“I said epinephrine. Normally, it’s used in emergency treatment for allergic reactions. But in large enough doses, it will stop the heart. And because it’s a hormone that occurs naturally in the body, it doesn’t automatically get flagged on the coroner’s report.”
Quinn lies perfectly still and silent, listening.
I lick my dry lips. “Enzo was diabetic. He had to inject himself with insulin before every meal.”
After a long moment, Quinn says softly, “You replaced his insulin with epinephrine.”
I look out the windows at Boston sparkling like a jewel in the night and think I could already be pregnant. I could already have this man’s child growing inside me. I didn’t insist he use protection. If I’m honest with myself, I didn’t even give it a second thought.
I wanted him from the start. Long before I could admit it to myself, I wanted everything he could possibly give me.
I say, “No one else on earth knows that. The official cause of death was sudden cardiac arrest. Diabetes is a risk factor for it. He also had a fatty liver and elevated cholesterol levels, so the coroner didn’t open an inquest. He was cremated, but the coroner’s office keeps biomarker tissue samples for five years. If they knew to look for elevated adrenal hormones, I’d be in prison.”
I look at him over my shoulder. “So you’ve got two years left of excellent blackmail material.”
He gazes at me with a look of deep admiration.
Which is more proof of his insanity, considering I just confessed to murdering the prior man in his position.
He says, “Antivenom.”
“Am I supposed to know what that means?”
“I have a severe allergy to spider antivenom. I was bitten by a spider when I was ten years old. The bite was bad, painful and swollen. My mother took me to the hospital, and they gave me antivenom. I would’ve survived the bite just fine, but the antivenom almost killed me. I went into anaphylactic shock.”
“Why are you telling me that?”
“So both of us know something about the other that no one else does. So that you don’t feel like I have something to hold over you. And so you know I trust you with my life.”
His voice drops and his eyes shine. “Now ask me what the only thing was that saved me from dying of anaphylactic shock.”
My heart pounds painfully hard. I whisper, “Epinephrine.”
Holding my gaze, he nods.
I shut my eyes and bury my face in my hands.
Then his arms are around me, pulling me close. Into my ear, he says, “We should name the first baby Epi.”
My laugh is part sob. “That’s sick.”
He pretends to be serious. “You’re right. How about Nephrine? Epine? Rin?”
“Oh God. We’re both going to hell.”
“For sure. We’ll have front row seats.” His voice warms. “But we’ll be together.”
He drags me back to the center of the bed and holds me tightly, kissing me all over my face. I lie in his arms, enveloped by him and a huge sense of wonder at how strange the world is.
“So is that what your tattoo and nickname are about?”
“Aye. After I came home from the hospital, all the neighborhood kids started calling me Spider. It stuck. The tattoo is a reminder to let things be as they are. That sometimes struggling against what is can make things worse. And that the real danger is never what you think it is, so keep your eyes sharp and your mind open before you make a decision that could change your life. Because everything is connected, linked in a delicate chain, like the web of a spider.”
“Oh no,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’ll never be able to think your tattoo is dumb again.”
He chuckles. “Most people think it means I’ve spent time in prison, so having you only think it’s dumb is an upgrade.”
“I didn’t know spiderweb tattoos were symbolic for prison.”
“Traditionally, aye. But they can be symbolic for lots of things. A struggle you’ve had to overcome. Longing to break free from a trap. Time spent away from family.”
He adds sourly, “Or, in my case, a reminder that if I ever get bitten by a spider again, not to get the bloody antivenom.”
I start to laugh and can’t stop. I lie in his arms and dissolve into helpless laughter until my sides ache and my face feels as if it’s stuck.
When I’ve finally calmed down and am sighing, Quinn kisses the top of my head.
“Go to sleep now, lass. And no more bad dreams, understood? You never have to be afraid of anything again. You’ve got me to watch over you now. I’ll never let anything hurt you.”
I fall asleep with the image of a huge golden spider rocking me gently in its web as it stands vigilant lookout in the dark, ready to give a deadly bite to anything that threatens me.
In the morning, Gianni calls in a rage, demanding to know what I said to the other family heads to get them to postpone the vote for capo.
When I tell him sweetly that he’s forgotten I’m only a stupid, powerless woman, he hangs up on me.
Quinn shows remarkable restraint by not pouncing on me the moment I open my eyes. Instead, he suggests we go to his home so I can decide if I’d like to live there or move to the other side of the world and live in a hut so he can’t find me.
He’s trying to be funny, but I can tell how nervous he is about it.
I still haven’t committed to living with him. Or to signing a wedding license to make the church marriage legal.
The only thing we’re both on board about so far is the meeting of sperm and egg.
“Yes, I’d like to see your home. But first, I’d like to see the marriage contract.”
He quirks his lips. “You’re very interested in that contract, aren’t you?”
“There might be a few items I’d like to renegotiate.”
“Hmm.”
“What a safe response. Show me the contract, Quinn. Let’s get it over with.”
He pulls it up on his laptop.
It’s twenty-seven pages long.
Scrolling through the document, I say faintly, “What the actual fuck?”
Pacing behind me with his arms folded over his chest, Quinn says, “Did you think the terms joining two international criminal empires would be scribbled on a napkin?”
“No. I didn’t think it would be the Magna Carta, either.”
“Keep reading.”
I do. It goes into remarkable detail about trade routes, payment terms, assigned territories, who reports to whom, how disputes are to be handled, termination triggers, jurisdictions and the hierarchy of said jurisdictions’ managers. Among other things.
It’s possibly the most complicated prenuptial agreement ever created.
“What’s this section about someone named Stavros? It’s very ambiguous.”
Quinn peers over my shoulder to read. “It’s a condition Gianni agreed to fulfill as part of the bargain.”
“So what is it?”
He straightens and looks down at me. “Gianni has to kill Stavros. Personally. And show proof.”
“I see. And what did this Stavros do that Declan wanted it in the contract?”
“He’s Sloane’s ex.”
“Was he abusive?”
He snorts. “Stavros couldn’t manage to abuse a wasp that was repeatedly stinging him in the face.”
I furrow my brows. “So why does Declan want him dead?”
“It’s a long story.”
I say firmly, “Then I’ll settle in as you tell it.”
Sighing, Quinn turns away and starts pacing again. “A man named Kazimir Portnov is in control of the Bratva here in the US. He goes by Kage.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the name.”
“Declan asked for Kage’s help when Riley was kidnapped and taken to Moscow. In return, Kage got a marker from Declan. He had to do Kage a favor, no matter what it was, no questions asked.”
“Okay. I’m following.”
“Kage’s marker was that Declan had to kill Stavros.”
“Why did Kage want Stavros dead?”
“Because he’s Russian. They’re crazy.”
“Says the crazy man. Not good enough. Keep talking.”
After an aggravated growl, Quinn says, “Declan can’t kill Stavros himself because he promised Sloane he never would. And Kage, being the psychopath that he is, thought it would be bloody great fun to make his marker something Declan had promised his wife he’d never do and see how he’d handle it.”
“Okay. But why did Kage want Stavros dead in the first place?”
“Disloyalty. At least that’s what Declan told me. It could really be nothing more than Kage being Kage.”
“Stavros is Russian?”
“Aye.”
Mulling that over, I turn my attention back to the computer screen. “So Sloane doesn’t know about this marker?”
“Not what it was called in for.”
I don’t like the sound of that. Even though we’re not close yet, Sloane is someone I could see being a good friend. And I know enough about her to know she wouldn’t like this kind of back-door dealing at all.
“Which also means she doesn’t know that Declan put it in the marriage contract.”
He chuckles. “It’s not like he’d tell her, lass. If Sloane found out Declan had broken his promise, he’d be short two balls.”
Just as I thought. It’s a brilliant piece of strategy on Declan’s part, but if Sloane found out about this clever chess move of his, she’d rightly feel betrayed.
These men think they’re so smart.