Bad Bishop by L.J. Shen - 57

My rose-gold ball gown swished along the staircase of our mansion. I stepped over the hem, almost tripping forward. A rush of giggles bubbled out of my throat, and this time, I heard it.

I plastered my palm over my mouth, shaking with laughter.

“You’re going to wake the dead,” my husband muttered next to me, before sweeping me into his arms, carrying me honeymoon-style to the second floor.

His voice was magnificent. Low, gravelly, and deep. His accent also contributed to its sexiness. I could listen to him for hours.

“And you care because…?” I pouted.

“I’m responsible for many of their deaths, and they’ll come after my ass.”

I giggled, flinging my head backward so I could get a better look at him. I no longer needed to read his lips, but it was a force of habit. The cochlear implant meant I could hear, but it was still muffled and in very low decibels. I didn’t regret going through with the operation. Not that there was anything wrong with being deaf. My decision wasn’t a product of shame or prejudice. I simply thought it would be practical.

I didn’t compose music anymore. My obsession and fascination with it diminished, now that I had a family and my art to focus on. But I still wrote my son one lullaby to remind him of the resilience of the human spirit and how obstacles were nothing but reminders you could overcome anything.

“How was your first ball with music?” Tiernan grinned down at me.

I circled my arms around his neck, knowing full well that attending balls was far from the realm of his regular hobbies. People openly stared at his eye patch, and not everybody was happy to see the princess of the Camorra and king of the Irish Mafia at swanky New York parties, but I didn’t care.

I loved dancing.

I loved dancing with my husband.

And life was too short to give a damn about what anyone who didn’t truly love you thought about you.

Let them talk. About my age. About the wrongness of us. His mysterious past. My overbearing mother.

We were happy. And that’s what mattered.

“It was wonderful,” I purred.

“Good.”

“And I want to do it all over again tomorrow.” I kicked my feet while cradled in his arms, and he rolled his eye exasperatedly, an indulgent smirk tugging at his lips.

When we got to the second floor, Tiernan cautiously helped me back to my feet. I padded toward my son’s room, peeking into his crib.

He was sleeping soundly, but began stirring as soon as I opened the door and traces of the corridor’s light seeped in.

Yawning toothlessly, he tried stretching inside his swaddle, groaning when he realized his attempts were futile. My chest flooded with warmth.

“You coming?” Tiernan kissed the back of my shoulder from behind, his erection pressing into my backside.

Glancing up, I touched his cheek gently and pressed my lips to his. “I think I’ll nurse him before we get into bed. Wait for me.”

He grunted.

“Naked,” I added.

His disgruntled expression wiped off his face. He kissed the back of my head. “If you need anything, let me know. Sleep tight, bud.” He leaned to kiss Enni’s head as I picked him up.

After Tiernan was gone, I took Gennaro to the rocking chair, settled in, and popped one shoulder of my dress off. Enni’s mouth found my nipple without opening his eyes, the scent of my milk calling to him. He latched hungrily, sucking and grunting his approval.

We were going to baptize him in Naples next week, at the church where all of the Ferrante siblings had been baptized. This wasn’t a gesture of goodwill from me to Vello—I couldn’t care less what he wanted. But to Mama, who always searched for an excuse to return to Secondigliano. And while things were not perfect between us—probably never would be—I had assumed the big shoes of the nurturing adult in our relationship. Because I had managed to escape the prison that was the Ferrante family name, and all that it entailed, while she was still behind the gilded bars, watching as little by little her children slipped away from their father’s abusive hold.

I ran my fingers over his hair and smiled.

Oh, Tiernan .

My brilliant husband, who taught me how to shoot, how to dance, how to overcome my trauma, knew exactly how intelligent I was. And yet he foolishly thought I hadn’t figured out what Fintan’s disappearance meant.

I knew Gennaro was Fintan’s.

The hair gave it away, of course, but there were other telltales.

Those pale shamrock eyes.

The fair skin that promised to burn before tanning.

The slight cleft in his chin—another thing the siblings shared—that was impossible to miss.

I had noticed the impatience in Tiernan when he saw Enni for the first time. He’d wanted to go to Fintan. At the time, I had hoped he would do the right thing by me.

He did.

Fintan disappeared the same day I gave birth.

“Probably because of substance abuse,” Maggie and Tierney speculated. Tiernan said nothing. He made no effort to appear surprised or worried about his brother.

I was glad Alex took the blame for this. That Tiernan trusted him enough to ask him for it.

It was a secret I’d take to my grave. The fact I knew it was Fintan.

To protect Tiernan, Enni, myself, and our marriage.

In the meantime, I basked in my good luck. Gennaro was the spitting image of my husband.

As for Tiernan?

He’d never know that my memory returned to me sometime during the thirty-second week of my pregnancy.

I had been biding my time, waiting for him to find out about Fintan on his own.

And that if he hadn’t finished him…

I’d have done it myself.