Page 59 of The Kingpin’s Bride

Matteo was in the room.

He stood at the side of the bed in black trousers and a fresh shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, like clockwork. In one hand he held a tray. French toast cut into neat triangles, with powdered sugar on top. Cheesy scrambled eggs that steamed faintly. Strawberries, papaya, grapefruit,sliced into precise pieces. A glass of freshly squeezed orange juice was there, too.

Matteo set the tray on the mattress and sat on the edge, close enough that the chain brushed his thigh when he shifted.

“What happened last night?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

The word was quiet. Not cold. Not sharp. Just steady, the way a man speaks when he has decided the outcome and is simply waiting for the body in front of him to catch up.

The gentleness was worse. It made me want things I had no right to want from a man who had bought me.

I kept my eyes on the plate. Looking at him too long always cost me something. The sharp line of his jaw. The dense black ink that climbed his forearms. The quiet power in the way he held the fork like it was just another tool he knew how to use. He was beautiful in the way knives are beautiful. Clean. Dangerous. Impossible to look at without remembering what they can do.

“Is my sister here?” I whispered.

A long silence followed.

“No,” he finally relented. “I’m sorry, Morena.”

I swallowed, forcing myself to nod and not say a word. I’m sure he knew how disappointed I was without me pointing it out. “Is she alive?”

“Yes,” Matteo said.

I closed my eyes for a few minutes, thinking of my sister.

Then I forced myself to keep eating. I needed to be strong for Camilla.

When the plate was empty, I needed… something like aftercare. Even though we were married, I felt too awkward to ask Matteo. But somehow, he seemed to know what I was thinking.

“Come with me.”

Matteo led me to the bathroom. The hot shower was his hands. Careful. Thorough. He washed the last traces of the night from my thighs with slow strokes that made heat pool low in my belly even while shame burned under my skin. He dried me himself with a towel that smelled of clean cotton and something darker that was purely him. He dressed me in fresh white clothes. A long, sheer maxi dress that brushed my bare feet when I walked.

None of it was sexual, and all of it felt special.

He brought me back to the living room and I put the TV on, sprawling on the couch. Matteo worked at the long table under the windows, quiet calls, maps, the cold logistics of taking my sister out of Dario’s hands, while I sat only a few feet away, watching the city move far below like something that had never known what it felt like to be owned.

The domestic quiet was almost unbearable. I kept waiting for the cold to return. It did not. Not yet.

Every few minutes my husband’s gaze flicked to me, dark and assessing, and I felt the weight of it settle between my shoulder blades the same way it had in the club all those weeks ago when I thought the tall man in the shadows was only another pair of hungry eyes.

By late afternoon the residual ache had turned sharp.

I could feel every place the cream had touched before. My clit throbbed in time with my pulse, a low insistent pressure that refused to fade. The soft white fabric between my thighs was damp..I broke first. I couldn’t last, even knowing how he’d smirk hearing me.

“The cream,” I said. My voice came out rough, scraped raw by hours of holding everything in. Matteo looked up from his laptop screen. “The one the doctor gave you. Will you use it again tonight?”

The room went in the particular way that meant every sound after this would matter. I forced the rest out, cheeks burning, eyes on the floor because looking at him while I said it felt like handing him another piece of myself I could not afford to lose. “I want it.”

Silence stretched. Then the soft click of the laptop closing. He stood, crossed the space, and tipped my chin up with two fingers. Gentler than usual. Dark gray eyes searching my face the way a man searches for cracks in something he has decided to keep.

“Say it properly.” The words sat on my tongue like something filthy and necessary at the same time.

“I want the cream. I want you to put it on me. Please.” I swallowed.

Something dangerous and satisfied moved behind his eyes.