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“It would be understandable for you to be disappointed?—”
“I’m not disappointed,” I hiss. “I’m fucking furious. You stole everything my father and I planned. You’ve ruined my marriage, taken away my chances for happiness?—”
“I know these changes are a lot to take in, Gia.” It’s clear from Salvatore’s tone that he’s struggling to stay calm, and keep his voice even. A part of me almost wishes he’d lose his temper and lash out—I could be even angrier with him then, even more justified in my fury. “We’ll go to the Plaza, and you can rest. We’ll talk later, after you’ve had a chance to calm down?—”
“I won’t calm down.” I tilt my chin up, looking at him defiantly. “You think you know what’s best for me, but I was looking forward to being Pyotr’s wife. I wasn’t dreading any of it. I wasn’t afraid. I was looking forward to tonight.” I lean forward, seizing on a possible opportunity to hurt him, to drive a knife in and twist it. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined what Pyotr might do to me tonight? How he might kiss me, and touch me, the things I could do to him? If he would want me on my knees, or be so eager to fuck his new bride that he?—”
“Enough!” Salvatore’s voice thunders in the small space, making me jump backward, and I see a vein pulse in his temple. “Enough.” His face is taut, angry, but he laughs darkly as he shakes his head. “You have no idea what you were marrying into, Gia. No fucking concept of what the Bratva are like. Your father knew, but he was blinded by his desire to please you. Convinced that perhaps the young heir would be better. He’s not, Gia. Pyotr was not the romantic hero of your dreams. And when you are finished being a silly, petty child about all of this, we can discuss the future.”
I sit back, narrowing my eyes at him, arms still crossed over my chest. “Don’t patronize me,” I hiss. “If I’m a ‘silly, petty child,’ then I’m the one that you married.”
Salvatore gives me a dark look, one that suggests he might have begun to regret it. Good, I think, turning away so that I don’t have to look at him, my chest tight. The atmosphere in the car is so icy, I can almost feel the chill.
“You’re my wife now,” Salvatore says calmly as the car pulls up in front of the Plaza, though I can hear the edge in his voice. “There’s no changing that, Gia.”
“Of course not.” I smile at him sweetly. “But you might come to regret it.”
Salvatore lets out a slow breath, waiting for the driver to open the car door. He steps out and comes around to open mine, holding out his hand to help me, but I ignore it. I gather up my skirts, stepping out of the car with my train and veil rumpled around me. I felt like a princess earlier, like a beautiful, stunning bride, but now I can’t wait to get the dress off.
Except—my pulse flutters in my throat again with anxiety, thinking of what taking the dress off will mean.
“I sent a message to one of the staff at the mansion, to have some things sent here for you,” Salvatore says as we walk to the doors. “They’ll be here before this evening.”
He holds open the door for me, and I walk in. The hotel’s interior is gorgeous—marble pillars surrounded by frothing green plants, a high patterned glass ceiling, the entire place smelling faintly of citrus and vanilla. Salvatore walks to the check-in desk, all business, and I follow just behind him, my anxiety growing by the moment. I watch as he’s handed a slim keycard, and he looks back at me, nodding towards the elevator.
I have no choice but to follow him. I can’t dig my heels in, refuse, or make a scene. It would do me no good—who would defy him? Who would come to help me? Anyone with the authority is in Salvatore’s pocket already, and my future has been decided for me.
I never realized just how quickly everything could change.
The room itself is equally as beautiful as the hotel’s interior—cream-colored carpets, glass French doors leading out onto a balcony framed by layered drapes of gauze and velvet, a Baroque-style couch on one side of the room in cream and gold with a sleek wooden desk on the other side. There’s a matching wardrobe, and I see a door to the left that undoubtedly leads to a similarly gorgeous bathroom. The bed?—
I can’t quite bring myself to look at the bed. My heart is beating hard in my chest as I turn to look at Salvatore, who is setting his wallet and phone down on the nightstand next to it. “I’m going to order room service for you,” he says calmly. “Some food will be good for you, to help settle your nerves. Try to relax. I have some business to attend to, and then I’ll return. Stay here,” he adds, his voice firm. “You might think of trying to run, but I assure you, I have security posted everywhere. You won’t get far, and you will only make things worse.”
“So you’re my jailor now.” I press my lips together, willing them not to tremble.
“No, Gia.” Salvatore lets out a slow breath, as if willing himself to remember to be patient. “It’s my duty to keep you safe. You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be. But I understand you’re in shock and need some time to understand. I’m going to give you that space, while I go and handle what needs to be taken care of. And then I’ll return, and we can talk.”
“Talk?” I narrow my eyes at him, my gaze flicking briefly toward the bed, and I see Salvatore tense ever so slightly.
“Get comfortable, Gia. Take a bath. Eat. You’ll feel better soon.” He looks at the door, as if he’s already eager to be out of the room and dealing with matters he feels more equipped to handle. If he doesn’t want to deal with me, then he shouldn’t have married me, I think bitterly.
“I can’t get comfortable. I can’t get out of this stupid dress on my own.” I know I sound petulant, but it’s my only recourse right now. It’s that, or anger, and I can feel the anger slowly beginning to drain out of me, replaced with exhaustion.
Being so furious is tiring, I’m beginning to realize.
“I’ll help you with it.” Salvatore takes a step towards me, and I reflexively move away. “I’m your husband, Gia.” There’s a note of exasperation in his voice. “I’m not going to ravish you on the bed like an untamed beast. I’ll help you with your buttons, and then I’ll go.”
Something flickers deep in my belly, a mingled heat and resentment tangling together. I’d imagined Pyotr doing just that, after all—filled my head with imagined visions of our wedding night, where he was so overcome with finally being allowed to touch me that he all but devoured me, before we enjoyed a gentler second round. Now I have no idea how my wedding night will go.
Igor accused him of lust, of taking me for his own selfish desires, but he doesn’t look like a man overcome with lust. He looks, if anything, tense as he steps towards me once more, this time circling around behind me to reach for the buttons at the back of my dress.
His fingers brush against the back of my neck, at the very top of my dress, and I stiffen. The touch, feather-light, sends a tingling sensation across my skin, making me catch my breath. For a brief moment, I can imagine that touch skimming down my spine as the dress opens, slowly building that flickering heat that I’d hoped for.
But Salvatore only tugs at the buttons, undoing them one after another, quietly cursing under his breath when he realizes how many more there are to go. “Who made this blasted dress?” he murmurs, irritation lacing his tone.
“Dior.” I stay facing forward, trying not to think about what’s beneath the dress. About what he’ll see, in just a moment, when he?—
His fingers go still at the top of my corset. I hear him breathe in slowly, unsteadily, for a brief second. And then, as quickly as the moment came, it passes.
