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I shouldn’t fantasize about men other than my husband. I know that. That’s definitely not what a good mafia wife does. But I’m angry with Salvatore, feeling robbed and neglected, and I can’t help seeking what little pleasure I can find elsewhere.
Like, for example, imagining that even if my husband doesn’t want me, surely one or more of the men set to keep watch over me do.
The thought makes me linger a little while I apply the sunscreen, slowly sliding my hands over my long legs, pushing up the edges of my bikini bottoms to smooth it over the curves of my ass, making sure to thoroughly coat my breasts and rub it in. When every inch of me is well-protected, I roll onto my stomach on the towel, opening my book and letting every other thought drift away.
Eventually, it gets too hot, and I tuck my book away and wander down to the water’s edge. I’ve never swam at a beach before, only in pools, and I wade in carefully, keeping an eye out for sharp shells or jellyfish. I can only imagine Salvatore’s reaction if I came back injured in some way—it would give him the perfect excuse to not allow me out again.
That’s the last thing I want.
The water is cold, and I let out a little yelp as it laps at my calves, slowly wading deeper. I make it all the way to my hips, pausing as I try to get used to the chill, running my hands through the lapping small waves.
It feels good, all of it. The relative freedom, compared to what I’ve had before, the hot sun and the cold water, the smell of salt, and the taste of the fruit and lemonade that I had in the market still lingering on my tongue. For a brief second, I consider the wild idea of trying to disappear here, of running away from Salvatore and my marriage and my responsibilities as his wife. Of the kind of freedom that only those not born to this life can ever expect to truly have.
I know some people—a lot of them, actually—would laugh at me for thinking that way. Hate me, even, because I never have to worry about money or a roof over my head or enough food to eat. Yet, at this moment, I so desperately want to run. I know I’m privileged enough to have a lot of things that others don’t.
But what I don’t have is my own life. My own agency. And sometimes, I think there are so many things I’d be willing to give up in order to experience what that’s like.
I walk out further into the water, welcoming the chill that pebbles my skin, the shock of the water in comparison to the hot sun. When it’s nearly up to my breasts, I take a deep breath and dive underneath it, forcing myself to open my eyes after a moment.
The salt stings my eyes, but it’s worth it. Under the water, everything is crystal clear, from the sand to the small fish that I can see swimming around. I let myself sink down a little, watching the way the sun’s rays cut through the water to shimmer on the sea floor.
It would never work. I want to dream of the possibility of running away, of disappearing here, but I know better than that. Even if I went to the nearest ATM, withdrew every cent that it would allow me from the credit card, and threw it in the trash before trying to slip away, Salvatore would find me. His men would find me. And then he’d make sure I never had the opportunity to run again. Not in any explicitly cruel way, I don’t think—he’d just ensure that I couldn’t leave the mansion. My every need would be provided for, but within a gilded cage, the bars locked tight to make sure I could only sing from behind them.
My life was set from the day I was born. I can only make do with the cards I was dealt, not draw a new hand.
I push myself up to the glittering surface, sucking in a deep breath of air. Further down the beach, I see a glimpse of my security, probably making sure I didn’t try to drown myself or get swept out to sea.
Just to make them worry a little, I dive back under the water, blowing out my air so I sink to the bottom. I run my fingers through the grains of sand, picking up tiny shells, sticking my hand out to try to touch one of the small fish that swims away too quickly before my fingers can brush against it. It’s beautiful down here, and I promise myself that I’ll come back if I get another chance to wander out on my own.
When I surface again, this time, I start to walk back to the shore. I go back to my towel, stretching out until I dry off again under the hot sun. By the time all the water has evaporated off of my skin, I’m a little too warm, and starting to get hungry. I don’t want to go back to the villa yet, so instead, I slip my book back into my bag and shake out my towel, reaching for my dress.
And then, on second thought, I wrap the silk sarong around my waist instead, slipping my feet back into my sandals and tucking my folded dress away. I’m sure Salvatore would have a fit if he saw his wife walking around in public in a bikini top and sarong, but I don’t care. The same jealous rebelliousness that led me to linger while I put on sunscreen in hopes of flustering my security guards makes me like the idea of the attention I might get going back into town dressed like this. And it’s not like it’s abnormal—plenty of tourists walk around in their swimsuits. I saw several earlier, while I was in the market.
I wait for someone to put a stop to my fun, for Vince to come and tell me to cover up or something like that, but no one does. My feet are starting to hurt, but I’m in no hurry to return to the villa. Instead, I head towards where I saw a string of restaurants and bars, further down the beach.
One of the first ones I see is open air, with a long bar towards the back and tables scattered throughout it. It’s fairly busy, but I see room at the bar, and I feel a small thrill go through me at the idea of going and sitting at a bar alone and ordering a drink. It’s something I’ve never done before, and, truthfully, never really thought I would do. But today, no one is going to stop me.
I can hear the faint sound of music playing over the speakers as I walk in, a backdrop to the hum of conversation filling the space. And then I walk towards the bar—and I see the man standing behind it.
He’s gorgeous. Tall, with dirty blond hair that gives him a surfer look, medium length in a shaggy cut. He’s wearing a tank top with the sides cut out, revealing deep cuts of muscle along his abdomen every time he moves, and leather armbands on his wrists. There’s a thong necklace with what looks like a pirate coin hanging from his neck, and I catch a glimpse of shorts as he ducks around the other side of the bar to grab a bucket of ice.
When I get closer, I can see that he has bright blue eyes, as full of mischief and laughter as his smile appears to be. And as soon as he catches sight of me, I see him stop in the middle of reaching for a glass.
“Hey, there.” He grins at me as I approach the bar and slide onto one of the stools. His gaze flicks down to my bikini top briefly, before trailing back up to my face. He’s not ashamed of checking me out, and I can’t really imagine why he would be—there are probably plenty of gorgeous women who make their way through this bar, and plenty of them probably end up in his bed. He definitely looks like the kind of man who would never be lonely for very long.
He also looks to be around my age. As he pushes a menu towards me, his eyes don’t leave mine for a second. “See anything you like?” he asks with that same glimmering smile, and I’m not so naive that I don’t know a flirtation when I hear it. I haven’t even had a chance to look at the menu yet.
“I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to look around.” I flash him a smile, and his deepens.
“Well, feel free to look all you like.” He winks at me, leaning on the bar, his hands tapping against the wood as if he can’t stay still for long. I notice he has an engraved silver band on his index finger. “Do you know what you want to drink?”
“I—” I hesitate. I’ve only ever drank wine and champagne, and I want to try something new. “Something tropical? Surprise me.”
“My favorite two words to hear.” He grins at me, moving a little further down the bar. “You’re going to love what I have for you.”
I bet I would. I bite my lip, watching his long-fingered, dexterous hands as he muddles fruit in a glass, pouring shots of liquor and coconut water. It baffles me to imagine that there are so many people in this world for whom this is a normal occurrence—going to a bar, ordering a drink, flirting with a hot bartender. Going home with one, even. What feels daring and exciting to me is a normal Friday night for someone else. Jealousy floods me at the thought. Not because I desperately want to hook up with this bartender, but because I wish I had the option to. I wish I had the option to choose anything about how my nights will go—my days, too.
“Here you go.” He pushes a glass towards me, filled with a fruity pink and yellow concoction. “If you don’t love it, I’ll make you something else. On the house.”
