Page 32 of Dangerous Intent
“You want to know how it’s possible we even have them, considering how she died.”
“I’m working on being less impulsive.” She shrugged. “It’s not going so well.”
“I don’t think we’re ever going to solve that problem, but I can answer your question.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You’ll only ask Ricardo, so…”
“Okay, tell me.”
“As you know, my mother was pregnant when she died. Her fingers were swollen, and she didn’t want to risk having her rings cut off as she progressed in the pregnancy, so she took them off and kept them in her jewelry box.”
“She wasn’t wearing them when she died.”
“No.”
“I’m honored to wear her wedding band.” She kissed my jaw. “Thank you.”
“I believe with my entire soul that she would have wanted you to wear it.”
“I’ll make her proud that you chose me to be your wife.”
She cuddled against my chest and placed her hand over my heart. When I gazed down at the wedding rings sparkling against the stream of moonlight coming in from the windows, an unpleasant thought seeped into my mind.
Bringing up my mother always seemed to cloud my judgment and leave me feeling dark and empty. I hated that the memory of her made me feel that way.
I should have evacuated this line of thinking from my brain the moment it invaded this happy occasion, but now it dominated everything. It took over my senses, swirling out of control until I came to the same conclusion I always came to.
What if by placing that wedding band on Lissia’s finger, I had cursed her with the same fate my mother suffered? What if by marrying her, I hadn’t protected her? What if I had doomed her?
Tick, tick, tick…
EIGHT
Lissia
A gloominess filledme as I gazed around the eclectic nightclub in the middle of Manhattan. Maybe it was because, once upon a time, my father owned this place, and now it belonged to my husband’s family.
It was all a bit incestuous. And I could feel the bad juju surrounding me.
Shake it off.
“Hey, princess.” Marchello handed me a glass of prosecco. “Lost in thought?”
“Thanks.” I took the flute but wasn’t in the mood to drink. “My father owned this place. I’ve been here before.”
“He did.” Marchello pulled out a barstool for me. “About a decade ago.”
“It hasn’t changed much.” I took a seat and ran my hand over the chipped Formica bar as I frowned at the half-empty room, old light fixtures, drab windows, and chipping paint.
“It’s a dump, but we got it for a steal, despite the location.” He leaned against the bar, looking so handsome in his black dress shirt with no tie. “Milo will turn it around.”
“He’s going to need help. Lots of it.” I circled my finger around the rim of my glass, then motioned to the stage. “Even the DJ is dated. When was the last time you heard this song?”
“Ten years ago.” Marchello snickered.
“Why would you invest in such a shithole?” I asked.
