Page 16 of Revenge

A third man–also one of Antonio’s–carrying a bucket with a bottle of champagne on ice.

He speaks to Antonio in Italian, and when my new husband nods, he uncorks the champagne and pours it into two tall flutes.

When the staff–or thugs, or whatever they are–have left the room, Antonio pulls out one of the chairs for me and raises his brows expectantly.

I dutifully climb out of the bed and take the offered seat. As I draw close, my breath quickens, a tingle of awareness racing across my skin. His eyes darken as he traces the curves of my bare breasts with his gaze. I lift my chin, refusing to allow his perusal to make me blush and quiver.

Okay, fine, I might be quivering, but I refuse to show him that.

The corners of his lips tip up.

I keep my head high as I sit in the offered seat, and he pushes it in, like a perfect gentleman.

I pretend eating with no clothes on is the norm for me. I spread my napkin over my bare lap and wait for my new husband to settle into his chair.

He picks up one of the champagne flutes. Resolved to play his game until I can learn enough to get myself out of this, I pick up mine.

“To revenge,” he says.

Revenge. I guess I should have inferred that that was his game, but since I could think of no reason Antonio would have for revenge against me or my father, it didn't fully compute.

I hesitate, not lifting my glass to his. “Revenge for what?” I ask, even though I know he won't answer.

I watch his face as I ask the question. Rather than the glint of satisfaction, I see a stony hardness. He sets his champagne glass down without drinking from it. It’s as if whatever reason he has for revenge is real. He has been harmed.

But by my father? That seems hard to believe. What would he have to do with a man like Antonio?

Oh.

“He did something to you.” My breath gets caught up in my throat, drying it out. “My father? He did something to you at my debutante ball. What was it?”

Antonio's face remains granite. He doesn't move or speak.

Then he abruptly shucks his tuxedo jacket and removes one of his cufflinks. Slowly, methodically, he rolls up one sleeve to reveal a forearm of corded muscle. Halfway up his arm is some kind of tattoo with three cubes.

He points to it as if it means something. I have no idea what it could possibly mean.

“This is a prison tattoo.”

I wait, still not understanding.

“Do you know how I ended up in prison?”

Oh God. I'm suddenly terribly sick. The food that had smelled so good now turns my stomach.

I blink back tears. “Not–” I choke out–“not because of me?”

Antonio gives a single nod, his whiskey-colored gaze locked onto mine.

“But…how? You did nothing wrong. Did he say you…raped me?” My voice rasps out hoarse and dry.

Antonio gives a humorless chuff. “No. That would ruin your perfect reputation, Dahlia. And then your mayor wouldn't have you. No, he concocted a story about me stealing from him and paid off three witnesses to corroborate.

“That was after his security thugs broke four ribs, my nose, my cheekbone, and three teeth.”

Tears stream down my face. This can't be. No.

Yet, even though I've never seen my father show even the smallest amount of violence, I somehow know it's true. He's a ruthless businessman. He goes after his enemies and demolishes them. I just never considered that he might not stay within the lines of the law, or morality, for that matter.