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A few extra “Mr. Gallos” reach us, but I don’t acknowledge a single one, though Willow does, in her own, soft way. While my wife can snark at the best of times, her quiet demeanor to others isn’t underestimated. An old line about honey attracting minions trips across my mind. I smile at the reminder of how easily she fell into my life under duress that would have crippled another human.
But where others fall, Willow rises.
Her tenacity, her heart, and that stubborn, brave streak laced with loyalty are the reasons I will one day lay down my life for this woman. Right now I have a different plan in mind.
The maître di’ at my father’s club—my club—leads the way to the private rooms beyond the VIP area. Willow looks around nervously as I place her before me.
“Walk.”
I murmur just loud enough to be heard over the booming music that reverberates through my bones, along with the memory of nailing her virginal little body to the wall in my office with my cock during our last visit to Cyprus.
“Rafe, shouldn’t you be—” Her hair flicks around her shoulders, slithering across the strapless scarlet sheath I chose with her for this occasion.
Because the shimmering material represented the blood spilled over our union.
The hearts melded.
And because it would be all too easy to expose her stunning curves with two sets of hands.
“Go.” I press my hand to her lower back, walking beside but slightly behind her.
Her shoulders dip a little at the reassurance, and I take note of the way she craves knowing she’s not screwing up, knowing she’s loved.
I will give you so much of that love you’ll scream for me to back off.
Unless, of course, she’s screaming for a different reason.
We reach the room I reserved before flying out for my father’s second funeral in his home province, where the local capos assumed control in times of need. Cyprus will be a part of our regular territory tour, along with Lower Manhattan, before we return to Rhode Island.
I press slightly harder on Willow’s back when she hesitates before stepping inside the black-and-red decorated room. She capitulates, not checking with me this time, and I smile.
My little minx is determined.
Willow brought a new sense of home to my life, as well as her own colorful language.
I follow her inside, giving the man on the door permission to lock us in until I request our freedom. Paranoia, perhaps. But what better place to follow up on my father’s assassination than by taking out half his remaining bloodline in one night? I make a second note to add extra guards for my sister, then push thoughts of my family from my mind.
Tonight is about Willow. No one else.
“The driver is around the back,” Dom mutters in my ear. The big man twitches at my side, and shoves his hands into his pockets.
“If you’re not good with this, tell me now,” I warn him.
A quick glance my way and a shake of his dark head confirms what he won’t admit to either of us verbally—he wants her.
And when I shift on my heels to look back at Willow where she stands at a broad glass pane that overlooks the club and its flashing lights, I don’t blame him in the least.
She’s stunning. Curves in all the right places, strength protecting her in the rest.
Her scars, the ones that crisscross her shoulders and back, are on display and without shame. They dip well beneath the material of her dress, and I plan to lick and worship every single one of them as a measure of the pain she suffered on my behalf.
A large pasha-type lounge takes up the centerpiece of the room with no back to it, just a circular space off the floor, covered with black pillows that match the dark ceiling and black ornate wall fixtures. The red floor matches her dress, and I can’t wait to see her black hair spread across it, her scarlet lips open with soundless cries.
“Come.” I crook a finger in her direction, my tone brooking no room for denial.
Her feet turn in my direction before she’s thought about obeying my command, her eyes widening as she takes me in, Dom slipping his jacket off at my side. Those luminous green eyes stare up at me, a flicker of resolve covering the fear, but it’s there and I see it.
Her skin dimples, soft and pliant beneath my fingers as I cup her cheek, trailing along her throat to the heavy platinum collar I clasped around her neck the day I married her.
