Snatched Two Husbands, But They Both Remember the Fire Chapter 02

Snatched Two Husbands, But They Both Remember the Fire Chapter 02

I may be a piece of shit, but even I didn’t fuck Luca before the wedding.

Not that I didn’t want to. Luca’s the kind of guy who looks cold on the outside but is soft as butter underneath. Every family event, he’d be in the corner with a glass of wine he wasn’t drinking, eyes glued to me like I was the only person in the room.

If I caught him looking, he’d duck his head—ears going pink—and pretend he was fixing his cuff or checking his phone.

A guy like that? When he finally cut loose?

I thought about it. More than once.

Especially on mornings after Rocco wrecked me. I’d lie in bed, every muscle screaming, staring at the chandelier, and Luca’s face would just pop into my head.

Teal shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, pale wrists showing under that old watch—the one his dad gave him, the one he’d worn every day since he turned eighteen. He’d be standing by the window in the library with some beat-up book of poems, sunlight hitting him from behind like he was in a painting.

He’d turn and look at me. A tiny smile. Eyes full of light.

Warm light. Soft light. Sunset-in-spring light.

And then that scene got punched right out of my head by Rocco’s scowling face and sour attitude.

“Who you thinking about?” Rocco standing in my bedroom doorway in that wrinkled shirt from last night, a cup of coffee in his hand, looking like he just ate a whole lemon. “Your face looks disgusting.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes watching me over the rim of his cup. Judging me.

I rolled my eyes and pulled the blanket over my head.

“None of your business.”

He stood there so long I thought he left. Then I heard him put the coffee cup on my nightstand. Quiet. Like he didn’t want to wake me.

Door closed. Footsteps fading.

I peeked out from under the blanket. Touched the cup.

Still hot.

—

I thought things would just keep going like that.

Me and Rocco, torturing each other. Watching Sophia cry in my living room. Pissing her off until she couldn’t talk. Like a machine that never stopped.

Until—

Maybe I said something too harsh. Sophia didn’t come to my estate for three days.

Good riddance. I ordered a whole feast from some Michelin-star place. Lobster. Grilled octopus. Oysters with mignonette. A bottle of 2005 Dom Pérignon. Sun was out, no wind. Roses blooming everywhere. Couldn’t smell anything but flowers and food.

Halfway through, Alessia came running. That look on her face—the one that says, “Boss, we got a problem.”

“Boss… Rocco hasn’t eaten in three days.”

I swallowed my oyster. Wiped my mouth.

“He’ll live.”

I waved it off.

Rocco? Three days without food? Please. I watched him take a bullet to the chest once, drive himself back to his hideout, and dig the slug out of his own meat with a pocket knife in front of the bathroom mirror. Blood everywhere. Didn’t even blink.

He wasn’t going to die from missing a few meals.

But Alessia’s face was still all twisted up. Like she had something to say but didn’t know how.

“Boss… he won’t leave his room. Won’t open the door. We bring food, we take it back. Same plates, same forks, nothing touched. Trash can’s empty. Means he hasn’t even had water.”

I put down my fork. Looked at her.

“He say what he wants?”

Alessia shrank a little. Her voice got small.

“He said… you have to come get him yourself.”

The dining room went quiet.

Then I laughed.

“Then let him starve.”

I picked up my fork and went back to my lobster.

“Hey,” I said, thinking of something. “Don’t let this get back to Sophia.”

Last thing I needed was her getting all smug.

She cried and whined about how Luca wouldn’t touch her to make Rocco feel sorry for her. But if she found out Rocco was on a hunger strike over me? She’d smash every piece of that stupid blue-and-white china Mama Ross gave her.

I’d pay good money to see that. But not worth the trade.

Sophia could never know my house was on fire. Even if it was pretending.

Before I could even finish the thought, another guy came running in.

Not Alessia this time. James. Alexander’s personal bodyguard. Black suit, family pin on his lapel, face like stone. But sweating a little. Meaning he’d run here.

“Boss,” James said, standing straight, barely out of breath, in that voice that never had any feeling in it. “The Don requests that you return to the main house for a few days.”

I frowned. Only took a second to figure it out.

“Sophia’s at the main house?”

James kept his head down. Perfect bodyguard posture. But his voice had something careful in it.

“Yes. Miss Sophia is staying at Mama Ross’s residence with Mr. Luca. She comes to the Don every day, crying, saying that you’ve been… ‘stealing men,’ ‘kidnapping innocent gentlemen,’ that you took her fiancé Rocco and now you want Luca too. Mama Ross said you have no respect for your elders and that the Don should teach you a lesson.”

I rolled my eyes.

Same old Sophia. Can’t beat me, go cry to Mommy. Mommy can’t fix it, find a bigger boss. Like if she cries loud enough, the whole world will take her side.

I stood up. Threw my napkin on the table.

“Go tell Rocco to stop playing games. We’re going to the main house. He can see his girlfriend there.”

“Uh… but he said he’s not seeing anyone—”

“Tell him Sophia’s at the main house. If I don’t go, she’s gonna come take him back. Ask if he’s coming.”

Alessia’s eyes went wide. Then she ran like her hair was on fire.

Five minutes later, Rocco was in the garage.

Three days with no food had made his jaw sharper, his cheekbones stick out more. But he looked totally fine. Black turtleneck. Dark grey coat. Hair combed back perfect, showing off his whole face and that thin scar running from his eyebrow to his temple.

But his cheek still had a faint handprint on it.

From when I slapped him three days ago. Bad concealer job.

I frowned. Held out my hand for some concealer from one of my girls.

“Come here. Cover that up.”

Rocco didn’t move. Just stood there with his legs apart, hands in his coat pockets, staring at me.

“You tell me to come, I come? Who the hell do you think you are?”

His voice wasn’t loud. But every word hit the ground like a nail.

“Because you’re mine now. And if you look like shit, I look like shit.”

Silence. Just engines in the distance and his breathing.

Then Rocco walked over. Stopped in front of me. He’s a full head taller than me. Has to look down to see my face. From this angle, his eyelashes were thick. Dark.

He bent down a little. Brought his face closer. I could smell his cigar smell and something cold—like winter pine.

I dabbed concealer on his cheek. The handprint was almost gone, but you could still see it. His face was rougher than his hands. Small scars.

I pouted a little, leaned in, blew on his cheek to dry the concealer.

That’s when I noticed—

His neck. Goosebumps. Starting at his throat, going down under his shirt collar.

I blinked. Looked up.

His ears were bright red. Like they were about to bleed.

Before I could get a good look, Rocco jerked away. Walked to the other side of the car. Sat down. Sat up straight, body like a wire. Staring straight ahead. Jaw so tight it looked like it hurt. Doing his whole “don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, we’re on opposite teams” thing.

I smiled a little. Made sure he didn’t see.

The stretch Cadillac cut through Manhattan. Skyscrapers sliding past the windows. Fifth Avenue shops glowing warm in the evening. People on the streets, all bundled up and moving fast.

Before we even got to the main house, I heard Sophia crying.

That sound. I knew it my whole life. Before she set me up for something, she’d cry first. Cry harder, mean she was about to do something worse. It was a whole performance—just the right volume, just the right pitch, loud enough for everyone to hear but not loud enough to be annoying. Mama Ross taught her well. Her daughter even cries like a pro.

“Alexander, you can’t just let her push me around like this,” she sniffled. “She’s your sister, but I’m your sister too. We were all raised by my mother.”

Words dripping with tears and phlegm. Sounded so real.

Alexander’s voice came through. Sounded like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“Of course I remember. I want to help, but—”

He stopped. Thinking.

“—my sister’s got a temper. I’m scared of her too.”

I almost smiled.

Jerk. Talking behind my back.

Next to me, Rocco touched his own cheek. Where I’d put the concealer. Looked a little less pissed.

I walked into the mansion.