11. Salvatore

I have to get out of here. I have to get away from her.

The thought beats in my heat in time with my elevated heartbeat as I slam the door of the exercise room, striding down the hall to my study. I yank open the door, bolting inside and shutting it hard behind me, locking it as I lean back.

I try to catch my breath, to steady my thoughts, but I can't. I can feel her heat on my fingers, breathe in her scent still. Wet and soft and tight, so fucking perfect, and she's mine. My wife. Mine to fuck whenever I please. Mine to take, to fill her with my cum, again and again, until she's pregnant with my child. Until?—

My cock throbs, my balls tight to the point of pain. I need to come. And if I stayed in that room another moment, it was going to be inside of her.

I hadn't meant for it to go so far. Only to?—

Only to what, Salvatore? The words are mocking, in my head. To teach her a lesson, by fingering her in front of a mirror? What lesson was that supposed to be, exactly? What kind of punishment is making her come so hard all over your hand that she drenched you with it?

All I'd been able to think, at that moment, was how angry she made me. How furious I was that she acted like I was assaulting her every time I touched her, like she didn't get wet for me last night, like she didn't moan and whimper when I let her feel what it was like to have someone pleasure her.

Like she didn't all but beg me to stay and finish consummating the marriage. To take her virginity. And now she wants to act like a kidnapped bride.

I hadn't grasped, until now, just how fucking difficult this marriage is going to be. How hard it's going to be to manage any kind of peace between us. How impossible it feels to control my desire around her. I thought I wouldn't want her, but I do, terribly. I want her with a desire that's rapidly approaching an uncontrollable intensity, and I don't know what to fucking do about it.

Neither my own guilt, nor her infuriating brattiness seems to affect it. If anything, it only seems to make me want her more.

I fumble roughly with my zipper, my hand wrapped around my cock before it's even entirely free. I lift my other hand to my mouth, breathing in her scent, licking the taste of her off of my fingers as I start to stroke. I wanted to eat her pussy, to spread her open and lick her until she came all over my mouth, but I knew if I did, I wouldn't be able to stop. I would have fucked her there, sweaty and disheveled, in front of that mirror, and she was right when she'd said I shouldn't finish the job of taking her virginity there.

But god, afterward?—

My mind fills with images of her just the way she was as I fingered her, only now she's in my lap, naked and spread open, her back to my chest, kneeling on either side of my thighs as I hold her against me and sit her down on my cock. As I make her watch while I fuck her, my cock splitting her open, making her mine. My arm around her waist, sliding her up and down, one hand teasing her clit until she comes for me, drenches me, and admits that she wants this as badly as I do. Until her only thought is of me, and not the Bratva animal that thought he could have her.

Possessiveness fills me, a victorious lust at the idea that what they thought they could have is mine now instead. My breath comes in short, hard pants, my hand gripping my cock hard as I stroke it feverishly, imagining my hand on Gia's hips, her throat, holding her in place as I surge inside of her and fill her with my cum.

"Fuck!" I snarl between gritted teeth as my hand stutters along my length, my cock throbbing as the orgasm hits me, my knees nearly buckling with the force of it. I have just enough time to cup my hand over the tip, the heat spurting against my palm as I shudder with the wracking spasms of pleasure.

Pleasure that would be a thousand times better with her.

I suck in a deep, shaky breath, as I come back to myself. Once again, guilt settles over me, because I've lost control of my desires, my imagination. I've pleasured myself while thinking about things I shouldn't. And unless I manage to control myself, this is only going to get worse.

Or she'll settle in, and get bored of taunting me, and we'll find a routine. That's my hope—that Gia will stop acting out once she comes to terms with what has happened, and we'll learn to live in peace together. But twenty-four hours in, I'm no longer so certain that's a possibility.

Letting out a sharp breath, I go to my desk to find tissues to clean up, tucking myself away. Sharing a room with Gia presents another challenge—I don't want to face her right now, but I also need to change clothes for dinner myself. I open the door to my study, glancing out into the hall.

The door to the workout room is still closed. I head up to the master bedroom, and when I walk inside, I find that Gia isn't there. There's no sign of her yet, except for her things that Leah arranged—the sudden markers of a wife scattered around the room that, up until today, has always been wholly mine.

I find, surprisingly, that I don't mind it. I had wondered how I'd feel, sharing a space with someone when I never have before. I'm not too proud to admit that I can be set in my ways, that I've grown accustomed to a particular way of living, without anyone to interrupt it once I'm home and alone. But Gia has shaken all of that up, and I wondered if a part of me might resent that.

Instead, I look around the room—at the glimpse of her clothing hanging alongside mine, at the sight of her jewelry box sitting on the dresser, her books next to the bed—and feel an odd sense of comfort. Of no longer being quite so alone.

Unfortunately, I've married a woman who feels very much the opposite.

—

I'm already at the table when Gia comes down for dinner. When she steps into the room, my chest briefly tightens at the sight of her, and it's difficult to mask my indrawn breath. She looks beautiful.

I've seen her dressed up for meals before—at dinners with Enzo, at her home when I lived there after his death. But then she was my ward. Now she's my wife, and it's as if I'm looking at her with different eyes. Seeing her this way for the first time.

She's wearing a red dress with a fitted silhouette and scalloped sleeves, the neckline a modest sweetheart. It comes down to her knees, and she's wearing flats with it—there's nothing particularly sexy or seductive about the dress. But on her, it makes my mouth go dry, my cock twitching despite my frantic orgasm only a half hour ago. Her hair is loose, tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders, and I remember the brush of it against my cheek and neck as I made her come.

My pulse is beating hard. I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. She would be the perfect mafia wife, I can't help but think as she sinks down into the chair next to me, if only she would just behave. If only she could come to terms with how things are now.

That's what I need to focus on with her. Her behavior. The expectations that come with this marriage. What the future needs to look like, in order for this to work without driving us both mad. Not my desire.

The first course is brought out, a French onion soup with Gruyere cheese melted over the top, and set down in front of us. One of the maids sets a decanter of red wine between us, and Gia reaches for it immediately, filling her glass.

"We need to talk about the expectations for this marriage," I say calmly, glancing at her, and Gia narrows her eyes.

"What? Are you going to tell me I'm not allowed to have wine now? I'm old enough to marry, but not old enough to have a glass with dinner?"

Three seconds in, and she's already testing my patience. "I'm not talking about that, Gia. Andrea came and mentioned that the conversation between the two of you was tense today. That you don't seem pleased with your new role, and she worries there will be too much friction in the house."

Gia raises an eyebrow. "I'm not pleased. I was forced into this, remember?" Her mouth thins. "Do you want me to lie?"

"I want you to behave as a proper mafia wife should. I want you to focus on your duties here, to this house, as I've always focused on my duties to your father—and now to his legacy."'

Gia's expression instantly darkens. "Part of his legacy," she snaps, "was to have brokered a peace between the mafia and the Bratva. But you haven't hesitated to tear that down, have you? All so you could have his daughter in your bed. And then—" She smiles tauntingly at me. "You can't even manage to finish that."

"This. This is what I'm talking about." I set my spoon down, the soup momentarily forgotten despite how hungry I am. "Your attitude. Your mouth. Your refusal to believe that those in charge of protecting you are acting to do exactly that. None of this is how a woman of your station, your wealth, your privilege, your name should act."

"Except I don't have my father's name any longer." Gia's voice drips acid. "I have yours. And who are the Morellis, anyway? No great mafia house I ever heard of."

My chest tightens, and I can feel the burn of anger behind my ribs. "Now it's the name of a don," I growl. "Because your father left it to me. He trusted me?—"

"And what did you do with that trust?" Gia looks like she's on the verge of springing up from the table. "How dare you sit there and tell me about my attitude? About what proper mafia wives should do? You stole me, and then you can't even be a proper mafia husband. You tease and lust after me, only to never finish what you've started. One of the duties of a good mafia wife is to provide heirs, isn't it? But I can hardly do that when it's only your fingers that you've ever been able to get inside me."

I clench my teeth hard enough for them to grind together. "This isn't appropriate talk for the dinner table, Gia."

"Oh. Of course not. Because someone other than the two of us is clearly listening. Because it really fucking matters what room we argue in?—"

"Language, Gia!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" She slams her hands down on the table, the crockery and wine glasses rattling as she starts to stand up. "You're not my fucking father, or my godfather any longer; you've made certain of that. So don't tell me how to speak. My husband doesn't get to tell me how to speak?—"

"Oh, I certainly can." My voice is low, dark and dangerous, more so than I meant for it to be. "I could punish you for your attitude, Gia. For your outbursts. For your unladylike mouth. I just haven't yet, because I'm trying to keep things civil between us."

Gia takes a deep breath, her dark eyes sparking with anger as she looks at me. "I want out of this marriage," she says quietly. "I want to go back to Pyotr."

"That's impossible." I shake my head. "The sheets were sent to the head of the Family, and to the pakhan. The proof that your virginity is lost and the marriage consummated has been viewed by those who matter. You are my wife, Gia. You can fight me on this, or you can begin to accept how things are."

She sinks down into her chair, and her face looks paler than before. "So that's it. I'm married to a husband I don't want, doomed to sit around and wait for an old man to figure out how to actually take my virginity, because of a spot of blood on a sheet."

I frown at her. "I'm not an old man, Gia. And I think you already know that. I don't think you see me that way at all, to be honest. But you want to get under my skin. That, at least, won't do it."

Her eyes narrow. She can't say I'm lying—I saw the way she looked at me when I took my shirt off on our wedding night, the lust in her eyes this afternoon. She doesn't think of me as a decrepit old man, she only wants to mock me, and my virility seems to be the topic she latches onto first. "So what, then? Don't you want heirs?"

I let out a slow breath. "In time, Gia."

Frustration is written plainly across her face, and I frown at her. "I would have thought you'd be pleased I hadn't insisted on a full consummation yet. Considering how you feel about this marriage in the first place."'

For the first time since our marriage, Gia gets very quiet. She looks down at her bowl of soup, not bothering to pick up the spoon. When the maid walks back in a moment later, trading out our soups for a Caesar salad with Frances' homemade dressing, she says nothing, only sits back a little for the maid to swap out the dishes.

It alarms me, a little. Gia has never, not once, been at a loss for words since the moment I took Pyotr's place at the altar.

"Gia?" I lower my voice, attempting to be calm. To sound comforting. "What's wrong?"

She swallows hard, taking a slow breath. She reaches for her glass of wine, sipping it for a moment, and then she looks up at me, her face suddenly sad. It startles me—I've seen her furious, and petulant, and demanding, and angry. But I haven't seen her sad for a while now, not since the first months after her father's death. It tugs at something in my chest, to see her that way now.

"I was an only child," she says quietly. "You know that, obviously. I always wanted brothers growing up. Even though I know my father loved my mother, and didn't want to marry again, a small part of me hoped he would. That he'd want an heir badly enough to give me a brother. I would have preferred an older brother," she adds, laughing softly. "I loved that idea, as a child—having an older brother who would protect me and look out for me. But I would have been happy with a younger brother too. Or a few of them." A small, lopsided smile curves one side of Gia's face. "So as I got older, and realized my father was never going to remarry, that desire changed. I started looking forward to being married myself. To having my own sons. I knew I'd be expected to have a nanny—that I'd probably want the help, some of the time. But I imagined that they wouldn't be raised by the nanny like a lot of mafia children are. I'd be their mother, truly. I'd tell them stories, make up adventures with them, and take them on trips. We'd go outside and create elaborate stories and act them out. So—" She shrugs, her face suddenly shuttering as she realizes how much she's said. "You talked about me having children so soon as if it were something I didn't want, Salvatore. But the truth is, I've been looking forward to it."

For a moment, I'm not sure what to say. Gia's stubbornness, her tough exterior, that defiance, and unwillingness to submit to the desires of others—all of that begins to be cast in a slightly different light. I look at her face, carefully smoothed out now as if she's realized she's been too vulnerable, and wonder how much of those personality traits aren't entirely what I thought they were. If her willfulness isn't only on account of her having been spoiled all her life.

Enzo didn't have a son. And I realize, for the first time, that she might have spent her childhood and early youth trying to be both a son and a daughter for her father. That Enzo, in allowing her to make so many of her own decisions, consulting her on things that a daughter typically isn't, might have been treating her as both, as well.

"You know how close I was to your father," I say quietly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her hand. "I can tell you for certain that he never felt the lack of a son. He never desired more children—more than just you, Gia."

She looks up at me, and I can see the faint glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I imagine there's a lot that you could tell me about my father. Stories from when you were younger."

"There are." I sit back in my chair, looking at her. "Before you were born, we'd go to a cabin he had built in upstate New York, once a year. He loved the quiet. Loved to fish—which isn't a hobby you'd expect from a wealthy, influential mafia don." I can't help but chuckle, remembering it. "I was the one who cleaned and cooked them. Always his right hand, doing the dirty work. But I never minded it. Enzo was too gentle for a lot of what he inherited. I was the bridge between what he couldn't do, and what needed to be done."

Gia frowns at me, and I wonder what she's thinking. I can't read her face. "What about my mother?" she asks quietly.

"She was kind, like he was. They were a good match for each other. They would have been happier if they had been born different people, I think. But they did their best." It's the first time I've ever said that aloud, and I feel a dull pang in my chest. I, for myself, have never wondered what my life would look like if I had been born a different person. I've always accepted my place, my duty, and the life I was given and looked for the parts of it to be grateful for instead of the difficulties.

Gia looks at me curiously. "Different people? Not mafia?" She bites her lip. "I know wealth didn't seem to matter to him so much. My friends—their fathers, their husbands…their brothers, even, it always seems like it's never enough. Never enough power, or wealth, or influence. But I don't think my father saw it that way. Even the deal with the Bratva—it wasn't about power. It was about trying to stop so much violence."

She gives me an accusing look, and I know what she's thinking—she's voiced her opinion on it enough times already that she doesn't need to say it aloud. I can feel the moment of intimacy between us fraying. Her walls are going back up, that vindictive expression on her face again.

I don't want her to go back on the defensive. But neither do I want to keep sharing stories of the past. It might soften her, bring us closer together—but I don't think that's what I want, either. I care for her—as someone I'm meant to protect, as a responsibility. I don't want it to become more than that. I don't want emotion that goes beyond duty to be involved.

That won't help anything. It will only make it more complicated. Make it harder for me to focus on my duties.

Silence hangs over the table as the maid comes in again, trading out our barely-touched salads for lamb chops and roasted potatoes. I feel a twinge of guilt—Frances has made a point to make one of my favorite meals, and she's going to see I've barely eaten. Both Agatha and Frances have worked for me long enough that they're more like family than staff, and I don't like to disappoint them—especially Frances. She's closer to my own age than that of someone who could be my mother, but there's always been a motherly feeling around her that I've found reassuring.

"What about what happened last night?" Gia says suddenly, looking up at me. "The attack at the hotel. Have you found out anything else about that?"

"It was the Bratva," I say flatly, reaching for my silverware.

Gia lets out a frustrated sigh. "I know that. I mean—why? Was it to take me back? Are they going to try again?"

"Don't get your hopes up." I look at her, and she glares back at me. "Don't pretend you aren't hoping they'll raze this place to the ground to come and get you, Gia. But this is a fairytale you've made up in your head. The pakhan has no use for you now that you're not a virgin any longer. Pyotr will no longer desire you now that you can't be his alone?—"

"You haven't had me," she snips. "And he'd believe me if I told him all you've managed to do is stick your withered fingers in me?—"

"Gia." I rub a hand over my face. "This isn't?—"

"‘Appropriate dinner conversation,'" she mocks my tone, narrowing her eyes. "What? Go ahead and tell me how I came on your fingers this afternoon. But make sure to include the part where you were so hard you jerked off in your office afterward."

I wince, and I know she sees it. A moment of weakness that she'll sink her claws into, I'm sure. She must have heard me, walking past. Guilt coils in my stomach, cold shame sinking into my blood, but I do my best not to let her see.

"The Bratva won't come here for you, Gia. And whatever their plans are, I'll protect you." I set my fork and knife down, looking at her evenly, doing my best to focus on the part of this that matters. Not her taunts, not my twisted desire, but her safety. "As long as you obey me, you'll be safe. My goal in all of this has only ever been to protect you. And here, no one will be able to get to you."

There's an expected flash of disappointment on her face. Anger quickly follows, and she tosses her head, her eyes still narrowed. "I didn't ask to be protected," she snaps haughtily. "I didn't ask for any of this. And they wouldn't have hurt me last night. All of this danger you're prattling about is your own creation, because you wanted me for yourself, and broke a treaty to have me."

"I've already said?—"

"You bit off more than you could chew, though, didn't you?" she taunts, pushing her chair back. "You wanted your friend's daughter, but you can't satisfy her now that you have her. Poor Salvatore." Her voice rises, mocking, and something snaps inside of me. My gaze meets hers, level and hard.

"You were certainly satisfied earlier," I remind her coolly, and I see her blanch, her eyes sparking angrily.

"I'm going upstairs," she snaps, tossing her napkin on the table. "I'm afraid I've lost my appetite."

And with that, she spins on her heel, and leaves the room before I can say a word.