anthony…” I quickly added, stumbling over his name. Saying his name aloud feels entirely too intimate, like a dangerous mistake.

“I don’t need to. Meat is not allowed in this house anymore.”

My eyes flew wide open at his words. But we literally had meat yesterday, and he was eating it! What changed overnight? Did I deeply offend him by being a vegetarian? Is he secretly disgusted or disappointed in me?

“But why?” I almost choked out a whisper. “You aren't a vegetarian. You eat meat.” I vividly remember him eating the heavy breakfast spread yesterday.

“My wife is a vegetarian.”

I am the wife.

My mouth parts in shock, but not a single sound comes out. I snap my mouth shut and swallow hard against the sudden dryness in my throat. He stands up from his chair, slowly buttoning up the front of his suit jacket while keeping his dark gaze locked straight on me.

Did he adjust the food to prepare for me? In the past three days, he has completely upended his world. He hunted down and terrorized my father, ripped me out of that house, married me, provided a fortress of a home, and bought me safe food. And now he has banned meat from his own household simply because I don't eat it?

Is this truly just his way of repaying my late grandfather for helping him and his mother when he was a kid? I think this is too much. He’s doing a lot of things for me, and I don’t want to ask for more.

“I’m leaving.”

He turns his broad back to me, and before I can second-guess myself, I scramble out of my chair and follow his long strides.

“Anthony.” He stops dead in his tracks and pivots to face me. I quickly tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear before I say. “Thank you.”

He has done so much to rescue me, and a crushing wave of guilt hits me because I still haven't found the courage to talk to him about my race at Laguna Seca. I haven't practiced a single lap since my last event. I know I am a naturally good driver, but raw talent isn't enough when you skip practices. Still, I push the thought aside. I refuse to demand any more favors from him. I am already taking up too much space.

“For saving my life,” I added.

Instead of walking away, he steps forward, closing the distance until he is standing right in front of me, towering over my frame. “Withdraw from the Laguna Seca race.”

My breath catches in my throat. I am utterly stunned that he brought it up out of nowhere. Not only does he know about my racing career, but he even knows the exact location of my next race. He truly knows every single detail about my life. Even if he completely missed the horrifying reality of what my father was doing behind closed doors all these years.

And he isn't asking me. He is issuing a flat-out command.

“Why?” I swallow hard, my voice shaking as raw panic spikes through me. I was terrified of questioning him, but I forced the words out anyway. “Are you trying to stop me from racing?”

“No, Kelsey,” he replies, his voice steady, dead serious, and entirely unyielding. “Your body needs time to heal from what your father did. Take a proper rest. Once you're recovered, I’ll personally call your team about this. Let me handle everything for you, Kelsey, now that you are with me.”