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Salvatore presses his lips together thinly. “I don’t think we have that kind of marriage, Gia.”
He says it curtly, as if it closes the topic, but I’m not so certain that it does. I look at him across the table, and I feel a flicker of understanding that I didn’t have before. Not regarding the state of our marital intimacy—just thinking about that still makes me angry and resentful. But the rest of it—the tension that’s always simmering just below the surface, his restraint, the way he always seems distracted by things outside of what’s going on between us—I think I understand that a little better. And I feel a burgeoning respect, too, that I didn’t have before.
Regardless of the problems in our relationship, it’s clear that he takes his duties as don seriously. As seriously as my father did—perhaps even more so, because it was his job then to oversee those duties, just as it is now, only with added pressure. Now, the decisions are his and his alone.
I can see how sincere he is. How worried. And it reframes all of this once again, making me doubt everything I’ve believed. The man sitting in front of me isn’t a man who would upend the security of the family for his own lust. He’s not a man who knows how to give in to those lusts. He doesn’t even seem to want to admit that he has them.
“It could be different.” I bite my lip, wondering what’s possessing me to reach out to him like this. To try to bridge this gap between us. What’s the point, when it always ends in fighting?
But no matter how much I tell myself that I don’t care about him, that I want him to hurt, the idea of revenge for what he’s done just doesn’t feel the same any longer. Not when I see this look on his face, and feel that he’s punishing himself enough. Not when I’m beginning to believe that his desire to protect me is genuine—that it really is what drove all of this.
I feel a flicker of guilt, too, for my flirtation with Blake. While I’ve been ogling a bartender and teasing myself with fantasies about what I could enjoy if I weren’t married, Salvatore has been worrying about me, about his home, about his men still in New York. About the Bratva. It makes me feel like the spoiled girl he’s accused me of being in the past, and I don’t like it.
“Gia.” Salvatore lets out a sigh, and I realize with a cold, sinking pit in my stomach that this isn’t going to work. We’re two different people, and he doesn’t want me to reach out to him. He wants me to stay where I am, obeying him but not standing next to him. “This isn’t necessary. You don’t need to pretend to care. I’ve been handling all of this for years; I can continue to handle it now.”
His dismissal should make me angry. It usually does. But instead, I just feel a wave of disappointment, followed by the sting of rejection.
He doesn’t want my affection, or my desire, or my love. He simply wants to know he’s done his duty. He wants me safe, and nothing more.
But I want more than that from the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. And I don’t know how we’re ever going to get across the chasm that divides us.
Salvatore
I make sure to get up well before Gia, as soon as the sunlight coming in through the gauzy curtains wakes me. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday morning, or a difficult conversation before I leave for the day.
I want peace, but it’s clear that with my marriage, any chance of that has been well and truly shattered.
It’s only been a short time since I stood at that altar and coerced that I do out of her, but it feels like a lifetime. I knew it would be a struggle for her to adapt, that her strong personality and willfulness would make this difficult at first—but I hadn’t imagined how much I would struggle. How hard this would be on me.
I had no idea how much I would want her. I hadn’t imagined I could desire her the way a husband should desire his wife, or how differently I would see her once she was in that role.
I also hadn’t imagined that I would begin to truly care for her. Not just as a ward, or as my responsibility—but as a woman. As my wife.
There are aspects about her that make me wish that there was a way to make this genuinely work between us. She’s smart, and brave, and tougher than I realized. Not everyone would take the opportunity to explore a new place on their own—or as much as security would allow them to—but Gia didn’t hesitate to go out and enjoy the island. I can tell that if she would give up her stubborn refusal to think badly of the Bratva, she would understand the risk they pose. She might even have useful ideas on how to handle the situation.
And, despite the headache that it gives me, she hasn’t backed down in the face of our marriage, no matter how much she dislikes it. Her willfulness and attitude drive me to the brink of madness at times, but I have to admit that I prefer it over someone who would cry endlessly, or lock themselves away in a room and pout. She’s not shy about showing her displeasure, but she’s also tough and defiant in the face of what she considers to be adversity. She’s not a wilting flower, or someone who crumbles under pressure.
I’m beginning to see how rash I was in my decision-making, when it came to this union. I still believe that there was no other choice, that marrying her was the only way to protect her from the Bratva and their cruelty. But I understand how that decision not only upended my life, but hers as well.
I look at her as I dress, feeling a pang in my chest. She looks fragile when she sleeps in a way that she never does when she’s awake, her face soft and young, her dark hair tumbling around it. Awake, it’s hard to believe that she would need protecting from anything or anyone, but like this, the urge to keep her safe wells up in me until it’s nearly overwhelming.
It could be different. Her words from last night come back to me, haunting me. She’s right, of course. It could be different. I just don’t see how.
The gulf between us is too vast. Not just in age and experience, but in what we want. She wants a fantasy of a husband, a passionate, intense lover who puts her on a pedestal, and I’ve never let an encounter with anyone go beyond a night or two. Sex, for me, has always been about fulfilling a need, like eating a meal or drinking water. I’ve always kept my baser desires on a tight rein. And what I feel for her?—
I’m afraid to let myself indulge it. It feels wrong, especially when it comes to her. I’m supposed to protect her, not ravish her. Shelter her, not bare her to me, and make her expose all the softest and most vulnerable parts of herself. And truth be told—I’m not sure that I want her to see mine, either. That kind of passion cuts both ways, I expect, and I’ve never let a woman see me laid bare. Gia, with her ability to cut to the bone even now, could tear me apart in ways I can’t imagine if I let myself be vulnerable with her.
When it comes to the other part of a marriage, the idea of partnership—I know how to work for someone, and how to manage my own affairs, but working with someone is not my strong suit. I can follow authority, as I did with her father, but sharing it is another matter. And all of that, aside from my commitment to Enzo and his legacy, is why marriage was never on the table for me before this.
I’ve never been the marrying kind, until I was pushed into this as surely as she was. And now all we’ve accomplished so far, besides her tentative safety, is making both of us miserable.
Guilt floods me as I look at her once more, while I gather up my things. The ache of desire that I feel for her is a constant, and the guilt that I feel because of it is overwhelming. I shouldn’t want her. I shouldn’t feel the things for her that I do. I shouldn’t want to go back to bed, to pull the blankets back, to strip us both bare so I can touch every inch of her flawless skin with mine.
The heavy ache in my groin is another constant, but I ignore it, focusing on the guilt. I gave in yesterday—what red-blooded man wouldn’t, after seeing her since we arrived, for two nights, wet and half-naked in the bikinis she brought along undoubtedly to torment me? And all that resulted from that was Gia catching me, and escalating things in a way that satisfied neither of us and only made me feel worse.
How long can I endure this? That question plagues me as I leave the villa, heading to the space that I’ve rented to work at while we’re here. Breakfast is waiting for me as requested—an egg and bacon sandwich on a croissant with coffee—and I sit heavily down in my chair, picking at it while I open my laptop and try not to think about how long a lifetime of this will undoubtedly be.
But the question worms its way back in, over and over, as the morning crawls by. Gia confronted me about being unfaithful, which she clearly expects from me, and I didn’t know what answer to give her. I have no desire to be unfaithful to my wife, but I’m also not certain that one quick, perfunctory fuck every month—or not at all, once I have a son with her—will always be enough for me. I certainly don’t think celibacy is something I can manage, although I’ve never sought out company before on a constant basis. But at the same time, I recognize how unfair that is to her—on both sides of the question—just as surely as I recognize that the idea of anyone else touching her makes me feel half-mad with rage.
