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Of course, it all comes up short when they want to exchange phone numbers, promising to get in touch when we’re all back in the States. I tell them I forgot my phone back at the villa, but write theirs down, promising to text once I’m back. Of course, I’m not going to—and that realization makes me more than a little sad. I probably won’t ever see or talk to these women again once I go back to New York.
“You should go talk to him,” Melanie urges, as we pay our checks and they prepare to head back to their villa. “I know there’s something there. He’s been looking over at you the whole time we’ve been here.”
I linger for just a moment after they leave, considering going up to the bar to talk to Blake. He’s busy taking orders, the bar packed, but I know he’d take a minute if I went up there. But what would I say?
I need to go back. It’s starting to get late in the afternoon, and by the time I get back to the villa, shower, and change, it will be dinnertime. And the more time I spend talking to Blake, the more chances there are that Vince will think something is amiss, and tell Salvatore about it.
So instead, I grab my tote, and start the walk back to the villa.
It’s the same as yesterday when I return. The sky is beginning to turn the brilliant colors of the tropical sunset, but Salvatore isn’t back yet. The villa smells fresh and clean, everything organized, quiet except for the lap of the water outside. I can’t help but think, as I set my things down and go to get in the shower, that it’s strange how easily people adapt. I’ve been here all of two days, but I’ve already started to form a routine.
By the time I get out of the shower and change, Salvatore still isn’t back. I’m surprised to feel a flicker of worry, and I reach for my phone, hesitating. He’s never told me not to text or call him, but I can’t help but wonder how he’ll feel about my checking up on him. Still—it feels strange that it’s dark out, only a few minutes away from the staff starting to bring dinner, and he’s still not here.
Letting out a sharp breath, I walk out onto the deck, sinking into one of the lounge chairs and quickly typing out a message.
Hey. I’m not trying to nag or anything, but you’re not back yet, and I’m a little worried. Are you alright?
There’s no immediate response. As the minutes tick by, I frown, wondering if I should go get Vince and ask him to check in with Salvatore’s security. I’ve never really thought of what I should do in this scenario. But just as I’m about to get up, my phone buzzes.
I’m surprised you worried about me. I was just briefly held up. I’ll be back soon.
I purse my lips, glaring down at the message. I can almost hear the sarcasm in Salvatore’s voice as he says it, and it’s more than a little irritating. But before I can give in to the urge to say anything back, the door opens, and one of the staff starts to bring out dinner.
“Mr. Morelli is running late,” I tell her quickly, as she starts to set up the ice bucket for the wine, and puts a glass dish of shrimp cocktail on the table. “If you can hold anything hot, he should be here soon.”
“Of course, Mrs. Morelli.” The woman smiles at me, and then hurries back out. I wince, getting up to go to the table. Hearing myself referred to as Mrs. Morelli is always strange. I don’t like it. But then again, I haven’t liked very much about my circumstances since my wedding day.
It’s another fifteen minutes before I see Salvatore’s shadow moving through the bedroom. I’ve already finished a glass of wine and nibbled my way through half the shrimp cocktail. I see his raised eyebrow when he steps out onto the deck and sees the decimated appetizer.
“What?” I ask defensively. “You didn’t say anything about waiting to eat.”
“I would never,” he assures me, his tone amused. He walks over to join me, sitting down and immediately reaching for the bottle of wine. “Far be it from me to deny my wife food if she’s hungry.”
“Well, at least that’s one thing you won’t deny me.” The words come out sharp and biting, before I can even think twice about them, and from the way Salvatore pauses with the wine bottle halfway to his glass, they sting more than I realized they would.
He lets out a slow breath, pouring himself a full glass of the chilled white wine before setting it back into the bucket, and glancing over towards the door. He doesn’t say anything until the woman bringing our salads drops them off and scurries away, and then he turns his tired gaze on me.
“I know fighting with me is your favorite pastime, Gia.” His voice is laced with exhaustion, and I feel another surprising flicker of worry. “But could we take a night off from it? I don’t have the energy to fight with you tonight.”
I don’t care what he has going on, I tell myself—but for once, I can’t convince myself that it’s entirely true. Looking at his slightly drawn expression and tired eyes, I find myself wanting to know what’s bothering him. “Alright,” I say slowly, and I don’t miss the slight raise of one eyebrow, as if he’s surprised that I’ve given in. “Did something happen?”
Salvatore draws in a slow breath, pausing as he looks at me almost warily, as if he’s deciding whether or not to discuss it with me. “There was an attack at the mansion,” he says finally. “A test, I think, to see what our defenses were like. And possibly, whether or not you and I were there. Igor still refuses to speak with me, but I am still trying to open communication with him, especially after this.”
“You don’t want to just retaliate?” I frown. “Isn’t that how you would normally respond?”
“In the past, perhaps yes.” Salvatore takes another sip of his wine, visibly uninterested in his food. I find myself suddenly worrying about that, too. “I would have urged your father to take stronger action, in a situation like this. But I find myself wanting to negotiate for a more peaceful solution, in the hopes of still achieving some of what your father set out to do.” He looks at me warily. “I would still like to achieve that peace that he worked for, and honor his wishes. Just without endangering you in the process.”
I hesitate, looking at him uncertainly. I can hear the tension in his voice, see the stress in his expression, in the way he’s holding himself. He doesn’t look like a man on vacation. He looks like a man overwhelmed.
“Maybe you should try to relax a little while we’re here,” I venture, picking at my own salad. “This is supposed to be our honeymoon, after all. Maybe take a little break?—”
Salvatore lets out a sharp, exasperated breath. “How do you suggest I do that, when the danger is so imminent? When the men I’ve left behind in New York, the men who work for me, for the mafia, for our family, are now in danger from the Bratva? When I need to consider whether or not Igor will try to find us, once he finds out we’ve left? Or take into consideration how long we need to stay, and how to try to come to an agreement before we return, so that I’m not delivering you directly back into that same danger?”
He shakes his head. “None of this needs to be laid on you, Gia. It’s my responsibility to protect you, not burden you with my worries and concerns. But since you’re asking—I don’t think you realize the pressure there is on me, to make sure not only you, but countless others are as protected as I can manage. The responsibility of having so many who rely on me—for their employment, for their futures, for their safety. The men who work for me do so knowing the danger, to themselves and their families—but they trust me to mitigate that danger as much as I’m able. Not every don takes that responsibility seriously, but I do.”
The sincerity in his voice brings me up short. For the first time, before I respond, I think—really think, about what it is that he’s saying. What he’s trying to tell me, to impart by saying that much. It’s more than he’s said before, in these conversations.
“You could talk to me about these things,” I venture slowly. “We’re married. That’s what a husband and wife should do, right? Talk about their problems with each other? Lean on each other?”
