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Sweet. The sound of the endearment startles me. It’s not something I’m used to with him. But I don’t mind it. I like the sound of it, actually, when he says it like that—without irritation, his voice softer than I’m used to. As if he’s enjoying the conversation.
“I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“About what?” Salvatore takes a bite of his salad, looking at me with what appears to be genuine curiosity. But I’m not about to tell him what was actually going through my head just now.
I’ve been rejected by him too many times to put myself out there again like that just yet. I want him to pursue me a while longer, before I do. It’s not even playing games at this point, I don’t think. It’s just self-preservation.
But it is an opportunity to talk to him about the rest of what’s been on my mind, as the day has unwound so pleasantly.
“I enjoyed today,” I say slowly, picking up a piece of shrimp and dipping it into the metal tin of cocktail sauce.
“I did, too. It’s not over yet.” Salvatore still has that curious look on his face. “Unless you want it to be?”
“No. That’s not what I meant. I just—” I let out a slow breath, taking a bite to give myself a minute to think, and washing it down with the crisp white wine. I taste hints of pineapple in it, and I make a mental note of the label, to see if we can get it back home.
Home. It’s the first time I’ve thought of Salvatore’s mansion in that way. I could try to tell myself that I was simply thinking of New York in general, which has always been my home, but I know deep down that’s not true. I was thinking of where we’ll go, when our honeymoon is over.
I’m not sure if it makes me fearful or gives me hope, that I thought of it that way.
“My father wanted me to have a husband who was a good match for me,” I say slowly. “He believed that was Pyotr.”
I see Salvatore’s shoulders tense, in preparation for retrodding old ground. But I have a different idea about that conversation this time.
“You want to continue serving my father’s legacy,” I continue, meeting Salvatore’s gaze. “To do right by me and what he left behind. What if you could do that by being a good husband to me? By being the kind of husband that I expected Pyotr would be?”
There’s a glint in Salvatore’s eyes that tells me I’m treading dangerous ground. After what happened yesterday and the day we’ve had today, I can’t imagine he likes hearing me describe how fervently I’d anticipated marrying another man. But at the same time, I want him to understand what I wanted. What I thought I would get out of marriage.
“And what kind of husband is that?” he asks tautly. It’s clear from the tone of his voice that depending on how this conversation goes, the rest of our night could fall apart. But I have to hope that we can find a way to talk to each other. That we can learn to communicate like a husband and wife should.
“I know I can be stubborn, and willful. My father knew it, too. He thought that Pyotr would be the kind of husband who would appreciate those qualities in me, rather than being intimidated by them and trying to snuff them out, as so many mafia sons would. He thought that Pyotr would appreciate my rebellious nature, and that, at the same time, he might tame me a little. That we could smooth each other’s rough edges. He thought that Pyotr, being about my age, would be able to understand me better than someone older that he might have given my hand to.” I see Salvatore flinch at that, but it has to be said. It was part of the conversations my father and I had. “And he thought that Pyotr would see me as an equal. The mafia princess wed to the Bratva prince. A fairytale for our families. We would lead the Bratva together.” I trail off, biting my lip. I have some idea of what Salvatore must think of all of this. “Pyotr and I talked, too. I thought he would be?—”
“I know what you thought he would be.” Salvatore cuts me off, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Forgive me, Gia, but I don’t want to hear another soliloquy about how passionate of a marriage you expected to have with your virile Bratva groom.” The bridge of his nose wrinkles, and I shove down a brief flare of irritation. I already know firsthand what Salvatore’s innate possessiveness can turn into, and that flare of irritation starts to shift into a different kind of heat. If his reaction to thinking about Pyotr makes him realize that he does want me, I reason, all the better.
“Your father and I disagreed on the match from the jump,” he says. “I always thought that whatever front Igor and Pyotr were putting on to convince him of the match, it was exactly that. He didn’t trust Igor, exactly, and he never thought that Igor was a good man. But as he was blinded with love for you, he believed that Igor was the same for his son. Your father firmly believed that Pyotr was genuine in his feelings and desire for you, and that Igor would treat you well and uphold the agreements to please his son. Just as he wanted to please you.”
“But you didn’t believe that.” I bite my lip. This is ground we’ve already covered, but the conversation feels different this time. For the first time, I’m willing to listen to what Salvatore has to say, and not only because all chance of my being reclaimed by Pyotr is gone. Salvatore has shown me enough of himself that I’m no longer certain of what I once believed. And if Salvatore didn’t claim me for lust, then it must have been for another reason.
“I believe Pyotr wanted you, as any man offered both the treasure that you are and the inheritance that came with you would?—”
“But not you,” I interrupt. “You didn’t want me?”
“I never thought of you that way,” Salvatore says quietly. “Not until you were already my wife, and I needed to. And I found—” He pauses, and I wait for him to continue. But the silence stretches out longer than it should, as if he’s having a hard time saying what’s on his mind.
“What?” I murmur, and he looks up at me, his eyes suddenly dark with unexpected emotion. And, I think—desire, too.
“I found that I wanted you.” His gaze holds mine at last, and I feel the tension in the air suddenly snap taut, making my skin prickle. “I found that I wanted you more than I thought I ever could. More than I knew I should. And I fought it with everything in me, because you were never supposed to be mine, Gia. I was supposed to protect you, and then give you to another man. But?—”
He hesitates, letting out a slow breath. “I didn’t take you for desire, Gia. I married you because I believed, to the depths of my soul, that Pyotr would only hurt you. Emotionally for certain, and possibly physically as well. When I met with him and his father before the wedding, and suggested that we postpone for the sake of your grief?—”
I look at the expression on Salvatore’s face, and understanding dawns on me. “He wasn’t understanding.”
“He was—crude, in the way he spoke about you. He and his father both. Whatever he showed you, Gia, it wasn’t the truth. He would never have seen you as his equal. I have never known a Bratva man to treat a woman as such, but perhaps there’s someone out there who would. I can’t speak for every man. But I can speak to what I saw in Pyotr, and he was not who you and your father believed him to be, Gia.” Salvatore breathes out sharply. “If you believe anything I’ve told you, Gia, I want it to be this. I would never have denied you your wedding and gone against your father’s wishes for any other reason other than that I believed you were truly in danger. That your heart and your spirit would both have been broken by him. And I couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“Why?” I ask softly, and some part of me tenses as I wait for his answer, wondering if he’ll say aloud what I can barely imagine him saying at all.
“Because you were entrusted to me,” he says instead, and I feel an unexpected stab of disappointment.
I bite my lip, sitting back as I look out over the water for a moment. So much has changed for me in such a short time. And more could change, still, depending on what happens between Salvatore and me.
