Phantom
: Chapter 25

September 22, 1944

“Are you working for him?”

“No, of course not. The Salvatores hired one of my employees, Richard, as their accountant. Turns out, he made a huge mistake and made a run for it. I got pulled in because it’s my company, and they took me off the damn streets to answer for it.”

“Elmer’s Tune” by Glenn Miller is playing through the speakers, but I hardly process anything outside the guilty look on my husband’s face. John swings me around before pulling me back into his arms, and it takes effort not to send my palm flying into his face.

I would never in a public setting, which is the only thing saving his cheek from blossoming into a tomato-red shade.

The second Angelo and Ronaldo left, he rushed me off to dance, sensing the fury radiating from my pores.

“They were going to kill you for Richard’s mistake?” I ask incredulously the second our chests press together again. I attempt to keep a smile firmly pasted on my face, though the words come out through gritted teeth.

“He was my employee, so they considered it my problem, too. The Salvatores had a damn gun to my head,” he hisses beneath his breath. “The only thing that kept them from shooting me was Ronaldo.”

Surprise thunders through me, and it takes me a moment to find my voice again. “Why?”

“I don’t know, truthfully. Ronaldo insisted I have the opportunity to correct Richard’s mistake. I was left with little choice, so I did, and Angelo was thoroughly impressed.” There’s smugness in his tone, and it makes me want to smack him all over again. Even if Richard is a real employee, he’d likely be dead if he crossed the Salvatores, and yet my husband beams with pride. “I helped them one time. I swear to you, Gigi. Angelo’s sons are returning to war tomorrow, so they’re celebrating their last day. To show his gratitude, Angelo invited me. That’s all.”

I glance away, focusing on the blurred background as we twirl around the dance floor. I can’t explain it, but something about his explanation doesn’t settle right and creates a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach. Almost as if he’s lying to me.

“Please tell me this won’t ruin us, Gigi,” he begs.

“You’re involved in something incredibly dangerous, John. Have you not thought about the implications of this? What if something happens to our daughter—”

“Nothing will ever happen to Sera or you. I promise you that.” I don’t believe him. Truly, I don’t. If John couldn’t even save his own life, how could he save ours? “I didn’t have a choice, Gigi. But I’m not involved with them anymore. We only came to show respect.”

“How am I supposed to believe that, Johnathan? It feels like all you’ve done is lie to me or keep secrets. You helped them once, impressed the goddamn godfather of Seattle, and expect to walk away from it? I don’t believe that for a second.” I didn’t mean to get so heated, but by the time I’m finished, I’m outright glaring at him, the smile long gone from my face.

His upper lip curls into a snarl. “I’m the victim here, Gigi. Why can’t you see that?”

“Then why does it feel like Sera and I are the ones suffering?”

The song ends a moment later. Delicately, I remove myself from his hold, hating the way his proximity feels.

“I’m going to take a powder,” I mutter, needing to get away from him as desperately as I need to breathe.

He lets me go, likely not wanting to raise attention, and for once, I’m thankful we’re in a public setting.

After a butler points me toward the powder room, I briskly head there, offering smiles to strangers as I pass by, injecting every bit of delight into my face. But the second I close the door and lock myself in, my mask breaks apart like a beaten piñata.

I lean heavily against the door, inhaling deeply, only to release the breath as a staccato exhale. It feels as if the edge of a razor scraped against every one of my nerves.

Then there’s a quiet knock on the door, scaring the absolute hell out of me. A yelp slips from my throat, and then I groan, instantly annoyed. Why did he follow me? Can’t he give me just a few minutes before I’m forced to put on a happy face for him again?

I swing open the door, prepared to tell John to give me five more minutes, but I’m being ushered backward before I can get a word out. Ronaldo stands before me and hurriedly locks the door behind him.

It takes several seconds for my brain to catch up. Once it does, I’m swinging a hand into his chest. He winces but doesn’t stop me from stepping up into his face.

“You work for Angelo Salvatore?” I hiss, glowering up at the behemoth of a man. My heels offer me a few extra inches of dignity, but he still towers over me.

It’s not lost on me that I’m having the same conversation with two different men in the span of a couple minutes.

“I do,” he answers simply.

“What are you, his hit man or something?”

Amusement floods his stare, and one corner of his lips twitch. Once more, I’m tempted to smack him.

“I’m his consigliere,” he corrects as if I have any idea what that means. “Angelo and I grew up together. We’re best friends, and I’m his adviser.” I blink, attempting to wrap my head around that. “But I take contracts for him as well. I don’t have to, but I enjoy it.”

My mouth parts, and my eyebrows fly up my forehead. “You enjoy murdering people?” I repeat incredulously.

“Yes.”

“Yes,” I echo, laughing breathlessly as I turn away from him. I can’t breathe with him so close. Can’t think properly.

My phantom is a murderer. Not only that but he also likes it. Funny how I was just berating John for getting involved with the Mafia, and here this man is, boldly telling me he chooses to kill for them. Not even a lick of remorse in his tone, either.

I turn toward him again, my eyes narrowed. That deep, unsettled feeling still swirls in the pit of my stomach, questioning John’s story. And if Ronaldo can so boldly tell me how he enjoys murdering people, then surely he will tell me about my husband, too.

“Tell me the truth. Does John work for him, too?”

“Yes.”

That one syllable cracks what was left of my heart into pieces, and I hate that he confirmed my suspicions. I close my eyes, attempting to get a handle on my emotions. I had a terrible feeling John was lying to me, but I had hoped it was only my paranoia.

It’s not disbelief that sends pain flaring through my chest. It’s only sorrow that my husband did exactly what I expected of him, and somehow, that hurts worse.

He told me he was the victim, yet all along, he was the perpetrator.

“Why am I not surprised?” I whisper to myself. Inhaling deeply, I open my eyes, needing to hear the truth. “Tell me everything. How did John get involved with Angelo?”

Ronaldo quickly tells me the story—the real story. John’s gambling with the Salvatores and owing them money. John continuously unable to pay. Angelo growing impatient with my husband and finally kidnapping him, intent on making him pay with his life. And then Ronaldo’s saving him, asking Angelo to allow John to work off his dues as their accountant instead.

It makes me sick hearing what truly happened. That it was John’s gambling that got him involved with the goddamn Mafia. And that it was Ronaldo who ensured Sera and I wouldn’t be homeless—not my own damn husband.

There’s no question whether I believe Ronaldo. While he’d omitted who he was working for before, he has never lied to me. Truthfully, this explanation makes far more sense than John’s contrived story.

I’m staring at him numbly, attempting to process everything I’ve just learned. But instead of dwelling on my husband’s lies, I decide to focus on the man before me now.

The man who isn’t shying away from his involvement with the Salvatores. The man who confessed he murders people.

“Genevieve,” he calls quietly.

“Am I in danger with you, Ronaldo?” I ask softly. “Should I be screaming for my life right now?”

“Yes.”

I’m baffled by his response, though I don’t even know why. Ronaldo has never shied away from telling me what I don’t want to hear.

He prowls toward me, backing me into the wall behind me and pinning his hands on either side of my head.

“I’ve always been a danger to you, mia rosa. You’ve never been safe from me.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask breathlessly.

His lips dip closer to my own, his breath warming them as he speaks. “Did you think I was lying when I said there are things I want to do to you that would make you want to run away? And I told you that if you try, I wouldn’t let you. I still mean that, my love.”

His voice is incredibly deep and dark, and it stirs the butterflies in my stomach.

“You’ve lost your mind,” I breathe.

“Since the moment I saw you,” he confirms.

“If I run away, you can’t stop me,” I challenge. I’m uncertain I want to run away, but there’s a part of me that wants to try only to see what would happen.

It’s reckless to provoke a man who just told me about his affinity for murdering people. Yet I know deep in my bones that Ronaldo would never truly hurt me.

Not like John has.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, cocking his head thoughtfully. “But I can certainly catch you.”

The air between us buzzes with static energy, making it incredibly hard to breathe. To think straight. My chest pumps as we stare at one another for a beat, the two of us waiting for the other to make a move.

To hell with it.

I dart to the side, but he’s prepared. I barely make it an inch before his hand is cupping the underside of my jaw and slamming me back into the wall before him. I gasp, and it’s the last breath I’m allowed before his mouth crushes mine.

His tongue pries my lips apart, diving in and curling against the roof of my mouth. I lash my tongue against his and grip the lapels of his suit, pouring all my pent-up frustration into the kiss.

He releases my throat and grabs at the bottom of my dress, lifting the heaps of fabric until both of his hands are beneath it and pawing at my girdle. He pauses when he discovers that it’s crotchless and I wear no underwear beneath it.

When he pulls away, I shrug choppily. “It’s hard enough to use the restroom in this dress. I didn’t need added complications.”

Growling, he grasps my hips and forces me to turn around, roughly slamming my chest into the marble wall. Then he kicks at my feet.

“Spread them,” he demands roughly, his voice nearly unrecognizable.

“We can’t do this here,” I rush out, though I don’t move an inch as he quickly unfastens his belt and the front of his trousers.

“Who’s going to stop me?” he fires back. He grabs my hips, and instinctively I arch my back. “You?” The question is dripping with condescension, and I’m tempted to smack him for it.

“Only if you don’t hurry—”

He’s slamming inside me before I can finish, and a sharp squeal replaces the rest of my words.

“Shh, mia rosa. Someone may hear you,” he whispers darkly in my ear. “What would they think, knowing your husband is still out there?”

He’s retreating and slamming into me again before I can formulate a response. My mouth drops, and my brow furrows as he finds a quick, rough pace. The pleasure rises from between my legs, stealing my breath.

“They might think you’re being fucked,” he continues, his tone wicked. “And I’d be happy to show them just how much of a slut you are for me.”

I’m forced to clamp my bottom lip between my teeth, biting down hard. It’s nearly impossible to keep quiet, but somehow, I manage as he drives into me with vigor.

One hand glides over my hip and down my stomach, finding my clit and rubbing tight circles over it. His fingers slip from the wetness gathered there, though it doesn’t make it any less pleasurable. If anything, the proof of how deeply he affects me only heightens the bliss.

My eyes roll, a silent scream on my tongue, forcing my jaw to unhinge.

“Don’t you dare make a sound,” he growls, keeping his voice quiet. Yet the smallest moan leaks past his lips, unable to follow his own orders. “Don’t think I won’t kill every goddamn person in this house to save you from shame. Their blood would be on your hands, all because you can’t keep fucking quiet and take my cock like a good girl.”

I’m barreling toward an orgasm so quickly, I’m unable to process it. His fingers stop their ministrations between my legs, only to deliver a sharp slap. He anticipates the inevitable noise that bursts from my lips and covers my mouth with his other hand.

One more slap, and I’m erupting. My knees weaken as the surge of pleasure sends me spiraling into outer space. His hand clamps tighter over my mouth, muffling the screams that demand to be let loose, no matter how hard I try to keep quiet.

I’m somewhere else entirely when another low growl unleashes from Ronaldo’s throat, and he trembles violently, pumping his release inside me. He rests his head on the back of my shoulder while his hands fall away from me.

I’m panting heavily, delirious and slowly coming down. My body trembles from the aftershocks still firing off inside of me, and it’s a wonder my knees still hold me upright.

Slowly, he pulls away from me entirely. “Hold your dress up, baby.”

I keep my eyes closed, resting my forehead on the cool tile while I attempt to process what the hell just happened. The water tap turns on, then off. Then there’s a warm press of a towel between my legs as he cleans me up.

When he’s finished, he helps me straighten out my dress, attempting to free it from wrinkles.

Afterward, we both tidy up our faces. I reapply my red lipstick while he cleans his face of it. I powder my nose and swipe the black from beneath my eyes. We both straighten out our hair, attempting to put everything back the way it was before he fucked me in the powder room.

When the two of us are done, he grabs me by my nape and tugs me into him roughly, drawing a gasp from my lips.

“My cum will leak down your thighs while you’re dancing with your husband. If you dare to wipe it away, I’ll expose you in front of everyone and make him swallow it,” he threatens, his tone unyielding and savage.

My mouth drops, and I can only stare at him with shock.

“I’ll leave first. Wait a couple minutes.”

Blinking, I expect him to turn and go. Instead, he places a soft kiss against my lips. Barely a whisper of his flesh against mine.

“Don’t test me, Genevieve. I will be watching,” he whispers. Another soft kiss. “I love you.”

Then he’s gone. Just like the phantom he’s known to be.

September 22, 1944

I cannot believe what I discovered today.

What has my life become?

I’m at a loss for words. John doesn’t know that I know who he’s working for now, and truthfully, I don’t even know what to say.

It’s the only thing that is currently keeping us from losing our house and casting our daughter into the streets. It’s keeping John alive so Sera doesn’t lose a father.

But that doesn’t make it any easier of a pill to swallow.

And Ronaldo . . . I can’t help but feel a little lied to, though I know it’s not fair. He made it clear that his boss was dangerous, but I wish he’d just still told me.

I don’t know how I feel about any of this. I’m so incredibly conflicted.

Is it terrible that this doesn’t make me want to stop seeing him?

It should. He said he’s killed before and he will continue to do so.

That alone should have me running far away.

Yet I still want to stay.