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Her eyes narrow. She can’t say I’m lying—I saw the way she looked at me when I took my shirt off on our wedding night, the lust in her eyes this afternoon. She doesn’t think of me as a decrepit old man, she only wants to mock me, and my virility seems to be the topic she latches onto first. “So what, then? Don’t you want heirs?”
I let out a slow breath. “In time, Gia.”
Frustration is written plainly across her face, and I frown at her. “I would have thought you’d be pleased I hadn’t insisted on a full consummation yet. Considering how you feel about this marriage in the first place.”’
For the first time since our marriage, Gia gets very quiet. She looks down at her bowl of soup, not bothering to pick up the spoon. When the maid walks back in a moment later, trading out our soups for a Caesar salad with Frances’ homemade dressing, she says nothing, only sits back a little for the maid to swap out the dishes.
It alarms me, a little. Gia has never, not once, been at a loss for words since the moment I took Pyotr’s place at the altar.
“Gia?” I lower my voice, attempting to be calm. To sound comforting. “What’s wrong?”
She swallows hard, taking a slow breath. She reaches for her glass of wine, sipping it for a moment, and then she looks up at me, her face suddenly sad. It startles me—I’ve seen her furious, and petulant, and demanding, and angry. But I haven’t seen her sad for a while now, not since the first months after her father’s death. It tugs at something in my chest, to see her that way now.
“I was an only child,” she says quietly. “You know that, obviously. I always wanted brothers growing up. Even though I know my father loved my mother, and didn’t want to marry again, a small part of me hoped he would. That he’d want an heir badly enough to give me a brother. I would have preferred an older brother,” she adds, laughing softly. “I loved that idea, as a child—having an older brother who would protect me and look out for me. But I would have been happy with a younger brother too. Or a few of them.” A small, lopsided smile curves one side of Gia’s face. “So as I got older, and realized my father was never going to remarry, that desire changed. I started looking forward to being married myself. To having my own sons. I knew I’d be expected to have a nanny—that I’d probably want the help, some of the time. But I imagined that they wouldn’t be raised by the nanny like a lot of mafia children are. I’d be their mother, truly. I’d tell them stories, make up adventures with them, and take them on trips. We’d go outside and create elaborate stories and act them out. So—” She shrugs, her face suddenly shuttering as she realizes how much she’s said. “You talked about me having children so soon as if it were something I didn’t want, Salvatore. But the truth is, I’ve been looking forward to it.”
For a moment, I’m not sure what to say. Gia’s stubbornness, her tough exterior, that defiance, and unwillingness to submit to the desires of others—all of that begins to be cast in a slightly different light. I look at her face, carefully smoothed out now as if she’s realized she’s been too vulnerable, and wonder how much of those personality traits aren’t entirely what I thought they were. If her willfulness isn’t only on account of her having been spoiled all her life.
Enzo didn’t have a son. And I realize, for the first time, that she might have spent her childhood and early youth trying to be both a son and a daughter for her father. That Enzo, in allowing her to make so many of her own decisions, consulting her on things that a daughter typically isn’t, might have been treating her as both, as well.
“You know how close I was to your father,” I say quietly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her hand. “I can tell you for certain that he never felt the lack of a son. He never desired more children—more than just you, Gia.”
She looks up at me, and I can see the faint glimmer of tears in her eyes. “I imagine there’s a lot that you could tell me about my father. Stories from when you were younger.”
“There are.” I sit back in my chair, looking at her. “Before you were born, we’d go to a cabin he had built in upstate New York, once a year. He loved the quiet. Loved to fish—which isn’t a hobby you’d expect from a wealthy, influential mafia don.” I can’t help but chuckle, remembering it. “I was the one who cleaned and cooked them. Always his right hand, doing the dirty work. But I never minded it. Enzo was too gentle for a lot of what he inherited. I was the bridge between what he couldn’t do, and what needed to be done.”
Gia frowns at me, and I wonder what she’s thinking. I can’t read her face. “What about my mother?” she asks quietly.
“She was kind, like he was. They were a good match for each other. They would have been happier if they had been born different people, I think. But they did their best.” It’s the first time I’ve ever said that aloud, and I feel a dull pang in my chest. I, for myself, have never wondered what my life would look like if I had been born a different person. I’ve always accepted my place, my duty, and the life I was given and looked for the parts of it to be grateful for instead of the difficulties.
Gia looks at me curiously. “Different people? Not mafia?” She bites her lip. “I know wealth didn’t seem to matter to him so much. My friends—their fathers, their husbands…their brothers, even, it always seems like it’s never enough. Never enough power, or wealth, or influence. But I don’t think my father saw it that way. Even the deal with the Bratva—it wasn’t about power. It was about trying to stop so much violence.”
She gives me an accusing look, and I know what she’s thinking—she’s voiced her opinion on it enough times already that she doesn’t need to say it aloud. I can feel the moment of intimacy between us fraying. Her walls are going back up, that vindictive expression on her face again.
I don’t want her to go back on the defensive. But neither do I want to keep sharing stories of the past. It might soften her, bring us closer together—but I don’t think that’s what I want, either. I care for her—as someone I’m meant to protect, as a responsibility. I don’t want it to become more than that. I don’t want emotion that goes beyond duty to be involved.
That won’t help anything. It will only make it more complicated. Make it harder for me to focus on my duties.
Silence hangs over the table as the maid comes in again, trading out our barely-touched salads for lamb chops and roasted potatoes. I feel a twinge of guilt—Frances has made a point to make one of my favorite meals, and she’s going to see I’ve barely eaten. Both Agatha and Frances have worked for me long enough that they’re more like family than staff, and I don’t like to disappoint them—especially Frances. She’s closer to my own age than that of someone who could be my mother, but there’s always been a motherly feeling around her that I’ve found reassuring.
“What about what happened last night?” Gia says suddenly, looking up at me. “The attack at the hotel. Have you found out anything else about that?”
“It was the Bratva,” I say flatly, reaching for my silverware.
Gia lets out a frustrated sigh. “I know that. I mean—why? Was it to take me back? Are they going to try again?”
“Don’t get your hopes up.” I look at her, and she glares back at me. “Don’t pretend you aren’t hoping they’ll raze this place to the ground to come and get you, Gia. But this is a fairytale you’ve made up in your head. The pakhan has no use for you now that you’re not a virgin any longer. Pyotr will no longer desire you now that you can’t be his alone?—”
“You haven’t had me,” she snips. “And he’d believe me if I told him all you’ve managed to do is stick your withered fingers in me?—”
“Gia.” I rub a hand over my face. “This isn’t?—”
“‘Appropriate dinner conversation,’” she mocks my tone, narrowing her eyes. “What? Go ahead and tell me how I came on your fingers this afternoon. But make sure to include the part where you were so hard you jerked off in your office afterward.”
I wince, and I know she sees it. A moment of weakness that she’ll sink her claws into, I’m sure. She must have heard me, walking past. Guilt coils in my stomach, cold shame sinking into my blood, but I do my best not to let her see.
“The Bratva won’t come here for you, Gia. And whatever their plans are, I’ll protect you.” I set my fork and knife down, looking at her evenly, doing my best to focus on the part of this that matters. Not her taunts, not my twisted desire, but her safety. “As long as you obey me, you’ll be safe. My goal in all of this has only ever been to protect you. And here, no one will be able to get to you.”
There’s an expected flash of disappointment on her face. Anger quickly follows, and she tosses her head, her eyes still narrowed. “I didn’t ask to be protected,” she snaps haughtily. “I didn’t ask for any of this. And they wouldn’t have hurt me last night. All of this danger you’re prattling about is your own creation, because you wanted me for yourself, and broke a treaty to have me.”
