23. Gigi

23

GIGI

The problem is I never had a plan beyond fleeing. Now what? I could kick myself for never thinking beyond coming here and being safe. I always thought London would be far enough, but the world has shrunk, and tentacles have stretched. I didn't foresee the magnitude of this mess in Europe, or Vincenzo's duplicity in handing us over without blinking to that psychopath.

I'm a fool. I got away from Franco, but he's the type who will come for me— for us . Not only because he's a sadist, but because I have something he needs. Desperately. It's been eating at me since Friday night, because I don't know what Franco Fiore knows. If Vincenzo spoke out of line, we are all in very real danger.

I heave out of the deep seat, trying not to wince, and follow Stephano out of Matteo's office. We ascend the stairs to the second floor, and for the first time, I take in the penthouse apartment with more than just panic. The double-volume living room has massive glass windows and doors that lead out to a big rooftop garden and balcony with breathtaking views. From here, I can see the Boston skyline, whichever part it is, but the solid dark swatch can only be the ocean.

We're on the landing, and Stephano leads the way past my room.

"This is Carla's."

He knocks softly, waits, then opens the door and holds it. I scoot past him to step inside and spot my sister, fast asleep on her side with her back to me. Unscathed. Safe.

I'll do anything to keep her here, just like this.

But marriage? That never crossed my mind. It's such an easy, perfect solution. With a difficult, imperfect man. Surely, Stephano Scalera can't be my only option…but in this case, it's a choice between the devil you know and the devil you don't. I have no idea how long we'll last if we're out on the streets in Boston. How long it will take for Franco to track us down. Being a Scalera wife will come with top-tier security, and by the look of Matteo's apartment, it can't be all bad. There's money here, and in my experience, you can put up with a lot for an easy life of luxury.

I am such a fucking Mafia princess.

The truth hits me like a bullet to the heart, and I've never hated myself more than in this moment. It's in my freaking blood. I'm going to cave in and break my own vow at the first sign of real danger. I thought I was stronger than this, but I'm no match for Franco Fiore.

The question is whether Stephano or any other Scalera is a match for his level of psychotic. I know so little of Stephano and the rest of his brothers, so I can't say. My gaze drops to where he's holding the door, his strong fingers curled over the knob, his skin unmarked with nothing but the last letters of a tattoo peeking out under his rolled-up sleeve. I still feel his touch from this morning. He looked after me in such a gentle, caring way, telling me Franco Fiore wrote his own death warrant on my skin.

The cuts pulse right on cue. I've seen what Franco is capable of, and that was the tip of his iceberg. He promised to do more to me once we're married. I've also experienced Stephano Scalera's slow seduction and the control he had over himself. Now, he rests a hand on my lower back and nudges me out of the room, in the possessive way I've always loved. He closes the door with a soft click, but that hand doesn't move away. Even through my T-shirt, his touch makes my skin tingle with goose bumps as we move down the landing.

Screw my life. The only thing I can think of when I look at him is how he made me come, twice in a row. Without even touching me. Then insinuating I'm a whore and what we did was cheap, wanting only to degrade me.

I step away from his touch as we come to a stop at my bedroom door. "How many brothers do you have?"

He hitches a brow. "We're five. Used to be six."

I drop my gaze as I suck my lip. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. You know what they say. Only the good die young."

I drag in a slow, deliberate breath, steeling myself.

"Any other takers?" I ask, putting my feelers out.

Stephano searches my face as my question slowly sinks in. His face splits into a smile, and then he laughs— actually laughs —deep from his belly. It transforms his face, making him look even hotter than before. Somewhat naughty, less serious, and more relaxed.

Why must he be so goddamn sexy, and why must my hormones go into overdrive around him?

"Ah, Gigi," he huffs as he catches his breath. "There's no chance in hell any of my brothers will step up and be the martyr here."

Heat spreads over my whole body in indignation. Martyr? That's taking it a bit too far. "Why is that?"

He shakes his head. "Because they know we met in Cannes and something happened, even though I told Matteo nothing happened. Matteo and Benedict both saw straight through us earlier tonight. Trust me, my other brothers will read between the lines soon enough and give you a very wide berth."

"Is that so? Why?"

He raises his hand—his filthy Mafia paw —and cups my cheek, his fingertips resting softly on my temple as he traces a line over my bottom lip with his thumb. "Because you're mine, angel, whether you like it or not."

His touch is like a drug. Ever since our first encounter, I've only wanted more, and then he denied me. God, what a pleasure it would be to have him begging for it, like my body is secretly begging for him now. I hurt everywhere, but I pulse with desire too, which is a dichotomy I never thought possible. I want to lean into his touch, but instead I step away at the exact moment he drops his hand.

"Sleep on it, angel," he says as he turns toward the staircase. "And give me your answer tomorrow."

"You haven't even asked me a question." I'm even more irritated he thinks I will seriously consider this dumb proposal.

"If you expect me to drop to one knee, don't hold your breath."

Ugh! I grunt inwardly. This guy is a total dick. "Just know I'll be the most horrible wife you'll ever have."

He laughs as he starts descending the stairs. "Then I'll be the best husband you'll ever have, just to piss on your pity party."

This has gone into such fictional territory now, I can't help myself. "What other terms do you have?"

Stephano slows down and turns to face me, as if we're Romeo and Juliet and this is the balcony scene. Instead of breaking into a soliloquy about my beauty and his undying love for me, he retraces his steps and comes to stand flush with me.

I inch back to get away from his dominance, his body radiating heat and power. My back connects with my room's closed door. He comes even closer then, leaning with his arm against the doorjamb and trapping me with his body.

Oh, God. We've been here before. That night in Cannes. Him in total control of himself and the situation, me a wanton mess. I inhale his scent as my eyes run over the stubble on his jaw, up to his ear and a knife scar below his lobe. I've never noticed it before, but half an inch deeper and it could have been deadly. We don't touch, but my breath has caught, and when our gazes connect, the look in his eyes sends shivers of desire down my spine.

"Of all the shit they could lock me up for, marriage fraud won't be one of them. So this will be a real marriage," he says, his tone soft but serious. "You'll move in with me, I'll look after you as I would look after the wife I vowed to never have, and you will let me take care of things, no questions asked."

I close my eyes for a second, dipping into the dream of letting go and having this man take care of everything, Franco Fiore included.

Allowing him to look after a wife he vowed to never have. That could involve so many things…

It's too easy. It's too dangerous. I know what Stephano Scalera is capable of, and it's a whole new level of danger I've never anticipated.

I can't let him have control over me like this. Already, this situation is veering towards being a repeat of Cannes, but this time, so much more is at stake.

He's already proven how easily he can make my body succumb to him, but getting more intimate with him, going all the way, will connect me with him on an emotional level I can't afford. No, not with this man. There is something about him that will make me latch onto him, a needy mess of a woman who'd always want more, need more, give more, until there was no return.

I'm so used to keeping my distance, knowing where to draw the line to protect myself when it comes to men. I'd be an idiot to think having sex with Stephano would be a one-off. The way that night in Cannes has been occupying my mind, my fantasies, only gives a hint of what going all the way with him would do to me. Once will never be enough and I won't be able to distance myself from him. I'd fall hopelessly in love.

Falling in love is the last thing I can afford, least of all with a man in the Mafia. I can't break every vow I've ever made to myself by falling irretrievably in love with Stephano Scalera.

Thank God a marriage to him will be temporary, but for my sake, it will also have to be as short as possible. And as much as I want him to succumb to me, to lose control for once, I can't afford for it to happen.

When I look at him again, his eyes are so close, I can see how the lighter milk chocolate brown on the inside of his iris melts into the darker outside rim.

"And a divorce at the end of it, no questions asked?" I murmur, trying to steel myself against his charm which he turns on like a faucet, but being weak in the knees at him standing this close to me again.

"Yes. You'll go back to Italy, and our lives will go on as if the marriage never happened." His gaze caresses my face, as if he's memorizing each part of my bone structure like a sculptor would. "What are your terms, angel?"

"My terms?" Except for making his life hell? Which would probably grow old quickly once routine sets in. "We'll never consummate the marriage." Being a good Catholic girl, I need a solid reason for divorce. As if. He doesn't need to know what his physical presence does to me. "We'll never have sex. Ever ."

There. I've said it. He can have everything except me .

Stephano pushes away from the wall, a smirk on his face. "That's your only stipulation?"

"Yes. No kissing either. No nothing." That should cover all bases.

"Right. No kissing, no sex ever , angel, because you definitely don't want me to fuck you. Noted."

Stephano is out of my personal space and down the stairs so quickly, I feel like catching a breath. And throwing something at him. He is such an arrogant ass. He doesn't look back, not once as he jogs down the stairs or when he crosses the open-concept living area to the foyer that leads to the front door.

If only I could have a smidgen of the control he seems to have over himself and over everything he does, I'd be at peace around him. But I don't. My body's reaction to him belies every emotion I'm trying to suppress when it comes to Stephano.

God. I love to hate him, because all I can do is stare after him as he walks away, sagging against the door with the sinking feeling that I've just denied myself the thing I secretly want the most.