Forgivable Sins: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bellandi Crime Syndicate Book 2)

by Adelaide Forrest

  I snatched it off the desk, taking the call without hesitation. "Little Dove?"

  "I—is this Angelino Bellandi?" I barely recognized the exhausted voice of Samara's neighbor as she whispered, something akin to deep-rooted, genuine fear hovering in her words.

  "It is. Is Samara okay?" I asked, and I was already on my feet. My suit jacket already snatched off the back of my chair and shrugged onto my arms.

  "She will be, but no. She's not. She'll be furious with me when she finds out I called you, but—"

  "You did the right thing. What happened?" I asked, cutting off the older woman. I had no patience to listen to her rambles, not when my thoughts were a mess of horror. Fear. True fear was something I couldn't remember feeling, probably not since my mother had died. Or perhaps it had been the day I turned sixteen and my father told me that if I ever touched Samara, he would slit her throat while I watched. But in that moment, there was nothing but pure, blinding fear.

  "Connor broke into the house. He, shit," she hissed and paused. "He strangled her, Mr. Bellandi. This has gone on for too long, and I can't just sit by and watch her suffer in silence."

  My body stilled, halfway to the door of my office. The tremble started in my hand; the phone vibrating against my head as I struggled to contain the sudden rage that made my vision turn black. "What the fuck did you just say?" I whispered, and every muscle in Enzo's body locked solid at the sound of the menace in my voice.

  I sounded like a savage.

  I sounded like Matteo.

  "It's bad, Mr. Bellandi. She's finally asleep in bed, but she can't stay here. That much is clear," Linda whispered, and I could almost picture her staring down at my little dove where she slept. She was another person who Samara sucked into her orbit and refused to release—another one drawn to the genuine sweetness that she presented.

  "She doesn't know you called me," I said in realization as my feet finally carried me to the door as my body became unlocked. Enzo slid out of the way, closing the door to my office behind me and locking it before he hurried to catch up as I thundered my way down the stairs. Under any normal circumstances, the stairs wouldn't have been enough to even remotely wind me. But with my anger a tangible venom in my veins, my heart felt like it might implode inside my chest.

  "No." She said the word carefully, as if she knew she'd stepped on a landmine and did not understand how to defuse the bomb without losing a limb herself.

  "She was fucking strangled, and she didn't call me?" I accused, my jaw clenching as I thought about what else she might have kept from me. "Why the Hell isn't she in the hospital?"

  There was a pause on the other side of the line that confirmed the woman knew more than she was willing to tell me. “She refused to go to the hospital. She always does, but I suspect you and Samara will need to have a very in-depth conversation about her marriage to Connor before you can understand what I mean, Mr. Bellandi. Should I presume you're on your way?"

  "Yes. You can presume that," I bit out, hanging up the call as Enzo slid into the driver's side of my car. He didn't need directions, didn't need to be told that I was in no state to drive. He just slid into the position where I needed him, no matter that it was outside his job description and nearly four o'clock in the morning. As soon as I was in the passenger seat, he peeled out onto the road and made his way to Samara's home.

  What had been her home for years, anyway. I already knew she wouldn't be living there ever again. She’d be fucking lucky if I ever let her out of my sight again, given exactly what she’d been hiding from me.

  She'd officially used up my patience with her lies and secrets.

  And I wouldn't tolerate another second of it.

  ✽✽✽

  The BMW pulled into the driveway smoothly, no matter how quickly Enzo took the turn. I hadn't even shut the door behind me before the front door opened, and Linda stood in the doorway staring me down. With a resigned sigh, she stepped back as I thundered my way up the front steps of Samara's tiny house she'd loved so much when Connor bought it for her. "Where is she?" I hissed.

  "She's sleeping. She should remain that way for the time being." The woman's voice was light, gentle as I made my way to the stairs at the back of the house. "You need to prepare yourself for what you'll see, Mr. Bellandi," she added, closing the door softly as Enzo finally made his way inside. "There are bruises. I thought it might be prudent to warn you before you saw them for yourself." The banister creaked as my hand clenched, the sound of the wood straining under the pressure of my fury a warning that I needed to control myself. The last thing I needed was to scare my Little Dove, especially when she was already vulnerable.

  Hurt.

  Schooling my features, I nodded to her and released the banister. "Find out everything she knows," I ordered Enzo, and then continued my way up the stairs. The bedroom door at the top was cracked open, the soft glow from the television illuminating the space just enough. I'd not been in her bedroom since she'd moved in with Connor before they married, but the nostalgia of it hit me with a sudden fierceness. I'd spent many nights curled up in bed with her when we were younger, escaping the fear of my father's fists by hiding away in her bed. It had been that way even when I'd been too young to understand what it meant. That she was my home.

  On any other occasion, walking into the room she'd once shared with a man who wasn't me would have been enough to drive me mad with jealousy. But the sight of Samara's tiny form curled up in the center of the bed, her knees held tightly to her chest as if she couldn't bear to be alone even in her sleep, was enough to bring me to my knees for another reason altogether. I perched on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand over to tuck her copper hair behind her ear so I could see her face more clearly. Even in her sleep, she looked disturbed.

  Trapped.

  In a way I recognized, because I'd seen it on my face too many times as a child when I looked in the mirror. There was nothing I wouldn't do to erase that look from her face permanently, but as my eyes drifted down to the purple marks on her delicate golden skin, I knew that I would burn the city to the ground if that was what it took to find Connor.

  I curled myself around her, tucking her back into my front to comfort her. When she jerked in my hold, a panicked gasp rattled in her throat. "Shh, Little Dove. It's just me."

  She whimpered, and the sound of pain that escaped her in a long, low groan was enough to make a growl rumble in my chest. It took everything I had to keep my body from vibrating with the fury that took over every muscle, tightening everything in me until I could release my tension on Connor when I tore him limb from limb. "What are you doing here?" she rasped, attempting to pull away, but the motion lacked energy and enthusiasm in the way I'd have thought Samara capable of. I wanted to think maybe she enjoyed being in my arms as much as I enjoyed having her there, but I suspected it was just another sign of the pain that wreaked havoc on her body.

  I drew my phone out of my pocket, texting Enzo to have Linda come and pack Samara a bag when he finished discovering what she knew. "I think the better question would be, how long do I plan to play with Connor before I slit his throat?" She winced, and I suspected my words may have gone too far. Still, she didn't escape my hold, and barely spared a glance for Linda when she stepped into the bedroom quietly.

  "You called him," she whispered, burrowing the side of her head farther into the pillow. Linda didn't bother to respond, and there was no shame in her face as she set to packing Samara's things. It was good to know that one of them had the sense to involve me, even if it had come too late. But Samara's reaction concerned me.

  Desolate.

  Resigned.

  As if there was nothing worse than me knowing the truth, nothing worse than whatever justice I might mete out. Samara had never made me feel like less, even though she knew what the Bellandi family did. The possibility that she might hate me for killing someone who hurt her was too crushing to consider. Linda zipped the suitcase up, depositing it at the foot of the bed and staring do
wn at Samara, who refused to look at her. "One of these days, you'll understand. You'll have a girl you love like one of your own, and if someone ever dares to hurt her, you will do whatever it takes to protect her."

  Samara nodded, but even that motion didn't have her usual zest. I suspected there was more to it than her sore throat but didn't press. We didn't move until Enzo came up to collect the suitcase, and then I climbed out of the bed. I drew Samara into my arms, lifting her and carrying her out of her room.

  My Samara would have protested. Would have claimed she could walk, that she wasn't an invalid. This Samara allowed it without a word, snuggling her face into my shoulder and sighing contentedly.

  A broken dove.

  She didn't so much as flinch when I crawled into the back seat with her, and Enzo pulled out in favor of making our way to my house.

  Ten

  Samara

  I stared at the floor of the BMW. Lino's hand rested on my bare thigh in a hold I knew he meant to be soothing. Just above my knee, it was nothing inappropriate. Nothing that should have made my body come alive, especially not given the fact that I'd nearly been strangled to death less than two hours before.

  But it did. Somehow, instead of feeling calming, his touch felt like a claim. Like a brand.

  Distantly, I knew the air was cold, could hear the heat pumping in the front to warm it up. Lino stripped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, but it didn't matter. I couldn't feel the cold, anyway.

  What I felt were his eyes on me, felt the awkward stretch when he looked to Enzo for advice. I knew Lino so well it wasn't funny, knew every mannerism and quirk. I knew his expression that signaled that exact moment when my fun-loving friend faded away to be replaced by the ruthless businessman who got his way no matter the cost.

  I also knew the way his body sat too still in the middle seat next to me was merely the calm before the storm. I could feel it simmering beneath the surface and waiting to erupt. I knew it was only for my sake that he postponed the explosion. The thing I'd never wanted to happen had come to pass. Even if he didn't know the whole truth yet, he no doubt would soon enough.

  Connor was a dead man.

  And I would be responsible for the stain that left on my best friend's soul. The knowledge was a punch to the gut, knowing that I'd be the downfall of the person I loved most in the world.

  My heart thumped in my chest, a staccato rhythm as the same word pounded in my head on repeat.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  He wasn’t meant to know, wasn’t meant to ever see me so weak. My body felt like it was frozen solid as my brain raced with all the things I could say to save us from the situation we shouldn’t have been in. But there was nothing left, no lies to tell. Only the truth remained.

  "Samara," he murmured, attempting to catch my eye by ducking his face into my vision. I ignored him, finding that spot on the carpet much easier to focus on, much easier to sink into the numbness that made everything just a little less painful. "Little Dove, look at me," he ordered gently. Taking my chin in his hand, he ignored the flinch that startled me. Hands too close to my throat, too close to wrapping around and squeezing. "I'd never hurt you. You know that." He twisted my head until he could look down into my face, but still I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes. Those warm brown eyes were too knowing, too familiar. Every time he looked at me, it felt like he saw inside my soul. I didn't want him to see just how broken I'd become. Not when I knew he'd be looking for it. "Jesus, fuck," he groaned, pressing his face into my neck. His body trembled, vibrating with fury suddenly as if he could see it even without my eyes on his.

  I let him hold me, let him maneuver us out of the car so that my bare feet never touched the cold floor of his garage. The smell of him filling my nostrils felt like a familiar comfort, all spiced vanilla and clean man. I wanted to sink into the way it felt to be cradled so delicately in his arms. To feel like I mattered to someone in a way that was irreversible.

  Inevitable.

  After spending so many years under the thumb of someone who sought only to control me, to use me and manipulate me, the thought of having the power that came with love and affection over Angelino Bellandi was enough to push back a little of the numbness. A little of the haze.

  When my eyes opened, it was to find him looking down at me. His breath shuddered when my eyes met his finally, my arms tightening around his neck in response. "There you are, vita mia," he murmured.

  "What does that mean?" I whispered, the hoarseness of my voice making his nostrils flare briefly. He reached the top of the stairs, turning into one bedroom and setting me on the bed gently. Sitting on the edge, he looked over at me where I curled in on myself.

  "My life." My heart clenched, and a whimper stuck in my sore throat. I wanted that. More than anything, I wanted to be everything to him in the way that he had always been everything to me. "You'll be safe here. Enzo will stay until I call in one of the other guys to watch over you. He'll be right downstairs if you need anything."

  My eyes widened, darting up to his to find him standing from the bed. "Where are you going?"

  "I have to find him," he grunted. "He doesn't get to just walk away after what he did to you." I grabbed his hand, pulling until he sat back on the bed with me.

  "Please don't leave me," I begged. I didn't know why it felt so important that he stayed with me, but with him finally knowing the truth about my marriage, I needed him. Needed to know that he wasn't walking away, needed to know he wasn't as disgusted with me as I was for everything I'd tolerated. It wasn't rational, even in that moment I knew it.

  But as the panic seized my lungs, I climbed into his lap and straddled his hips with my legs so I could wrap myself around him like a monkey. "Samara." His voice went ragged, as if I tormented him by making him stay with me.

  "Please, Lino," I whispered with a broken sob. "Please don't go. I need you."

  "Okay," he sighed, tipping his head forward to press his lips against the top of my head in a gentle kiss. The closest to the real thing I'd ever get from him, I knew. If it was all I could have, it would be enough. It would have to be.

  He stood, keeping me in his arms in a show of surprising strength. I'd known he was strong, of course. The way his suits fitted over his arms and chest left no doubt to that. But there was something about a man who could stand without help, bearing my weight on top of his, that seemed so unreal. So far-fetched.

  So Lino.

  "Let's get you washed up, and we'll get some sleep. You will never go to sleep with his touch lingering on your skin again." I nodded my assent into his neck, feeling his hands tighten around my thighs briefly. He strolled us into the connected bathroom, setting me on the bathroom vanity and detangling himself from my limbs. Shyly, crossing my legs together, I tried not to think about the fact that I'd been wrapped around him.

  That Lino's hips had been between my legs.

  "Can you stand to shower?" he asked, eyeing the bathtub and separate shower in consideration.

  "Yes. I want to wash him down the drain, not sit in water stained by him." He nodded, reaching in to turn on the massive granite shower, before coming back to me and lifting me down off the counter and sliding me down his body until my feet touched the warm tile floor.

  He swallowed, something flashing over his expression briefly before he pulled back and started unbuttoning his crisp white dress shirt. "What are you doing?" I squeaked.

  "Helping you shower."

  "You—what?" I watched him strip the shirt off his shoulders, and my eyes caught on the tattoo on his chest, an eye staring back at me. It was realistic, blurring out in a puff of fog and abstract tribal details with the only pop of color the iris itself in a pale grey tinted with light blue. My hand reached out to touch it, fingers brushing over the eyelashes that fanned out from the eye. Lino gasped softly, so subtly I nearly missed it. "What is this?"

  "My everything. Everything I spent years protecting. Everything I want for myself." I furrowed my
brow in confusion and looked up at him, finding him grinning down at me in amusement. "You'll understand one day soon, Little Dove. For now, let's get you clean."

  "I can do it," I protested weakly, flinching when his fingers tickled the flesh of my thigh as he reached for the hem of the shirt I wore. I saw the moment he seemed to recognize the band logo staring back at him, and a rare moment of smug satisfaction crossed over his handsome, angular face.

  "You sleep in my shirt often, vita mia?" I resisted the urge to cross my arms over my chest, too off-kilter with his proximity and those traitorous fingers dancing against my skin. The smile he gave me both infuriated me and made my pulse race. Such was the devastating beauty of Lino's perfect teeth and full lips tipping up to reveal that one dimple to the right of his mouth. "Did you sleep in this when you were with him?"

  My face went hot, suddenly feeling like wearing a friend's shirt to bed had been inappropriate. It wasn't like I'd imagined Lino when I was with Connor; it wasn't like I'd used the man I'd once called my husband to fill the void. But regardless of the fact that our relationship had never been romantic, if I'd been forced to choose between Connor and Lino, even in the happiest moments of my marriage, there was no doubt who I'd choose. Lino was just a part of me.

  The other half of me. Even as friends.

  "You wore my shirt." He drew said shirt up, but it got caught on my arms when I shoved it down.

  "I can shower alone," I hissed, fighting him when he tugged again.

  "Little Dove, you can barely stand on your own. There's no way I'm leaving you to shower alone." Using his free hand, he lifted my arms up so he could maneuver it over my head. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't find the path to functioning, not with my naked torso open to his eyes and so close to touching his bare chest. "Relax. You can trust me."

  I nodded, sucking in a deep breath. Exhaustion was real, something that came closer and closer to overtaking me with every second I spent objecting. I knew if we didn't get the shower over with soon, I'd be dead on my feet. My chest heaved with the breath, my nipples scraping against his skin gently and sending a tingle straight to my core. His eyes never left my face, never ventured lower to the sight of a naked woman practically in his arms.