12. Gia

Salvatore doesn't come upstairs for a long time. I suspect he's trying to give me time to cool off, but I'm too angry for that. It's only been a day, I think to myself as I lock the bathroom door and draw a hot bath, nearly trembling with anger. One day, and I want to strangle him. I can tell he's not pleased with me either, though he does a better job of restraining his temper.

How am I supposed to endure a lifetime of this?A marriage I don't want, a husband I don't love, the promise of a future with both of those things stolen away from me. Children would make it easier. With children, I would have love. A way to occupy my time, something to focus on. But Salvatore won't even give me that.

No matter how I turn it over in my head as I lie in the bath, I can't come to terms with my situation. I can't be okay with it, as Salvatore seems to expect me to. He seems to think that I should just believe him—that I should accept that he's saved me from a terrible fate I don't understand, and acclimate to my new role as his wife.

He picked the wrong woman if he wants someone biddable. He's made it clear that this marriage can't be dissolved, that the Bratva wouldn't take me back even if he offered, but I don't believe him. I don't believe Pyotr would abandon me so easily. I don't believe that he wouldn't still want me, still love me, if I managed to get back to him. It's not as if I willingly left him for Salvatore. I was stolen away.

I close my eyes, trying to drift back to those hours we spent together at my home, sitting in the library by the fire, out in the garden in the warmer weather. Of the things we talked about—his future as the leader of the Bratva, his hope that our fathers' efforts would lead to peace. Of how our children would grow up safer, because I agreed to marry him. He liked that I talked back sometimes, that I would tease him, that I'd let him flirt and touch a little, and then pull away. We were good for each other, I believed. My father believed that, too.

So who does Salvatore think he is, to decide otherwise?

I'm so angry. I don't think I've ever been this angry at anyone or anything—even when my father died, it wasn't anger that I felt, but grief. He was ill—there wasn't anyone to be angry at. It was tragic, but I was sad about it, not furious.

Now, I feel like I'm full of rage, churning through me every time I really think about my situation, about what's happened. And every time, it comes back to Salvatore.

He's the one to blame. And I hate myself a little, too, for giving in to his advances. For letting him please me. For not resisting, and refusing to let my body be swayed by his touch, by his breath in my ear, by his all-too-skilled fingers.

I hate him, and deep down, I'm beginning to desire him. I want this to be over, to be free of this situation that I've been forced into, but I don't see a way out.

Not unless Pyotr steals me back. And Salvatore seems to think there's no possible way that can happen.

He wants me to be a quiet, proper mafia wife, fading into the background so that he can go on with his life, virtually unchanged after turning mine upside down. And while I don't have much control over anything else that happens, I can, at the very least, control that.

I'm not going to make this easy on him.

I get out of the bath, drying off, and slipping into a pair of soft sleep shorts and a tank top. Salvatore still isn't in the bedroom, and I get into bed, exhausted from the day and the roller-coaster of emotions. I'm glad he hasn't come upstairs yet—with any luck, I'll be asleep before he does.

I slide under the covers, in a strange bed, a strange room, and I miss home. I close my eyes, pretending that I'm back in my own bedroom. That my future still has the possibility of being everything I had hoped for.

A tear rolls down my cheek, just before I fall asleep.

—

I wake up with the heavy weight of a male body pressed against my back, one arm across my waist, holding me against a broad, warm chest. I smell Salvatore's woodsy scent, feel the tickle of the scruff on his jaw against the back of my neck, and I go very still.

He must have moved close to me in the middle of the night, while he was sleeping. I don't move a muscle, unsure of whether I want him to move away or not.

I've never been held by anyone like this. Never shared a bed with anyone. I should hate it—should hate having him so close, waking up in his arms, a reminder that I no longer have the right to even sleep alone in my own bed. But—I don't hate it as much as I should.

He feels good against me. Solid and warm, the muscled shape of his body curved around mine, my ass perfectly nestled in the cradle of his hips, my back to his chest. I feel him shift behind me, his cock hardening against the small of my back, and an unexpected jolt of desire sparks along my skin.

I hear him groan quietly in his sleep, his hand splaying over the flat of my belly, and my pulse picks up speed. I can easily imagine him nudging his knee between mine, spreading my legs, angling himself so he could slip into me from behind. I feel myself tighten in anticipation, warmth pooling in my veins, and I arch against him without thinking, pushing the soft curve of my ass against his growing hardness.

What the fuck are you doing?The words echo dimly in the back of my mind, but the rest of my thoughts are taking a different turn. What if you seduced him? He says you can't go back. That you're stuck. What if, instead, you got what you wanted? Made him give in. Made him give you children. Made him give you something you want instead of only taking, and taking.

I squirm again, grinding a little against the thick ridge that's now digging into my spine. Salvatore groans again, sleepily, his hand sliding up my ribs, almost to the curve of my breast beneath my tank top. I feel a warm ache between my legs, and I twist, my hand slipping between us to stroke the shape of his cock through the soft pants he wore to bed.

Salvatore's eyes flick open. For a moment, he doesn't react, the only response is his cock twitching against my palm, pushing forward eagerly at my touch. And then he seems to come fully awake, pulling away from me as the hand beneath my breast slides down and grips my waist to keep me from coming closer.

"Enough, Gia," he growls, his voice still rusty with sleep, and sits up near the opposite side of the bed.

My frustration is immediate. "You're really going to keep doing this? Even when I act like I want it?"

Salvatore narrows his eyes at me. "I'm figuring you out more quickly than I think you would like, Gia. For instance, I know exactly what you're doing."

"What's that?" I cross my arms under my chest, and I see his eyes flick to my breasts for a split second before they return to my face. He shakes his head, getting up.

"I'm not arguing with you five minutes after I wake up. Not even that, for god's sake." Salvatore runs a hand through his hair. "I'm going to take a shower."

I clench my teeth, watching him walk to the bathroom. His cock is pushing against the front of his button fly, and I catch a glimpse of the thick shaft through the gap in the fabric. He's huge, and I feel a momentary flicker of fear, but not enough to stop.

If he's going to insist on being my husband, then he's going to act like my fucking husband.I seethe for just a moment, watching as Salvatore disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the hot spray of the shower, before I fling back the blankets and stalk after him.

I throw open the door, ready to continue our fight—and freeze in my tracks.

Salvatore's black sleep pants are hitched down around his sharp hipbones, that deep cut of muscle mouthwateringly visible on either side of his thick, hard cock.

Which is currently in his hand, his fist sliding feverishly along it as he grips the counter with his other hand hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

It takes a moment for my anger to catch up. I've never seen this much of a man before. Salvatore didn't take off more than his shirt on our wedding night. Didn't take off so much as a stitch of clothing yesterday, while he made me watch him finger me. I stare at his cock for a moment, taking in the size of it, the vein throbbing along the top, the swollen head dripping pre-cum as he strokes. My mouth feels dry, that ache pulsing between my legs. I want him. I want him to fuck me, and he's in here jerking off.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I snap, and Salvatore jerks backward like he's been struck, letting go of his cock abruptly. It juts out between his thighs, and my curiosity is almost unbearable. I want to touch him. I want to taste him. I want to find out every forbidden thing that I've fantasized about for so long. "Why won't you enjoy your wife? I was squirming up against you five minutes ago, but instead, you're in here masturbating?" I can hear how angry I am in every word, and I can see in Salvatore's face that he can, too.

His jaw is tight. He reaches down, yanking his pants up over his throbbing erection, and I can see the frustration in his eyes. His hand is damp with his arousal, and he glares at me. "Mafia marriages aren't about desire," he grinds out. "They're about duty. I will get to my duty of fucking you and getting an heir when I'm good and damn well ready, Gia. And until then, I'll handle my desire as I see fit. Leave."

It's an order. And I've never been very good at obeying those.

I cross my arms, glaring back at him. "Come back in the bedroom and fuck your wife, then."

"No." Salvatore's teeth grind together. "Get out, Gia. You've been spoiled all your life by being given exactly what you wanted, and it would only have hurt you in the end. It's long past time all that changes."

"I'm not leaving." I tip my chin up. "Fine. Go ahead and finish. I'll watch."

The muscle in Salvatore's cheek ticks. "I want my privacy, wife."

"Like you gave me mine yesterday?" I glare at him. "Should I make you come while you watch?" I take a step towards him, my gaze flicking back to his thick erection, and Salvatore closes the distance between us.

For a second, I think he's going to give in. I have a vivid vision of him sitting me on the edge of the counter, bending me over it, pushing me up against the wall. None of those are particularly comfortable places to have sex for the first time, I imagine, but with adrenaline filling my veins, the strange eroticism of our fight thickening the air between us, I'm not sure I care.

But instead, he grabs me by the shoulders, and backs me out of the room. "You are my wife now," he grinds out, his gaze dark with frustrated rage. "You will listen to me. You will obey me. And right now, I am telling you that you will leave me alone right now. You will get dressed, and go down to breakfast, and I will meet you downstairs. You will not argue with me. You will not continue to piss me off before I've even had my goddamn coffee, Gia!"

I feel myself starting to tremble, fear trickling through my veins, beginning to replace the desire. Cooling off the heat a little, though not all the way. I look up at him, refusing to show that fear.

"And what are you going to do?" I ask, sickly sweet, and Salvatore glares down at me.

"I'm going to shower. I'm going to jerk off while I do it. And you're going to leave me be until I'm ready to deal with you again."

"And if I follow you in there? What are you going to do about it?" I snip, and Salvatore shakes me hard, once.

"You don't want to find out."

His voice is cold and hard, and the fear is suddenly like ice, skittering down my spine. I suck in a breath, my eyes widening, and Salvatore seems to realize he's gone too far.

He lets go of me, taking a step back. "Just leave me be for a little while, Gia," he manages, his voice tight.

And then he turns sharply, disappearing back into the bathroom, the door locked behind him.

Breakfast is cold and silent. I pick at my oatmeal, studded with dried fruits, sipping at the coffee next to it. Salvatore doesn't say a word until he's finished his eggs and sausage, and then he stands up, putting his phone in my pocket. "I'm leaving for the day," he says brusquely. "Business meetings. Don't bother trying to run, Gia. It's not worth your efforts, and I'll know."

My heart sinks. I can hear the cold finality in his voice, and I know he's not bluffing. He looks at me, and his expression is so hard that I briefly don't recognize him.

"I know you don't believe me," he says calmly. "But the Bratva don't want you back for the reasons you think. Neither does Pyotr. And if you were to escape, you would regret it. I promise you that."

He strides towards the door, leaving without a backward glance. And it takes me a moment to realize that he didn't say whether the Bratva would make me regret it—or if he would.

—

The morning passes in a frustrated haze. I do my best to avoid the staff—Frances still wants answers about what to cook, Agatha wants to fill me in on more of how the household works, and Leah is probably bored out of her mind with nothing that I really need her to do—and I don't want to deal with any of them. I lock myself in the workout room and do Pilates until I'm breathless and sweating, the memory of Salvatore in here with me yesterday still burning in the back of my mind. I go upstairs to the bedroom afterward and make myself come, trying to ease the frustration, and take a shower.

I still have most of the day left. I could settle in somewhere and read, but my focus feels fractured. I keep thinking about how angry Salvatore was this morning, how cold he was when he left. I want him to hurt as much as I do, to be frustrated and miserable with his choice, but it's just now occurring to me that I could put myself in danger that way.

Salvatore says he wants to protect me. That his only goal is my safety. But he's also a man—a dangerous one, at that. My father's enforcer. Once upon a time, a mafia soldier. And he's my husband. According to every tradition that matters in our world, I belong to him. He can do as he pleases with me.

A shiver runs over my skin. It didn't occur to me that I might have cause to fear him. It gives me pause, just for a moment—but I'm still so angry that I'm not entirely sure if I care. A part of me wants to make him lash out, just so I can throw it in his face. So I can point out that he forced me to marry him to ‘save' me from the supposed Bratva threat, and yet he's the one hurting me.

But he hasn't hurt me yet. Not really. He's just frightened me a little.

I flop back onto the bed after my shower, wearing nothing but my panties, wondering what to do with the rest of my day. It's a warm late spring afternoon, and I'm considering putting on a bikini and going down to the pool when a knock comes at the bedroom door.

"Who is it?" I call out, half-hoping it's Salvatore, come back early. If he walked in and found me like this, it would make it all too easy to torment him further. But on the other hand, I don't think he'd knock.

"It's Leah, ma'am." Her voice is timid. "There was a delivery for you."

Thatpiques my interest. I have no idea who might have sent me something, but a small part of me hopes that it might be a gift from Pyotr. Something to remind me that he hasn't forgotten about me, that he still intends to get me back. To give me hope that Salvatore isn't telling me the truth about the Bratva's disregard for me now that I'm no longer a means to a treaty.

Pyotr loves me. I know he does.I know mafia marriages aren't typically made for love, but ours was different. That's why my father arranged it in the first place. He knew it was different, and he wanted that for me. A love like he had, when my mother was alive. What my marriage would have flowered into, if Salvatore hadn't stolen all of that away from me.

"Ma'am?" Leah's voice comes through the door again, and I grab my robe, throwing it on and belting it.

"Come in," I call out, and the doors open a moment later. I catch a glimpse of the curious look on Leah's face as she sees me in my robe in the middle of the afternoon, but my attention is quickly diverted by what she's holding in her arms.

It's a long, black matte box decorated with a wide black ribbon, a narrower box stacked atop it. "This came for you," she says, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. "Where should I put it?"

"Um—you can set it on the bed." I get up, moving out of her way, and Leah quickly deposits it where I was sitting. "Thanks."

Leah pauses. "Is there anything else you need, ma'am?"

"No. You can just call me Gia," I offer. "‘Ma'am' makes me feel very old."

She raises an eyebrow. "Alright," she says simply, and I resist the urge to let out a frustrated huff. At least Claire and I were friendly with each other. But Leah is stiff and formal, clearly unwilling or unable to try to be friendly. I wonder if it's how Salvatore has always run the house—but I've seen that Frances and Agatha are more at ease around him.

Maybe they all just don't like me.The thought irritates me, because I don't want to be here any more than they seem to want me here. It's not my choice.

"You can go," I tell her, my curiosity over what might be in the boxes overriding everything else. I'm still hoping it's something from Pyotr, and as soon as Leah leaves and closes the door behind her, I slide the ribbon off of the larger box and open it.

When I lift the lid, I see sheets of silvery tissue paper, a thin cream-colored card atop it. I open the card, and immediately see Salvatore's name in thick script.

My heart sinks a little. Not something from Pyotr, then. But I'm still curious, and I read the note, wondering what possessed Salvatore to send me a gift.

I believe our argument this morning got out of hand, Gia. I want to make it up to you. Inside is a gift that I hope you will wear tonight. I'll be home at seven, with plans to take you out to dinner.

–Salvatore

I bite my lip, more than a little confused. He was angry with me this morning, and cold, but he seems to regret it now. He wants to take me out to dinner—for what purpose? To soften me? To make me happier? I don't know what to make of it, but I lift the tissue paper, looking at what's beneath it.

It's a beautiful black silk evening dress. When I lift it out of the box, the silk slithers expensively through my fingers, and I can't help but be impressed by his choice. It's fitted through the waist and hip, splitting mid-thigh and spilling open from there. It has a sweetheart neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves, and I can tell by looking at it that it's exactly my size. Next to it is a flat velvet box, and my heart flutters despite myself as I reach for it.

I've always loved beautiful things. I can't help it. I love gorgeous dresses and jewelry. I love things that make me feel good—luxurious toiletries, flowers, sweets. I bristle a little, thinking it, because I can only imagine what Salvatore would have to say about that—that I'm spoiled, that I've been indulged too much with things like that in my life. But for whatever reason, he's decided to be the one who indulges me today.

When I open the box, a set of diamond jewelry twinkles up at me. A pair of round diamond studs, surrounded by smaller onyx stones in a halo, and a delicate white-gold bracelet with alternating diamonds and onyx. It's beautiful, glimmering in the light coming in through the balcony doors. I reach excitedly for the other box, sure that it contains shoes to match.

It does. Sleek, black, and high-heeled, with the signature red-bottomed soles. I look at the outfit, and a small flicker of excitement tingles over my skin. The outfit is beautiful—seductive, even, and I wonder if Salvatore is setting it up for tonight to be the night that he finishes consummating our marriage. If he thought about what happened this morning, and has decided that he needs to finish his duties.

I press my lips together at the thought, a tangle of confusing emotions battling for supremacy. There's curiosity and a little excitement for what tonight might have in store, resentment at being considered someone's duty, and mingled fear and confusion over the possibility of tonight being the night.

Do I want this? Do I not? Ultimately, I know it's not up to me to decide. But I'm no longer entirely certain what I feel. I want to go back to Pyotr, but if that's truly not a possibility?—

The memory of just Salvatore's hands on me makes me shiver. He's like a different man when he surrenders to his desire, one that makes me wonder what other things he could show me. Teach me. What other pleasures I'm unaware of that he has to offer.

I could fight him on it. I could refuse to put on the dress, refuse to go out tonight, dig in my heels, and remain stubbornly uncooperative with every little thing. But I suspect he wants to talk to me about something over this dinner, and a small part of me is curious as to what it might be.

So, an hour before he said he'd be home, I get ready.

The dress fits perfectly. It slides over my body, clinging in all the right places, the off-shoulder neckline framing my sharp collarbones in a way that I know looks enticing. I style my hair loose, curling it so that it falls down my back and over my shoulders in thick waves, and do my makeup lightly—a thin cat eye and a red lip. The entire effect, paired with the black heels and the diamond and onyx jewelry, is darkly seductive.

When I walk downstairs, precisely at seven, Salvatore is in the entryway waiting for me. He's talking to Agatha, saying something quietly enough that I can't hear it, and when my heels click on the wooden steps, he looks up instantly.

For a brief moment, before he has a chance to control his expression, I see the stunned desire on his face. His gaze sweeps over me, taking it all in, and my pulse leaps in my throat. For that moment, I forget how I feel about all of this, too. The heat in his eyes draws me in, the look of frank appreciation on his face making me feel older, more confident, beautiful. He's seeing me as a different person than the girl he once knew. And it makes me feel good.

And then his face smooths, carefully blank again, and the moment passes.

Salvatore clears his throat. "I'm glad you were agreeable to a night out," he says as I reach the bottom of the stairs, offering me his arm. "I thought you might argue, to be honest."

And just like that, I feel the frostiness between us grow again.

"I'm not difficult about everything," I murmur tightly under my breath. "You just feel that way because you demand everything."

Salvatore frowns, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he leads me out of the house and down the front steps, to where the car is waiting. The driver opens the door for us and I slide in, my heartbeat picking up pace as I remember the last time I was in Salvatore's car.

Only a few days ago, on my wedding day. I'd been angry and scared and confused, fighting back with everything in me, like a cornered, snarling cat. It hasn't been long enough for me not to immediately feel all of that again, my stomach tightening with the reminder of how different everything was supposed to be.

Salvatore picks up on my mood instantly, as soon as he gets into the car. "If you were going to be cold the entire night, you could have just said no," he says wryly, looking at me from the seat opposite mine. "You didn't have to agree, and then ice me out all night."

"Would you have let me say no?" I lean back against the cool leather seat, resisting the urge to fidget. Instead, I cross my arms beneath my breasts, feeling the silk slide against my forearms. "I wasn't under the impression I got a choice in any of this."

"You have choices, Gia. You can choose how you react to your circumstances. I thought when you came down the stairs, wearing what I picked out for you, that you'd chosen a different tactic for tonight. But it seems I was wrong."

"Where are we going?" I change the subject, unwilling to go back and forth on the subject of how much choice I have. "I assume dinner, based on the time."

"Correct." There's a hint of dry humor in Salvatore's voice. "Among my many business ventures, I own a restaurant in Little Italy—one that I think you'll find quite nice. I've directed my staff to close tonight, so that we'll have it to ourselves."

"Giving up a whole evening of profit, just to have dinner with me?" I raise an eyebrow. "I didn't realize I was worth so much to you."

"I think you'll find I have no shortage of wealth," Salvatore says dryly. "But I am looking forward to an evening alone with you, Gia, away from home, and just the two of us. I think we could benefit from a civil discussion over delicious food."

He emphasizes the civil, and I don't miss the pointed way he says it. He expects me to behave, but I have every intention of saying and doing what I please. It's the only freedom I have left, in this new life that Salvatore has chosen for us.

"We'll see about that," I murmur, looking out of the window at the shadowed treeline, the driver taking us from the outskirts of the city to downtown.

It's only been a few weeks since I was in the city, but with so much having happened, it feels like an eternity. I feel my chest tighten with excitement as the lights come into view, the skyline glittering in the dark as the driver turns into the tunnel and drives through it, out into the traffic-clogged streets.

It takes us another half-hour to get through traffic and to the line of businesses, shops, and restaurants where Salvatore's is located. The car pulls up in front of a tall brick building, and comes to a stop, Salvatore opening the door and holding it for me as I slide out. Warm yellow light spills out from the low windows of the restaurant, and Salvatore offers me his arm once again. Unthinkingly, I take it, suddenly curious. I had expected a more modern, fancier place, but this has a sort of rustic charm that feels enticing even from the outside.

When Salvatore opens the black wooden door and leads me in, I'm immediately struck by the scent of mouth-watering food. Fried garlic, rich olive oil, the fresh scent of tomatoes and basil—I can smell all of it wafting from the kitchen, and I feel my stomach clench with anticipation.

"The chef is excellent," Salvatore says, and I can see from the small half-smile on the edge of his mouth that he noticed my reaction. "This way, Gia."

The interior of the restaurant is beautiful. Worn brick walls, a large fireplace at one side, small black tables with matching chairs, and dark wooden booths with soft-looking black leather seats at the other. Further back, there's an area with tables more spaced out, in view of the kitchen, and Salvatore leads me there.

"This restaurant was a concept that I designed myself," he says casually, as he pulls out a chair for me. "The kind of comfortable, rustic atmosphere that you'd get in a restaurant in Italy, with warm textures and old-fashioned decor, but with the very highest quality food. All imported and prepared by an expert chef." He moves to sit opposite me at the table, and I look for a menu. "The dishes have already been selected—Emil said he wanted to design the menu tonight for us himself."

Another thing chosen for me.I start to bristle, and Salvatore lets out a small sigh. "It's meant to be a pleasant night out for us, Gia. Can you try to see it as that, maybe?"

I press my lips together. "Why?" I give him a challenging look. "Why do you care? You married me—according to you, Pyotr can no longer have me. I'm confined to your house and estate—according to you, the Bratva can't possibly get to me there. Your only goal in all of this was to prevent the Bratva marriage and ‘protect' me. So why bother with all of this?" I wave a hand, indicating the restaurant around us, the kitchen where the food is being prepared. "What's the point?"

Salvatore looks at me, and I can see a glimmer of frustration in his eyes, but he appears to try to rein it back in. "Normally, we would have had a honeymoon, Gia. But the circumstances of our marriage have made it too dangerous for us to do anything like that. And beyond that—" He lets out a slow breath, and I see him briefly frown, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "I frightened you this morning," he says simply. "I'm sorry for that. I was frustrated, but it doesn't excuse my handling you roughly, or shouting at you. That's not the way I want to behave as your husband, and it doesn't befit my reasoning for marrying you in the first place—which was to protect you."

It's very close to what I was thinking, after he left this morning. I nod slowly, feeling a little caught off balance by his admission, and his apology. It's touching—more so than I want to admit. I don't want to let him see that he's made me feel something other than hateful anger towards him.

"We're both on edge," I start to say. "But?—"

"It doesn't need to be that way." Salvatore sits back as a waiter dressed in all black brings a bottle of red wine and a plate of assorted charcuterie, pouring us each half a glass and then melting away into the background. "We can find a way to live happily, Gia, if?—"

"You're wrong." I cut him off abruptly, refusing to allow my walls to lower enough to even consider what he's saying. "You cheated me out of both my chosen husband and my wedding night. You cheated me out of the marriage that I wanted. And, as you've pointed out, you cheated me out of a honeymoon. Pyotr and I—" I break off abruptly, because Pyotr and I never actually discussed plans for a honeymoon. But that doesn't matter. I'm sure that he had something planned, some surprise that I would have discovered the next morning, when he whisked me off to whatever destination he had in mind. "I don't even think that was the right call," I add haughtily, reaching for a piece of cheese. "Leaving the country might have been safer, if the Bratva really are such a threat."

I say the last sarcastically, still not believing that Salvatore has any real reason to think that the Bratva wants to harm me, only a desire to make me think that he needed to save me. But instead of replying sharply, Salvatore goes quiet, appearing to think for a moment as he reaches for his wine and dips a piece of bread into the herbed olive oil that the waiter brought.

"Why do you feel that way?" He looks at me curiously. "That it would have been safer to leave the country."

"If this Bratva threat is real, then wouldn't it be better to get me as far away from them as possible?" I make sure he can hear the doubt in my voice, that I don't really believe any of this. "They're going to know you took me home. Where I am. And maybe your mansion is difficult for them to attack, but that's what they're going to be planning for." I shrug. "But of course, I'm sure you know best." My tone is sickly sweet, but there's not a hint of actual affection in it.

To my surprise, Salvatore still appears to be thinking. "Maybe you're right," he says slowly. "My instinct was to put you behind a high fence and thick walls, with a heavy guard, and simply make it impossible to get to you. But maybe it would be better to take you somewhere else entirely, until I've managed to smooth this over."

Shit. I realize that, inadvertently, I've potentially given Salvatore a reason to take me even further from Pyotr's reach. I wanted to argue with him, but I argued a little too well.

He's listening to you, though.I can't help but feel myself soften, just a little. For the first time, Salvatore isn't dismissing my opinion or ignoring it. He seems to actually be taking what I'm thinking into consideration.

If Pyotr really wanted you back, wouldn't he have tried again? Wouldn't he have demanded you back from Salvatore?I bite my lip, wondering if he has, and I just don't know about it. I wouldn't be surprised if Salvatore simply didn't tell me.

"Has Pyotr tried to meet with you?" I ask suddenly, as the first course is taken away and the second brought to us—a Caprese salad with thinly sliced circles of mozzarella, fresh tomatoes, and basil arranged artfully on a patterned china plate. "Has he tried to bargain for me back?"

Something almost like sympathy glimmers in Salvatore's expression, and I feel a stab of anger in response. I don't want pity. I don't want him to feel sorry for me. He shakes his head slowly. "The communications from the Bratva are threats of violence, Gia. Pyotr is not bargaining for your return. If they want you, it's not for marriage. Pyotr has no intention of taking your hand any longer."

My chest tightens painfully. "I don't believe you." My voice cracks the tiniest bit, and I clench my teeth, hating it. I don't want Salvatore to see my hurt, my weakness. I want him to regret what he did, but I don't want him to see how fragile my heart feels right now. "You wouldn't tell me even if he did. You wouldn't want me to hope that he'll come for me. You want me to believe your lies about him, about the Bratva?—"

Salvatore runs a hand through his hair. "Can we go even one meal without this argument, Gia? We're at an impasse. I know the truth—both about the Bratva and why I married you instead of allowing Pyotr to have you. You refuse to believe me, and I truly don't know what proof would change your mind, short of handing you over to them and letting you experience their cruelties first-hand. And that, of course, is not something I'm willing to do. I married you to spare you what your future with them would be."

"What future would that have been?" I spear a bit of the salad delicately, lifting it to my lips and following it with the wine. I watch Salvatore's eyes flick to my mouth, and I resist the urge to moan at the flavor that rolls over my tongue. Rich and salty and sweet all at once, it's some of the best food I've ever tasted. I can't wait to see what the rest of the meal has in store—but I'm not about to let Salvatore know that. I don't want him to know that I'm enjoying any of this.

"I'm not going to go into details, Gia," Salvatore says sharply. "I refuse to sit here, over a dinner that was meant to be a pleasant evening for us both, and regale you with horror stories of the Bratva's cruelty. Of the things your supposed love might have done to you. Of the things they would do to you now, if they got their hands on you. The example that they would make of you, to hurt me." His mouth tightens, and I see real anger blaze in his eyes for a moment. It makes my stomach tighten, cold flickering through my veins.

I don't believe him. I don't. All of my feelings about this marriage are predicated on the idea that Salvatore stole me for himself, because he coveted his best friend's daughter. That the Bratva threat is overblown, even a flat-out lie, to cover for what he's done. That without his interference, the marriage treaty would have gone off without a hitch, and I would currently be a blissful bride, loved up in Pyotr's penthouse as we discovered all the secrets of wedded happiness together.

But either Salvatore is the best liar in the world—or he truly believes what he's saying. I might be innocent and a little naive, sheltered by my father, but I'm not stupid. There's no artifice in his face or in his voice. His expression is hard, cold, his voice sharp, his eyes full of anger at the thought of what could happen to me. And it's the possibility that the latter is true—that he really believes I was threatened by the arrangement—that sends ice crackling through my veins.

What if it is true?

The thought is awful. It makes me set my fork down, swallowing hard as I dab my lips with my napkin and try to hide what I'm thinking from Salvatore. If what Salvatore is saying is true—if the Bratva would have hurt me, if they want to hurt me now, if all of this was a ploy—then it shifts my entire world on its axis. If that is all true, then Pyotr never loved me. All of our romantic afternoons together, the whispers and promises and fantasies, were lies. If it's true, then my father was a fool for making the treaty, not a crafty diplomat. And if it's true, then Salvatore really did save me from a terrible future, instead of stealing me away and ruining my life.

I'm not ready to face that. I can't. Just the thought of everything shifting so dramatically makes me shudder, a panicked feeling flooding through me. I'm only just recovering from the grief of losing my father. I can't deal with my world being rocked so thoroughly all over again.

I have to cling to what I've believed all along.

Across from me, Salvatore lets out a slow breath. "I want to shelter you from all of this unpleasantness, Gia," he says finally. "I would like to make it so that you can simply be happy, without fearing the complications of the Bratva or dealing with the knowledge of our current negotiations." He holds up a hand before I can say anything, his eyes narrowing. "Don't say that you can't be happy, on account of all of the nefarious ways I've ruined your life. I've heard that speech enough to have memorized it by now, Gia, so I think we can accept that I've heard you, and understand your position, even if I disagree with it."

He pauses as the server brings the next course—a veal bolognese in an elegant white serving bowl—and spoons it onto a plate for each of us. A new vintage of wine is poured, and Salvatore waits until the server has walked away before he looks at me, reaching for his wine.

"So where does that leave us?" I ask quietly. "You say you understand, but it doesn't change anything. I'm still your wife, and not his. I'm still trapped in your mansion, instead of living in a Bratva penthouse. I'm still—" I start to say a virgin, but my cheeks heat a little as I wonder just how true that is. I am in the most technical sense, but after some of the things Salvatore has made me feel—and some of the thoughts I've had—I don't feel very virginal.

Salvatore looks at me for a long moment. He's set his fork down, too, as if the conversation has also ruined his appetite, and I feel a small flicker of guilt. For all of the contention in our brief marriage, it does seem as if he tried to do something nice. Like this dinner really was planned to give us a chance to talk on neutral ground. I think of the dress and jewelry that he sent today, the carefully curated meal, all of which I saw as a more high-handed means of choosing things for me.

Or, alternatively, he's trying to spoil me. To make up for the situation. Designer clothes, jewels, a five-star meal put together by a private chef. That's another way to look at it—a nicer way.

But that might be giving him too much credit. Don't let it soften you too much, I warn myself. It doesn't change what he's done.

"Where does it leave us," Salvatore repeats the sentence carefully, reaching for his fork as I take a bite of my food. The noodles are butter-soft, the veal rich and perfectly spiced, the sauce full of flavor. It's exquisite, all of it, and I reach for my wine, trying not to let myself soften too much. This could be a perfect night, if I wanted it to be. The temptation is there, to accept my circumstances. I don't like being unhappy. I don't want to be angry.

"You might be right about a honeymoon," he continues. "Perhaps it would be a good thing, for us to get away. After all, it's not as if I don't have a means of handling things here, even from a distance. It could be good, to put space between you and the Bratva. And perhaps some time alone, elsewhere, could put us on better terms."

My immediate instinct is to lash out, to tell him that we'll never be on ‘better terms,' not when he's undone my life so completely. But I wonder, as I twirl another bite of the bolognese around my fork, whether or not that's true.

He listened to me.He could have refused the idea altogether, just because I was the one who proposed it. He could have dismissed it as my being silly and spoiled, wanting a honeymoon for a marriage I've bucked against. But he took me seriously instead. Maybe it isn't all bad.

I push the thought away as quickly as it enters my mind. I can't afford to let myself soften towards Salvatore now. Because I only have two options. Either he's telling me the truth, and everything since my father arranged the marriage for me has been a lie—not an intentional one on my father's part, but on Pyotr's—or Salvatore is the one who's lying, to make me feel exactly what I am right now. To make me trust him, believe him, that all of this—tonight, the possibility of a honeymoon, his willingness to consider what I'm saying—is the truth.

It's easier to believe that Salvatore is a selfish man who stole me for his own desires than to believe that my father was tricked by the Bratva, and that all his efforts to do right by me would have only ended up hurting me in the end. So that's what I cling to, pushing the small voice that wonders otherwise to the back of my mind.

Salvatore finishes his food, sitting back in his chair as the server comes to take away the plates. "You're not arguing with me," he points out, and I force myself to smile, to paint that mocking, taunting curve on my lips that I know he's expecting from me right now. I don't want him to see how conflicted I am.

"Why would a girl argue about a honeymoon?" I tilt my head. "I've never been out of the country before. I wouldn't say no to that. Or to a luxury hotel, or five-star meals?—"

"I get the idea, Gia," Salvatore says dryly. "I'll plan the trip, then. We'll leave in two days, if you have no objections?" The tone of his voice implies that he expects me to object, on principle, if nothing else, but I don't.

The trip will take me further from Pyotr, it's true—but a part of me wants to get away from all of this. From the grief of losing my father, the shock of my altered marriage plans, the loss of what I'd planned for my life. I don't think Salvatore's mind will be changed on this, now that he's agreed—and if I do argue, he'd likely say I'm being contentious on purpose and use it to discredit any argument I make in the future. So, I see no point in trying.

Maybe going somewhere new will help me heal from all of this. And if Pyotr really loves me, I reason, nothing will stop him from getting me back.

If he doesn't, then none of this matters anyway.

"I need to go shopping." I toy with my dessert fork as the server delivers an artfully plated piece of tiramisu, setting it between us. "I'll need some new clothes for the trip. New bikinis. I assume we're going somewhere tropical?"

Salvatore chuckles, a rare moment of humor appearing on his normally stern face. "I think I'd enjoy some sun and heat as well. Early spring here can't exactly be depended on to be comfortably warm."

"When was the last time you took a vacation?" The question comes out before I realize it. I didn't mean to ask him something personal—to sound like I actually give a shit. But as the words slip out, I realize something else.

I am actually curious.

I've known this man my whole life—in the sense that he's always been there, on the fringes of it. My father's best friend, his voice, his right hand. Before my father died, I saw Salvatore often in passing—at dinners where I was excused after the dessert course, before the men really started talking—as he was leaving the house after meetings with my father, at christenings and weddings and funerals, every event my father was ever required to go to that was also appropriate for me to attend. I've spoken to him casually a thousand times over the course of my life—a hello, a goodbye, a how are you? But before this, before my father died, he was never anyone of any consequence to me. I never thought of him as a person, only as a fixture in my father's life.

Like the bar cabinet in the living room, or a comfortable sofa.

But then my father died, and he became my guardian. And now, he's my husband.

He's no longer a silent fixture. He's a living, breathing, flesh and blood man. A man who is meant to share every intimate facet of my life.

And I truly have no idea who he is.

Salvatore considers my question, as if it's something serious, rather than what could conceivably be considered small talk. "I've never been on a vacation," he says finally, and my head snaps up, my eyes narrowing.

"What do you mean?"

"It's a simple statement." His mouth twitches, a little of that rare humor glimmering through again. If I didn't know better, I'd think I actually amused him.

"I don't like being laughed at," I sniff, dipping the tines of my dessert fork into the creamy, spongy slice of tiramisu on my plate. "Forget I asked."

Salvatore lets out a slow breath. "Your father was not a man who took vacations. Or rather, not in the sense of what you would likely think of one. I told you we went fishing together, in upstate New York, once a year."

I raise an eyebrow, trying not to wrinkle my nose. "That's not a vacation."

Salvatore laughs quietly, and I can feel the tension dissipating between us a little. He takes a bite of his dessert, and I become aware of the crackle of the fireplace on the other side of the room, the warm, low light, the intimacy of the moment. Look at us, I think grimly, my gaze fixed on the handsome older man across from me. Having a conversation like a normal couple. Not a hint of an argument in sight right now.

"Like I said." He takes another bite. "Not your idea of a vacation. But Enzo was never comfortable going too far from you for long. And he worried about taking you somewhere. He feared something would happen to you." He hesitates, and I wonder what he isn't saying.

If he's thinking of the threat he believes the Bratva poses, what he thinks my father almost unintentionally handed me over to, and not saying it because he doesn't want to fight with me again.

"He thought taking me on a vacation would endanger me?" I frown, reaching for the small glass of port that the server brought. I've had more wine with this dinner than I think I've ever had in my life, and my head feels a little fuzzy. "That doesn't really make sense." I had always wondered, though, why we always stayed so close to home. All of my friends have been on tours of Europe with their families, to other places in the States, often going on summer trips to Sicily. But my father never went to any of those Family summits, or took me anywhere at all. I assumed he was a homebody, but I know he could have afforded to take us anywhere he wanted.

Salvatore lets out a slow breath, his brow furrowing as if he's deciding what he wants to say, and how. "There's a lot you don't know about your father, Gia."

I stiffen at that. "I knew my father perfectly well."

"That's not what I'm saying." He holds up his hands, as if to stave off whatever barbed words I might fling at him. "I'm not saying your father was someone totally different, or you never really knew him, or trying to chip at your bond in any way. Alright?"

I feel a small flush on the high points of my cheekbones. Maybe that was a little out of line. "Alright," I reply calmly, and I see the slightest flicker of surprise on Salvatore's face, there so quickly that I almost miss it before it's gone.

"I've never been a father—to my knowledge," he adds, a wry twist to his mouth that sends an odd flush of jealousy through me. For some reason, even though I know Salvatore has been in bed with other women—he's forty-something, for god's sake—I don't like hearing it, or thinking about the reality of it. Especially not when he gets me free and clear, without a man ever having done more than briefly touch me before. "But I expect there's things that all fathers try to hide from their children. Things they see as weakness, maybe. I expect if I had a child, I'd want them to see me as strong. Unshakeable. Someone not prone to the weaknesses of other men."

I frown, trying to understand what he's saying as he continues. I never thought of my father as weak. And I certainly don't see anything weak about Salvatore.

"Your father loved your mother very much. It was a rare love match. He was inconsolable when he lost her, although he tried to hide it. And he was so afraid of losing you in some way. He coddled you, sheltered you, because you were all he had left of her. And he was hesitant to take you anywhere, to expose you to any danger. A car accident, a plane crash. An enemy who marked you as a target. A mugging gone wrong. Any of the ordinary dangers of life, and the inordinate ones that come with the life we live. He wanted to keep you as sheltered from it as possible. And that meant keeping you home, where nothing could happen to you."

Salvatore takes a deep breath, and I get the feeling that he's watching my face keenly, looking for my reaction. "I think maybe it's time to change that. The danger is as much at home as anywhere else now. And I think it would do us both good to have a change of scenery."

I can't think of what to say. I feel like I'm still absorbing everything he's just said to me.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Gia," Salvatore says quietly, and I look up, meeting his eyes. He looks surprisingly—concerned, as if he genuinely is worried for me. "I don't want to make you think less of Enzo. I would never want that."

"I don't." I shake my head, finishing my port and setting the glass aside. "I could never think less of him. He was my father, and he was a good one. Maybe that wasn't the right way to handle it, but—I can understand it." I bite my lip. "I can't really imagine what it would be like to love someone that much. I hope I'll do things differently. But I can't fault what he did."

Something crosses Salvatore's face, an emotion I can't read, or maybe one I just don't recognize. He straightens, his expression smoothing, as he sets his cloth napkin on the table.

"As long as you take a considerable amount of security with you, you may go shopping tomorrow in the city," he says, his voice brusque and businesslike once again. All traces of softness and intimacy are gone, the momentary closeness evaporated, and a clear demarcation of space between us once again. "You can have my driver take you. Meet your friends, if you like."

I feel myself bristle at being told what I can do, at being given instructions and guidelines. I want to snap back, to tell him that I'll do as I please—but the truth is that I can't. If I refuse his rules, I simply won't be able to go. And that chafes at me, too. It chases away the brief softness I felt towards him, reminding me of the imbalance of power between us. I'm not his equal, or his partner. I'm his duty. His responsibility. I might be his wife in the eyes of God and the law, but he won't treat me as anything other than one more thing to be managed and contained.

"Fine." I drop my napkin on the table, too. "Driver. Security. Whatever you say." The sarcasm is thick in my voice, and I know he hears it. His expression hardens, and he stands up, stiffly coming around to pull out my chair for me as I stand up.

Just like that, I feel the moment of possibility between us fade away, the room around us going cold as I'm snapped back into reality.