Unholy Matrimony のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 111 - チャプター 120

DominikThe phone vibrates against the mahogany nightstand, a harsh, jagged buzz that slices through the silence of the room. I’m awake instantly, my hand closing over the device before the second vibration can disturb the air.Beside me, Eve shifts. She doesn’t wake, just murmurs something unintelligible and burrows deeper into the duvet. In the pale moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains, her skin looks porcelain-fragile, a stark contrast to the steel I know runs down her spine.I slide out of bed, the movement fluid and practiced. I’ve spent half my life waking up ready to kill something, and the other half waiting for the reason to do it.I walk to the window of our suite, looking out over the manicured grounds of the estate. The Upper East Side is quiet, a fortress of old money and high walls, but the city beyond it never really sleeps. It just waits."Speak," I answer, my voice a low rasp of sleep and menace."We have him," Enzo says. No preamble. "The warehouse in

DominikSilence in the Grimaldi Tower is never empty. It has mass and density, pressing against the floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the city like an invisible ocean.Usually, I thrive in it. Silence is control. Silence is the sound of a room waiting for my order.Today, the silence is pissing me off.Eve is sitting across from me at my desk. After the meeting with Stefano we decided she’d stay here while we study the budget, in case there’s anything we need to discuss.And apparently because I enjoy torturing myself. She’s been burying herself in the quarterly risk assessments for two hours straight. She hasn’t looked up. She hasn’t spoken. She’s just typing with a rhythmic, staccato aggression.I stare at the spreadsheet on my own screen. Supply chain analytics for the Jersey port. Numbers. Safe, cold, predictable numbers. They don't look at you with wide, adoring eyes while you wash blood off your hands. They don't make you want to fall to your knees in a shower and beg to b

DominikYou’ve missed the window this month.The words rattle around in my skull, bouncing off the walls of my meticulously ordered mind.I’m preposterously grateful when she tells me she needs two minutes to fix her lipstick. I need the time to gather my thoughts. I pull my phone from my pocket as I walk down the stairs and bring up the shared calendar. The one I programmed especially for us. The one that dictates the future of the Grimaldi bloodline.There it is. A block of red days, glaring at me like an open wound. Eve’s ovulating days have come and gone and I never spared it a thought.Since our first interaction with the fertility specialist, this calendar has been my bible. It’s dictated my schedule, my travel, my alcohol intake, and how much time I spend inside Eve. Getting her pregnant was the foundation of the marriage contract. Eve provides me with her wonderful genes and I knock her up post-haste.It’s simple. It’s transactional. It’s business.And I forgot.I didn't jus

EveForty-eight hours.Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes.That’s how long it’s been since Dominik Grimaldi walked out of the Guggenheim and vanished into the ether.I’m sitting in the library, a room that smells of leather-bound books and his cigars. My laptop is open on the mahogany desk, the screen glowing with the logistics of a deal I had to postpone because my husband decided to play invisible man.Enzo is standing by the door. He’s been there for an hour, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks like a kicked puppy, which is impressive for a man who can break a neck with one hand."He’ll check in soon," Enzo says for the tenth time. "The Boss has protocols.""The Boss," I snap, not looking up from the screen, "Has lost his mind. He abandoned a senator, three board members, and his wife in the middle of a gala to chase a ghost in Chicago.""It wasn't a ghost," Enzo mumbles. "It was a shipment.""There was no shipment, Enzo!" I slam the laptop shut, th

DominikThe warehouse in Queens smells of fear.It’s a specific scent, fear. It’s sour. It clings to the back of the throat like bad milk.I’m sitting on a metal folding chair, my legs sprawled out, watching the man tied to the support pillar.His name is Vinnie. He’s a low-level runner for the Greeks, but recently, he’s been feeling entrepreneurial. He’s been moving product through my docks without paying the toll."I didn't know, Mr. Grimaldi," Vinnie weeps. His face is a ruin of snot and blood. "I swear on my mother, I didn't know it was your territory."I check my watch. "You’ve been working this route for six years, Vinnie. You know exactly whose territory this is. You just thought I was too distracted to notice."Enzo stands in the shadows, cleaning his knuckles with a handkerchief. He looks bored."I was distracted," I admit, standing up. The sound of the chair scraping against the concrete echoes in the cavernous space. I walk toward Vinnie. He flinches, straining against the