Married to the Monster They Said Was Dead Chapter 07

Married to the Monster They Said Was Dead Chapter 07

By day eighteen, Lorenzo could walk the length of the bedroom without touching the walls. His gait was slow, controlled, his face draining of color by the end—but he made it, every time, on pure will.

By day twenty, he caught me when I stumbled.

I’d been reaching for a fallen syringe and lost my balance, and his hand shot out and gripped my arm—steady, strong, no tremor. We both froze, staring at where his fingers wrapped my wrist.

“You’re healing faster than the timeline,” I whispered.

“I have a reason to.” His eyes held mine a beat too long before he let go.

That night, while the compound slept, I made my move.

I’d studied Ottavia’s routine for three weeks. Wednesdays she went to her charity gala in the city and didn’t return until past midnight. The study would be empty. The guards rotated to the gate at eleven.

“This is reckless,” Lorenzo said, watching me dress in dark clothes. “If they catch you—”

“Then you’d better keep recovering, because someone’s going to have to avenge me.” I tucked my phone into my pocket. “I’ll be twenty minutes.”

“Adriana.” His voice stopped me at the door. “The lock on her study is biometric. Thumbprint. You won’t get in with a hairpin.”

I held up a small device—a residue lifter I’d used a hundred times to pull prints off surgical instruments for trauma cases. “She drinks from the same crystal glass every morning. The housekeeper never washes it until noon. I lifted her print yesterday.”

For a long moment he just looked at me. Then, slowly, he smiled—the first real, full smile I’d seen on him. It transformed his whole face, and something in my chest twisted hard.

“Remind me never to make an enemy of you,” he said.

“Too late. You married me.”

The study was on the second floor, at the end of a corridor lined with portraits of dead men who’d built their fortune on blood. The biometric scanner glowed faint blue beside the door. My hands shook as I pressed the lifted print against the sensor.

A pause. A red light.

My heart stopped.

Then—green. The lock clicked.

Inside, the room was immaculate and cold. A desk. A safe. Filing cabinets. And, tucked behind a false panel I found only because the wallpaper didn’t quite match—a slim leather portfolio, locked.

I didn’t have time to open it. I had time to photograph the room, grab the portfolio, and get out.

I was three steps into the corridor when headlights swept across the windows.

Ottavia’s car. Home early.

I ran.

I made it to the bedroom, shoved the portfolio under the mattress, and was peeling off the dark clothes when I heard her heels on the stairs—fast, sharp, furious. The study door. She knew. She’d seen something.

“Get in the bed,” Lorenzo hissed. “Now. Beside me.”

I didn’t think. I climbed in, killed the lamp, and pressed myself against his side just as the door flew open.

Ottavia stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light, her chest heaving.

She found us tangled together in the dark—a wife curled against her dying husband, both apparently asleep. Lorenzo’s arm was draped over me, his breathing slow and even, the perfect picture of a comatose man.

I kept my eyes closed. Kept my breathing steady. Felt his heart slamming against my cheek and knew mine was doing the same.

“Adriana,” Ottavia said sharply.

I stirred, lifted my head, blinked at her with theatrical confusion. “Ottavia? It’s nearly one in the morning. Is something wrong?”

Her eyes raked the room. Searching for evidence. Finding only a devoted wife who couldn’t bear to sleep apart from her husband.

“Someone was in my study,” she said, her voice trembling with rage.

“In your study?” I sat up, frowning. “I’ve been here all night. I gave Lorenzo his evening medication at ten and fell asleep beside him.” I let worry seep into my voice. “Are you alright? Should I call security?”

The accusation died on her lips, strangled by the perfect alibi. A surgeon, a sleeping wife, a comatose man. She couldn’t prove anything without admitting what was in that study.

“No,” she finally said, her jaw tight. “It’s nothing. A staff mistake.”

She left. Slowly, deliberately—a predator who’d lost the scent but not the hunt.

The door clicked shut. I let out a breath I’d been holding for a lifetime.

Beside me, Lorenzo’s arm was still around me. He didn’t move it. Neither did I.

“That,” he murmured against my hair, “was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever watched. And I’ve been shot three times.”

“We have the file,” I whispered.

His arm tightened—just slightly, just enough. “Then tomorrow, we open it. And we find out exactly how many people are going to pay.”

Neither of us moved for a long time. And for the first time in four years, Lorenzo Vitale fell asleep not pretending—but holding on.