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I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me; the stone tiles cool on my bare feet. I’m suddenly acutely aware of how alone we are together, in how small of a space, that even here, behind a closed door, he’s only a room or so away. There’s no sprawling mansion, no staff, no one here but the two of us. It’s intimate in a way that I don’t know how to handle, because I’ve never experienced it before.
The shower is wonderful, hot and relaxing, the glass-enclosed space filling with eucalyptus-scented steam. I end up just sitting on the stone tiles of the shower floor for a little while, letting the spray beat against the back of my neck and back, closing my eyes, and breathing in the steam. Outside of the shower is Salvatore, and dinner, and navigating our honeymoon, and all of the things that I don’t know how to navigate. In here, there’s just me, and the ability to shut it all out for a little while.
Eventually, I get out of the shower, lingering in the bathroom to dry off, and braid my wet hair into two braids, pinning them around the back of my head. I slip into a white sundress with a ruffled v-neckline and thin straps, adding the diamond and onyx jewelry that Salvatore bought me and slipping on a pair of sandals. The villa is utterly quiet except for the sound of the breeze and the lap of waves, and when I walk out to where I can get a view of the balcony, I see that dinner has already been set up.
Salvatore is waiting for me at the table on the deck, overlooking the water and the view beyond. There’s a lit candle in the center, champagne and wine chilling in ice buckets next to the table, and a spread of seafood waiting for us for an appetizer. Salvatore is scrolling through something on his phone, but he puts it away immediately and looks up when he hears the balcony door open.
“Dinner is served.” He gives me a pleasant smile, motioning for me to join him, and I walk hesitantly towards the table. It’s beautiful and romantic, everything I could have asked for, and I feel a little guilty for having even the slightest thought that I might prefer to be here with someone else.
He’s trying. I can’t describe it as anything else. No one is forcing him to have dinner with me, or to arrange for it to be this nice, or to sit and talk with me at all. He could have added up all of my rebuffs so far, and simply assumed that this was never going to work in any capacity other than the most basic components of a marriage. And as much as I want to cling to my anger, it’s difficult when I see that he’s clearly trying to meet me at least partway.
“I can’t say I picked out all of the courses myself,” Salvatore admits as I sit down, pouring us each a glass of white wine. “But I did ask for their recommendations, and I think you’ll be quite pleased.”
I can’t argue with that. The appetizers look delicious—there’s a silver dish of cocktail shrimp with a pool of sauce in the center, a tower of oysters with a dish of mignonette and lemon, and a plate of shelled crab with drawn butter, as well as a green salad in front of each of us with small tangerine slices and a light vinaigrette on top. Paired with the crisp, cold white wine, it’s all exquisite, and something about the salt air and sitting on the deck with a view of the water only makes it that much more delicious.
Salvatore is quiet for several long minutes, sipping at his wine as he picks at the shrimp and oysters. Finally, he looks up at me, sitting back a little as he twirls his fingers around the long stem of his wine glass. “Assume for a moment, Gia, that our marriage is not dissolvable. That your dreams of being rescued by your former Bratva fiancé and your beliefs about his honor are, as I’ve said, false. Can you do that for me, for the sake of one conversation?”
I look up at him sharply, a little startled. My immediate instinct is to snap back, but there’s something in his tone that stops me. It’s not pleading, exactly—I can’t imagine that Salvatore is a man who would ever plead for anything—but I get a sense that this conversation is one he needs to have. One that he has, perhaps, been waiting for the right moment to press forward with. So I let out a breath, and nod.
“Alright,” I say softly.
Salvatore presses his lips together briefly. “Alright, then. What would our future look like, to you? What would you hope for, in a life with me?”
At first, I’m not sure what to say. Nothing, is the first word that comes to mind. I don’t want this marriage at all, so how could I want anything? But I know that’s not what he’s asking. He’s asking if I can picture any kind of future, and, if I had no choice, what would make our marriage palatable for me.
The problem is that I can’t think of a good answer. Not when my focus has been on waiting for Pyotr to rescue me.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. Children? We talked about that before. I’ve always wanted sons. Daughters too, of course, if that’s what I’m given—but I always had so many dreams of raising adventurous sons. There was that part of me that wished I had been born a boy, I suppose, that I could find an outlet for. I wouldn’t mind getting my hands dirty, playing sports with them, going outdoors, and making up adventures. Coming up with stories.” I shrug. “There are plenty of mafia wives who don’t love their husbands, right? I could be happy with a family, I think. As long as I had that.”
There’s the barest shadow that crosses over Salvatore’s face. I’m not sure what it means. I don’t know if it’s disappointment that I don’t want more from him, that nothing I’ve said has anything to do with the relationship between him and me, and everything to do with my relationship to the children we’ll have to one day have. Or it could be his ever-present reticence to do what needs to be done to give me children at all.
That last thought makes my stomach tighten, a flare of resentment washing over me. I do my best to push it down, to not start a fight when he’s so clearly trying to open up a conversation with me.
“Is that all?” Salvatore asks, his head cocked slightly to one side, and that flicker of resentment rears up again.
“No,” I say briefly, picking up a piece of shrimp. “But that’s all I can see getting out of this marriage.”
That time, I’m sure that I see the shadow that darkens his eyes. “And if you had children, you would put ideas of running back to the Bratva out of your head? Of being whisked away by your fantasy prince?”
There’s a hint of condescension in his tone, and I press my lips together, fighting the urge to say something rude back. Instead, I just give him a slight nod.
“If I had children, I can’t imagine Pyotr would want me any longer,” I say quietly, ignoring the small stab of pain in my chest at the statement. “There’s no world where I have a place among the Bratva after having children with you, Salvatore, and we both know that.”
“And you would no longer want to leave?”
“I wouldn’t want to leave them.” It’s the best answer I intend to give him, and I think he knows that. “What about you? Don’t you want heirs?”
Salvatore lets out a slow breath. “For a long time, I didn’t have reason to think I would need them. I didn’t know if Enzo would make me his heir, although it seemed certain that he would have no more children of his own. I thought, before he arranged your Bratva marriage, that he would make whoever he chose as your husband his heir.”
I frown, reaching for an oyster and the delicate silver spoon to pour a little of the champagne mignonette over it. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”
Salvatore hesitates. “I suppose I don’t have a good one for you, Gia. In my position, I need an heir. That is unquestionable. At the very least, I need a daughter who can marry well, and allow the family legacy to continue that way. That’s how things have always been done.”
“And that’s all? Just the legacy? That’s all that matters to you?” I don’t know why it hurts to hear him say that. It’s true that it’s often all that matters to men in his position. The fact that my father cared about something else was a rare quality. “I suppose I thought since you and my father were so close, you would care about more than that, too.”
He frowns. “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Gia.”
“Do what?” It’s my turn to cock my head slightly, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “What is it that you would prefer for me to not do?”
