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“Get in the bed. You’re going to wreck your spine, and I don’t want to be treating another injury.”
A pause. “You sure?”
“I’m a doctor. I’m not going to let you destroy your lumbar vertebrae out of chivalry.” I reach for the throw pillow from the couch that he’d tossed aside and place it firmly down the center of the mattress. “There. I’ll be on this side of the pillow. The other side is yours. You don’t have a problem with boundaries, do you?”
The mattress dips as he lowers himself onto it. “I’ve respected boundaries my entire life. You shouldn’t worry about the pillow.”
“Good. Stay on your side.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
In the settling silence, his presence beside me pulls like gravity in a way I’m not prepared for. I stare at the ceiling, reminding myself this is a purely medical decision. For the sake of spinal health and nothing else.
I almost believe it.
I’m a grown woman with a medical degree and a working understanding of difficult situations. Well, that’s what I tell myself. Then I think about this king bed, the thick walls, the armed men outside, and the man who kissed me like the world was ending a few hours ago, and I falter.
Slipping out of bed, I head to a window near the corner of the room. I open it and hang my head outside, foolishly hoping the smooth breeze will sweep the thoughts about the kiss out of my mind.
The next evening, I’m sitting at a Benedetti dinner, unsuccessful in my attempt to convince Marco I’d rather be alone.
The main villa’s dining room, clearly designed for a large family, features a table that seats twelve. Tonight, nine people have settled in around the table.
Enzo sits at the head, with Sophia to his left. Across from me, Izzy lounges with a relaxed posture and active eyes. Nico Ferrante occupies the far end. With his tablet tucked beneath his chair, he somehow manages to appear both bored and vigilant. Three capos—older, as yet unintroduced men with weathered faces who glance at me with disciplined curiosity—fill the remaining seats.
The candelabras between us are tall enough to double as medieval weaponry if the meal goes poorly.
I’m seated at Marco’s right, and not by accident. In rooms like this, proximity to power sends a message.
Waiters pour wine into crystal glasses and deliver immaculate dishes arranged on heavy silver plates that probably have ancestral importance.
I smooth my hands over my dark green wrap dress, the only dinner-appropriate piece I packed, which I originally purchased for a hospital fundraiser and have since repurposed for two funerals and one awards ceremony where I pretended to enjoy rubbery chicken. Though a suitable design for this dinner, the outfit doesn’t exactly scream “mafia fiancée.”
Marco glances my way for a beat. His gaze starts at my face, dips, then returns with an unreadable heat that kicks my pulse into a deeply inconvenient stutter. Wordlessly, he reaches out to hold my hand, and my heart thuds loudly.
Though his closest allies might know the truth, playing his loving sidepiece to the other eight at the table turns out to require more physical contact than anticipated. The moment we entered the room, his hand settled at the small of my back, the placement a calculated, deliberate chess move designed to draw the capos’ attention. And while I knew the gesture meant nothing, my hammering heart rate would beg to differ.
Marco leans toward me, staying close all night. That emboldens me to engage in conversation. I ask Sophia about her school, then I question Nico about the famiglia while also partaking in some small talk with the capos.
All night, Marco’s body is tilted near mine. He’s good at this. He plays the role so well that I have to remind myself it’s not real.
It’s a performance, Lucia.
No matter how gently he brushes crumbs from my lips, or how genuine his smile looks when he peers into my eyes, I must consider the pretense.
He doesn’t make it easy, though. He’s so sensitive that when the conversation moves past me and I start to unravel, he suddenly reaches for me under the table, his thumbs tracing one slow circle that I know he means to be reassuring. Instead, it fills me with wild, feral heat.
Focus, Lucia. Focus.
As the night wears on, I become more and more tense. Aside from being the pretend partner of an enforcer in a top crime family, I’m not accustomed to someone so touchy and attentive. Still, I manage to keep my smile on as I wonder how many people at this table actually buy this facade.
At the start of the second course, the air shifts.
I can feel it like a sixth sense. Too much time spent in the ER, with souls lingering between life and death, has sharply honed my perception. All the tension built throughout the night snaps taut as the Russian man from the hospital strolls into the room.
He looks younger under these lights, and I’m frozen in my seat as Enzo rises and introduces him as Viktor Volkov.
