My Mafia Husband Leaked My Intimate Photos So I Ended Our MarriageChapter 3

By morning, I can barely bend my knees.

I sit on the edge of the bathtub and ease off the damp jeans.

The skin beneath them is scraped.

Bruises are darkening along my arms.

I open the medicine cabinet.

Dante keeps everything arranged by size.

Bandages.

Pain relievers.

Antiseptic.

I look at the shelves for a long time before taking anything.

My phone rings.

Mom.

I let it ring twice.

Then I answer.

"Hi."

"Did I wake you?"

"No."

"You sound tired."

"It was a long day."

She laughs softly.

"I remember."

I press a clean cloth against my knee.

"Is Dante there?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, I won't keep you. I wanted to tell you something."

I close my eyes.

"The warehouse order came through this morning. Signed and everything. His office called it a wedding gift."

My hand goes still.

"Mom."

"I know. You don't want to talk about work today."

"That's not—"

"It takes such a weight off. I wanted you to know."

I look at my arm.

Four separate bruises show where the man held me.

"Are you happy, sweetheart?"

The question catches in my throat.

I could tell her.

I almost do.

Then I hear how relieved she is.

"I'm exhausted," I say. "Can I call you later?"

"Of course."

"And Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

After we hang up, I stay beside the bathtub.

Then I open the camera on my phone.

I photograph my knees.

My arms.

I save the messages with the pharmacy list and the deadline.

Then I make copies in an account Dante doesn't know about.

When I hear the front door, I pull my robe over my legs.

He finds me on the couch.

For a moment, he just looks at me.

Then his eyes drop to the first-aid supplies on the table.

"Let me see."

"No."

He sits anyway.

"Elena."

I keep my hands on the edge of the robe.

His voice softens.

"Please."

I hate that some part of me still responds to it.

He lifts the fabric from my knees.

His jaw tightens.

"Those idiots."

I look at him.

"You told them to do it."

He picks up the ointment.

"I know."

He applies a little with careful fingers.

The touch is so familiar that my eyes sting.

"I'm sorry about last night."

For one breath, I let myself hope.

Then he says, "But you need to understand what Bianca's given up."

I pull my leg away.

He looks up.

"She's been with me for years. She watched you walk down the aisle yesterday."

"I didn't know she was with you."

"She didn't make a scene."

"You think that makes her kind?"

"I think you can afford to be generous."

"With my husband?"

"She'll never have what you have."

I get to my feet.

Pain catches behind my knees.

I hold the arm of the couch until it passes.

Dante rises, too.

"Sit down."

"No."

"You're hurting yourself."

"You hurt me."

He looks toward the window.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then he says, "You're the only woman I'll ever marry."

I look at the ring on my hand.

Yesterday, that promise meant everything.

"What does that get me?"

His eyes return to mine.

"What?"

"What does being your wife get me, Dante? A different bedroom to wait in?"

"Don't be dramatic."

"You gave her photographs of me."

"She won't share them."

"You threatened to."

"Because you weren't listening."

I take a slow breath.

He knows what he did.

He thinks I made it necessary.

"I want a divorce."

His expression changes so quickly that I step back before I mean to.

"No."

"I'm not asking whether you want one."

"We got married yesterday."

"And last night you showed me what that means to you."

He drops the ointment onto the table.

"You think you can walk out and leave me to explain it?"

"I don't care what you tell people."

"You should."

He moves closer.

I make myself stay still.

"Think about your mother."

"I am."

"Then stop."

He waits for me to lower my eyes.

I don't.

Finally, he steps away.

"I'll give you some time to calm down."

He picks up his phone.

"We'll have dinner tonight. Here. Just us."

I say nothing.

At the door, he turns.

"And don't call your mother and upset her over this."

The door closes.

I stand until I hear his car leave.

Then I find the number Mom sent me months ago when I had questions about the company.

Mara Bennett.

An attorney she trusts.

Mara answers with her name.

For a moment, I can't get the words out.

Then I look down at my wedding ring.

"My husband has private photographs of me," I say. "He gave copies to another woman. Last night, he threatened to publish them."

Mara's voice changes.

"Are you somewhere you can speak safely?"

"He's left."

"Are you injured?"

"Yes."

She lets me tell her.

She doesn't ask what I did to make him angry.

When I finish, she says, "First, we need to get you somewhere safe and have those injuries examined. Then we can deal with the marriage and your mother's business."

"He'll try to stop me."

"We'll plan for that. Is there anyone you trust who can come get you?"

I think of Mom.

Of how quickly she would put down everything and come.

"Yes."

"Can you call her?"

I look at the messages on my screen.

The pharmacy list.

The deadline.

The wedding photograph Mom sent before I left the reception.

I take off the ring and set it beside the ointment.

"Yes," I say. "I can."