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The door to the workout room is still closed. I head up to the master bedroom, and when I walk inside, I find that Gia isn’t there. There’s no sign of her yet, except for her things that Leah arranged—the sudden markers of a wife scattered around the room that, up until today, has always been wholly mine.
I find, surprisingly, that I don’t mind it. I had wondered how I’d feel, sharing a space with someone when I never have before. I’m not too proud to admit that I can be set in my ways, that I’ve grown accustomed to a particular way of living, without anyone to interrupt it once I’m home and alone. But Gia has shaken all of that up, and I wondered if a part of me might resent that.
Instead, I look around the room—at the glimpse of her clothing hanging alongside mine, at the sight of her jewelry box sitting on the dresser, her books next to the bed—and feel an odd sense of comfort. Of no longer being quite so alone.
Unfortunately, I’ve married a woman who feels very much the opposite.
—
I’m already at the table when Gia comes down for dinner. When she steps into the room, my chest briefly tightens at the sight of her, and it’s difficult to mask my indrawn breath. She looks beautiful.
I’ve seen her dressed up for meals before—at dinners with Enzo, at her home when I lived there after his death. But then she was my ward. Now she’s my wife, and it’s as if I’m looking at her with different eyes. Seeing her this way for the first time.
She’s wearing a red dress with a fitted silhouette and scalloped sleeves, the neckline a modest sweetheart. It comes down to her knees, and she’s wearing flats with it—there’s nothing particularly sexy or seductive about the dress. But on her, it makes my mouth go dry, my cock twitching despite my frantic orgasm only a half hour ago. Her hair is loose, tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders, and I remember the brush of it against my cheek and neck as I made her come.
My pulse is beating hard. I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. She would be the perfect mafia wife, I can’t help but think as she sinks down into the chair next to me, if only she would just behave. If only she could come to terms with how things are now.
That’s what I need to focus on with her. Her behavior. The expectations that come with this marriage. What the future needs to look like, in order for this to work without driving us both mad. Not my desire.
The first course is brought out, a French onion soup with Gruyere cheese melted over the top, and set down in front of us. One of the maids sets a decanter of red wine between us, and Gia reaches for it immediately, filling her glass.
“We need to talk about the expectations for this marriage,” I say calmly, glancing at her, and Gia narrows her eyes.
“What? Are you going to tell me I’m not allowed to have wine now? I’m old enough to marry, but not old enough to have a glass with dinner?”
Three seconds in, and she’s already testing my patience. “I’m not talking about that, Gia. Andrea came and mentioned that the conversation between the two of you was tense today. That you don’t seem pleased with your new role, and she worries there will be too much friction in the house.”
Gia raises an eyebrow. “I’m not pleased. I was forced into this, remember?” Her mouth thins. “Do you want me to lie?”
“I want you to behave as a proper mafia wife should. I want you to focus on your duties here, to this house, as I’ve always focused on my duties to your father—and now to his legacy.”’
Gia’s expression instantly darkens. “Part of his legacy,” she snaps, “was to have brokered a peace between the mafia and the Bratva. But you haven’t hesitated to tear that down, have you? All so you could have his daughter in your bed. And then—” She smiles tauntingly at me. “You can’t even manage to finish that.”
“This. This is what I’m talking about.” I set my spoon down, the soup momentarily forgotten despite how hungry I am. “Your attitude. Your mouth. Your refusal to believe that those in charge of protecting you are acting to do exactly that. None of this is how a woman of your station, your wealth, your privilege, your name should act.”
“Except I don’t have my father’s name any longer.” Gia’s voice drips acid. “I have yours. And who are the Morellis, anyway? No great mafia house I ever heard of.”
My chest tightens, and I can feel the burn of anger behind my ribs. “Now it’s the name of a don,” I growl. “Because your father left it to me. He trusted me?—”
“And what did you do with that trust?” Gia looks like she’s on the verge of springing up from the table. “How dare you sit there and tell me about my attitude? About what proper mafia wives should do? You stole me, and then you can’t even be a proper mafia husband. You tease and lust after me, only to never finish what you’ve started. One of the duties of a good mafia wife is to provide heirs, isn’t it? But I can hardly do that when it’s only your fingers that you’ve ever been able to get inside me.”
I clench my teeth hard enough for them to grind together. “This isn’t appropriate talk for the dinner table, Gia.”
“Oh. Of course not. Because someone other than the two of us is clearly listening. Because it really fucking matters what room we argue in?—”
“Language, Gia!”
“Oh, shut the fuck up!” She slams her hands down on the table, the crockery and wine glasses rattling as she starts to stand up. “You’re not my fucking father, or my godfather any longer; you’ve made certain of that. So don’t tell me how to speak. My husband doesn’t get to tell me how to speak?—”
“Oh, I certainly can.” My voice is low, dark and dangerous, more so than I meant for it to be. “I could punish you for your attitude, Gia. For your outbursts. For your unladylike mouth. I just haven’t yet, because I’m trying to keep things civil between us.”
Gia takes a deep breath, her dark eyes sparking with anger as she looks at me. “I want out of this marriage,” she says quietly. “I want to go back to Pyotr.”
“That’s impossible.” I shake my head. “The sheets were sent to the head of the Family, and to the pakhan. The proof that your virginity is lost and the marriage consummated has been viewed by those who matter. You are my wife, Gia. You can fight me on this, or you can begin to accept how things are.”
She sinks down into her chair, and her face looks paler than before. “So that’s it. I’m married to a husband I don’t want, doomed to sit around and wait for an old man to figure out how to actually take my virginity, because of a spot of blood on a sheet.”
I frown at her. “I’m not an old man, Gia. And I think you already know that. I don’t think you see me that way at all, to be honest. But you want to get under my skin. That, at least, won’t do it.”
