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32. Gigi

32

GIGI

My husband is a professional cuddler. He's pulled a pillow closer and has stretched his arm out for me to rest my head on. Now, he's nudged my hips right into his, and I can feel him harden as he bundles up my gown to my thighs so he can have his hand on my bare skin. I hate how I love this so much, how I literally want to melt into his arms and die right there.

"Ignore that," he whispers in my neck.

"It's hard to ignore," I whisper back, and we both chuckle at the innuendo.

I can't help wondering how different the night in Cannes would've been if I hadn't insulted him in the first place. His demons and mine are matched, married in a way I've never thought possible. He's done so much for us since we arrived in Boston, and I don't know how any of this is going to pan out. I've not been let into any of the Scaleras' plans on how they're going to deal with Franco Fiore, but I've never felt as safe and treasured as I have in this moment.

He presses a soft kiss below my ear. "Sleep tight, angel."

At this rate, there's not going to be any sleeping involved. Wisps of desire are tugging at my sex, wanting more…wanting all of him. I can't be so weak and cave in on our first night. I know it's just sex, and I might be physically safe, but my heart has never been in bigger danger before. Something about him is worming its way into all my empty places that are longing for moments like this.

His erection is distracting, and I bet he wants to nestle it between my butt cheeks, but it will only make me want it inside me. "This isn't going to work, Steph," I say into the dark.

"No?" he says as he innocently rocks into me, a smile in his voice.

He's playful too. Of course he is. All the signs were there that night in Cannes.

I'm still surprised he told me about his past earlier in the bathroom. It broke my heart. We're just Mafia kids grown into Mafia adults, fucked up in so many ways. Even though he doesn't know it or trust himself, this man will never hurt a woman. I have no idea if Stephano has it in him to kill a man. Not with the brutality Franco will unleash if he gets to him first.

At the thought, I swallow at the tightening in my throat. The last thing I need is to become teary now.

"Turn around, husband," I whisper as I do the same, nudging him onto his side so I can spoon him instead.

Deep inside this man, there is a boy who suffered abuse at his father's hand, still seeking forgiveness for the things he was forced to do and didn't understand. I press the softest kiss possible to his back as he complies, hoping he won't feel it.

When I wake up, the bed next to me is empty, and light streams in through the tall windows. Good heavens. By the height of the sun, it's way past ten o'clock in the morning. This bed…this man…his arms. We might have fallen asleep with me holding him, but at some point, he'd cradled me. I haven't slept like this for years.

I curl up and press my nose to his pillow which is indented with the shape of his head. I inhale slowly and suppress a curse. I might be developing a problem. Also known as a crush on my fake husband.

A crush is fine. Those come and go. It's the deeper feelings I need to steer clear of. As I sit up and stretch, voices sound from downstairs. A female's and Stephano's. I sneak out of bed and pad over to the railing to peek down, just in time to see him squeeze a blonde by the arm as he opens the front door for her.

She turns and smiles at him. So pretty. Thick blonde hair. Toned arms in a sleeveless top. Skin-tight jeans and heels that are a bitch to walk in, but which she does with ballerina grace. She slips a file into a tote bag as another woman comes to stand in the open door. This one is as stunning as the first, but a redhead. Smiles and hugs between the two women and then the new one steps up to Stephano and he hugs her close.

Unnecessary jealousy spears through me. No, no, no . I can't. I rush to the bathroom where I close the door quietly and lean against it.

My crush is obviously further along than I anticipated.

I take a shower, forcing myself not to think how my husband had two—maybe even more—women in his apartment before lunch. I force my focus to my business, which is the one thing that will never deceive or cheat on me. There, I'm the one in charge, and if I'm not careful, I'll get a bad rep if I don't get back to it soon.

I left things hanging when I went to Lake Como, and the first thing I did when I got that laptop from Stephano was to put my out-of-office on with no specific return date. At least it's summer in Europe and business slows down significantly, but I can't afford to ignore the emails in my inbox for much longer. I'll have to check with Stephano if I should even answer them. Who knows what the ripple effect could be from a few answered client emails.

By the time I'm dressed and head downstairs, Stephano is stepping out of his office with the redhead. I freeze, but it's too late. She's already spotted me, and it hits me he has some pimping thing going.

My stomach revolts at the idea. Virgin auctions, brothels, sex trafficking. It's all in the realm of usual Mafia fare, and I don't know why I didn't see this through the smoke and mirrors of Matteo's classy, über-luxury apartment. It's so easy to forget where the money is coming from if you don't have to think about it.

Having these women in his apartment, right under my nose, is like a backhanded slap across the cheek.

The woman drops her gaze as something in my expression must have spooked her.

"I'm glad you've moved on, Steph," she says, her words clearly audible in the double volume of the apartment. "It's what we've all hoped for." Before I can say anything, the redhead makes for the front door, and Stephano is there to see her off. "Same place, same time next month. Unless something comes up?"

"Yes."

He closes the door behind her and meets my gaze where I'm still waiting on the stairs. Waiting for what? To see how my knight in shining armor is a villain like the rest?

As if he can sense my mood from what he reads on my face, he just shakes his head. "Here we are again. I wouldn't jump to conclusions if I were you, my angel."

My angel . He's the devil in disguise.

"Enlighten me, then?" I hack back. "If those two women aren't prostitutes working for your seedy little Mafia operations, then I don't know what they are."

"Prostitution? Unless it directly affects our business, what they do in their spare time is none of my concern," he bites back, but there's an angry tremor in his voice. "For your information, none of our girls need to turn to that as a last resort."

"No?" I'm taking the stairs again, not keen to shout this conversation across the expanse of his apartment. " Our girls . I know what that means. No need to sugar coat it, Stephano."

"Do you wake up like this every morning?" he asks as he tracks my steps to the kitchen.

The closer he homes in, the faster my heart beats.

"And how is that? In an empty bed with my husband hosting an orgy in his office?"

I've gone too far. This is childish. He's a man, and this marriage is fake. No sex and no kissing are my rules. If this drags on for months and he chooses to take a mistress or fuck one of those girls, I should be happy, not furious.

I've reached the kitchen island, but he doesn't stop. Stephano keeps coming at me and traps me against the cold marble. His one hand is on my hip as the other slips to my ponytail and he twists it around his palm. Every movement is measured, controlled, and does nothing but spike my pulse and spread lust to the last corner of my being. This is the problem. And it's a big one.

"Are you jealous, Mrs. Scalera?" he asks as he manipulates my head back with my ponytail, forcing me to look at him.

"No, I'm not."

He stares into my eyes, and I see the amusement flashing in his own. His gaze consumes my face, and I swear the only thing he wants to do is kiss me. Hard. Possessively.

"You're a bad liar. Let's set a few things straight, shall we?" He leans closer to my ear, and his words are soft but crystal-clear as he runs his lips along the shell. "Firstly, if you want to keep this as a marriage on paper only, don't walk around with that please-fuck-me look in your eyes."

Goose bumps spread and pebble my nipples as wet heat invades my sex. Oh, God.

"Secondly. Don't insult me by suggesting I'd fuck a prostitute in my office while my wife is upstairs, sleeping like the angel she is." He lets go of me, and I firm my grip on the island to keep up straight. He steps away and heads for the front door. "I'm going out. Tony is here to look after you and drive you to see Carla if you want."

He opens the front door and at the last second turns back to me. "Rest assured, Gigi. What happened this morning won't happen again."

He's gone. I drop my head back and take a deep breath. The double entendre in his last words is clear. Either he's never meeting women again in this apartment while I'm sleeping upstairs…or I won't wake up alone like that again.

Butterflies stir in my stomach at his idle promise and delicious threat.

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