14. Gia

Salvatore is nowhere to be seen when I get home. I consider knocking on his office door, but I don't actually want to talk to him; I'm just curious as to whether he's even here. There's an hour until we would usually have dinner, but instead of changing clothes and heading down to the dining room just before seven to see if he's there, I go up to the bedroom instead.

Leah will bring up the rest of my shopping bags, but I grabbed the one with my books. I slip out of my jeans and cardigan, leaving my clothes in a pile on the bed, and go to draw a hot bath.

If Salvatore wants me to come down for dinner, he can come find me. I'm not particularly hungry after the big lunch I had with my friends, and the last thing I want to do right now is sit primly at the dinner table and try to dance around an argument with him.

What I want is to escape. And since I can't do that physically, I do it with one of my books instead.

I sink down into the hot, almond oil-scented water, letting it close over me up to my collarbones, letting out a sigh as the heat sinks into my muscles. I reach for my book, feeling myself relax as I open it. I picked the vampire novel—a story about a reclusive vampire prince who falls in love with an ordinary human woman, instead of marrying a vampire princess. Despite everyone who tries to protect her from him, he sweeps her away anyway.

Romance novels have always been my guilty pleasure. Most of the ideas that I have about what happens in the bedroom come from them—something that Angelica has often pointed out would probably lead to disappointment in the end. But I didn't think that would be the case with Pyotr.

It hasn't been the case with Salvatore, either,that little voice in the back of my head whispers. Aside from the crushing disappointment when he left me alone on our wedding night, every time we've come close to being intimate has been?—

Stop it. I try to refocus on the page in front of me. I don't want to think about Salvatore, or his dextrous fingers, or the rasp of his voice in my ear as he urges me towards pleasure. I want to vanish into the pages of my book—or if I'm going to fantasize about anyone, I want it to be Pyotr.

I used to do that, before the wedding, while Pyotr and I were still courting. I'd lie in the bath, or in bed, reading a book and imagining Pyotr in the place of the hero. I'd close my eyes after a particularly good part, and replay it in my head—only I'd be in the place of the heroine, and Pyotr would be the one touching me, kissing me, making all those wild fantasies come true. I didn't even know if I actually wanted to do most of them, in real life. Some sounded better in theory than in reality. But the fantasy was always what was so good.

And I'd hoped that at least some of it could be a reality.

I try to think of Pyotr as I read. To imagine him storming the gates of Salvatore's mansion, intent on stealing me away and taking me back for himself. I try to imagine him gently pushing my hair behind my ear, looking down into my eyes, and whispering to me that it doesn't matter to him what's happened since we've been separated. That I'll always be the only one for him. That he would die to have me back in his arms.

But for the first time, it's hard for me to picture Pyotr's face. And as I read, suddenly it's Salvatore that slips into my mind.

Salvatore, shoving his way past startled wedding guests, his face hard and determined as he stormed up to the altar. Salvatore, facing down the Bratva pakhan as he put a stop to a marriage that he believed would hurt me.

Salvatore, holding my hand in his rougher one, looking down at me and swearing to protect me, ‘til death do us part.

And when I think hard enough about it, when I remember that moment without the veil of shock turning it to a haze, I don't think I remember seeing desire in his eyes.

What I remember is ferocity. Enough to stand up to an army of Bratva, if he had to, in order to make sure I walked out of that church with him instead.

What if I got this all wrong?I set the book down, closing my eyes. What if Salvatore was the one looking out for me all along?

I swallow hard, past the lump in my throat. This isn't my fantasy. This isn't what I had so carefully played out in my head.

But I'm not entirely sure that matters any longer.

When I'm finished with my bath, I put on soft, comfy clothes, and start packing. I could have Leah do it for me, but I'd rather do it myself and make sure that everything that comes with me is exactly what I want. I pack all of the things I bought with my friends today, as well as some of my other favorite clothes, and my toiletries. I pack my books, a few magazines, and anything else that I think I might need in order to keep busy while we're there. I have no idea what Salvatore's plans are for the trip. For all I know, he might tell me I'm confined to the hotel room for my own safety, and then spend the entire trip handling business elsewhere. It's not outside the realm of possibility.

I keep wondering when he's going to come up to our bedroom. But an hour passes, and another, and another, until I'm done packing and I've gotten sleepy. I crawl into bed with my book, with no sign of Salvatore, as if he's avoiding me. It makes me wonder if he's changed his mind and decided to cancel the trip, and is just avoiding the inevitable fight that will go along with that decision.

I'll find out in the morning, one way or another. So I turn off the light, and go to sleep.

—

"Gia."

Salvatore's voice wakes me. It's morning—the light is filtering through the curtains of the bedroom, and when I glance over at the clock on the nightstand, it says it's eight in the morning. I rub a hand over my face, sitting up sleepily.

"What?"

He frowns. "The private jet leaves in three hours. Leah can take your things downstairs. Go ahead and get dressed, and meet me in the entryway in an hour and a half. She'll bring your breakfast up."

Everything he says is curt, brusque, without any emotion. I sit up fully, pushing my hair behind my ears. "Where were you last night?"

He ignores my question, as if I didn't say anything. "An hour and a half, Gia. Try not to be late."'

And then he turns on his heel, and strides out of the room.

I watch him go, frowning. There's none of the attempts at softness or intimacy from our dinner together the night before last. He's entirely closed off, and I'm not sure why.

A small suspicion wriggles its way into my head. What if he was with someone last night?

It's entirely possible. Mafia husbands aren't known for being faithful. Marriages like my parents' are the exception, not the rule. Most mafia men have mistresses on the side, girlfriends, or women at clubs that they go and visit when they want something exotic. Even as sheltered as I've been all my life, I'm aware of that.

It would be perfectly normal, in terms of what's acceptable in our world, for Salvatore to have someone on the side. In fact, most people—my friends included, most likely—would think I was the strange one for being upset about it. Mafia wives are supposed to accept that their husbands philander, as long as they're discreet and don't get other women pregnant.

I shouldn't be upset about it. I should be glad, if anything, that there's a possibility Salvatore is taking care of his needs elsewhere and leaving me alone. Leaving me still technically virginal enough to marry Pyotr, if Pyotr were to come and rescue me.

But the thought of Salvatore with someone else sends an irrational flood of jealousy through me, making my chest tighten and my stomach churn. I think of his hands on another woman, making her moan, his lips at her ear whispering the filthy, encouraging things he whispered to me in the workout room, calling her his good girl, and I grit my teeth, wanting to scream.

How dare he be with someone else, when he hasn't even finished the job with me?

I throw back the covers, striding to the closet to get dressed. I don't have any proof of it, but the suspicion worms deeper. He probably wanted to enjoy himself before being trapped for however long on a honeymoon with a wife that he apparently has no intention of fucking. But he doesn't know what's about to hit him. I think of the bikinis I picked out, some of the skimpy clothes, and I'm filled with fresh determination to make his part of this trip as difficult as possible.

I'm going to make it an utter misery for him to keep his hands off of me. I'm going to make sure he has to face exactly what he feels, and think about what he's done.

I throw on a blue and white sundress and a pair of flat sandals, put my hair up in a bun, and add a pair of rose gold and diamond hoop earrings. My luggage is all stacked neatly by the door, and a few minutes later, Leah knocks on the door and walks in with my breakfast tray.

I'm too excited to eat very much. For all my confusion and jealousy over Salvatore—which is also tying my stomach in knots—I'm going on a vacation overseas for the first time in my life, and the anticipation is driving me crazy. I pick at the muffin and yogurt that Leah brought up, sipping my coffee, until it's time to go down and meet Salvatore.

He's waiting in the entryway, as he promised. Unexpectedly, my heart stutters in my chest when I see him. He's talking to his head of security, and he looks different than normal, less buttoned-up. He's wearing dark grey chinos and a white linen shirt with the first few buttons undone, enough to show the soft dark hair on his muscled chest, a thin golden chain lying just below his collarbones. His dark hair looks thick and a little messy, and there's a shadow of dark stubble on his chin.

He looks more rugged than usual, a little dangerous, dark, and deadly. I feel heat bloom in my chest, radiating outwards, my pulse suddenly fluttering in my throat.

I swallow hard, telling myself it doesn't mean anything. But all the same, I brace myself not to let him see. I want to have the upper hand on this trip, not him. And if he knows I'm standing here with my heart racing just because he looks a little more undone than usual, I would be the one at a disadvantage.

The man Salvatore is talking to glances towards the stairs, and Salvatore stops mid-sentence, turning to look at me. For the briefest second, I think I see a look of frank appreciation on his face as his gaze sweeps over me, and then his expression shutters again.

"Right on time," he says evenly. "Perfect. The car is waiting outside."

I follow him out to the waiting SUV. I have no idea how much security is coming with us, but I have a feeling it's a decent bit. Ever since the wedding, I don't think we've gone anywhere without a full team of bodyguards.

My suspicions are confirmed when we get to the hangar. No fewer than twelve men in black cargos and t-shirts with guns on their hips get out of the SUVs that followed us, hanging back as mine and Salvatore's luggage are unpacked from the cars and taken to the plane. I follow Salvatore to the jet, my pulse suddenly fluttering with anticipation.

I've never been on a jet before. Never flown before. It's all new and exciting, and all of my frustrations and suspicions take a backseat as I follow Salvatore up the steps and into the interior of the jet, which smells of leather and lemon-scented cleaner, and the soft scent of flowers.

The interior of the jet is lovely. The seats are all smooth beige leather, with plenty of legroom, and burnished wooden tables between some of them. Along the wood-paneled walls, in intervals, are recessed vases with peonies and roses.

"Are the flowers for me?" I look at Salvatore innocently. I expect him to say no, that the jet is always decorated this way, and then he'll feel bad that I thought it was something more than it is. After all, this is supposed to be our honeymoon. But he just turns and looks at me, his expression still impassive. There's no flicker of emotion on his face, as if he's keeping his walls up just as strongly as I am.

"Of course," he says, startling me. "Normally, the jet is fairly austere. But this is our honeymoon, Gia. It should be a remarkable experience for you. Trust me, there's more to come." He pauses. "I noticed the flowers in your wedding bouquet. I asked the staff to decorate with those."

His tone is stiff, almost formal. But when he lays his broad hand on the small of my back, urging me forward to our seats, his skin feels hot through the thin layer of my dress. My pulse picks up again, and I swallow hard.

I feel more confused than ever.

Salvatore takes me towards the back of the jet, and sinks into one soft leather seat as I sit opposite him. There's a soft grey cashmere throw folded on the seat next to me, and I see, to my surprise, that there's a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket, two flutes waiting for us. Salvatore reaches for the bottle, popping the cork smoothly as I hear the low roar of the jet engines. In my peripheral vision, I can see his security settling in on the other end of the plane, more of them than I initially thought. No one is going to bother us on our honeymoon, that's for sure. I feel sorry for anyone who tries.

"To our time away," he says, pouring champagne into the flutes and handing me one. "You'll love it, Gia."

"Where are we going?" I tuck my legs under me, taking a small sip of the champagne.

"I think it's better as a surprise." Salvatore leans back in his chair. "It won't be all that long before we're there."

I can't read him very well—I don't know him well enough yet. I'm not sure if he's enjoying this being a surprise for me, or if it's just an easy way to avoid having to have a conversation. My suspicions from this morning well up again, and I glance at him, taking another sip of the champagne.

"Where were you last night?" I repeat my question from this morning, and Salvatore lets out a sharp breath.

"Can we enjoy this, Gia? Or do I need to account for where I am at all times with you?"

My heart thuds against my ribs. Why do I care so much? I don't really have an answer for that, but suddenly, I want to demand that he tell me what's going on.

"Were you with someone else? Is that why you don't want to tell me?"

Salvatore raises an eyebrow, a small smirk on the corner of his mouth. As if he's amused by the question. "Are you jealous?"

Now I'm getting angry. I press my lips together, glaring at him. "I'm your wife. I have the right?—"

"You don't, actually." Salvatore finishes his champagne, pouring another glass, this time with the focus usually reserved for actual liquor. As if he needs a drink to continue this conversation. "You're naive, Gia, but I think you're well aware that husbands in our world don't usually need to be accountable to their wives for what they do when they're not home."

"So you weren't home last night."

Salvatore fixes me with one of those long-suffering stares that I'm beginning to become irritatingly accustomed to. "I was," he says finally. "I was in my office, working. Is that enough for you?"

I swallow hard. I could have found out just by knocking on his door, as I'd suspected, but the truth is that I was avoiding him last night, too. "Okay." I finish my champagne and pour myself another glass, too. "You could have just said that from the start."

"And you could have not tried to start a fight." Salvatore reaches for his tablet, raising an eyebrow. "Is there anything else you'd like to argue about, Gia, or can I get some work done until lunch?"

I frown at him, but his attention has already diverted to his tablet. I have a feeling my initial suspicions were correct. He's mollifying me with the honeymoon, making his life easier by taking me far from the Bratva and Pyotr until the situation can be handled, and he'll simply ignore me as much as possible for the duration of our stay wherever it is that we're going.

After all, that's been what he's wanted since the wedding. To stash me somewhere and keep me out of the way so that he can keep going on with his life.

But I wanted a husband. A partner. A lover. That's what I was promised with Pyotr—what Pyotr and I promised each other.

It only deepens my resolve to make Salvatore regret taking that away from me, especially if he has no intention of providing it instead.

That frustration is tempered by excitement, as the jet takes off. I'm on the edge of my seat as we ascend into the air, my heart hammering with nervous enjoyment. I catch Salvatore watching me with what looks like amusement from over the top of his tablet, but even that can't dampen the fun that I'm having.

He comments on it when lunch is served—grilled chicken salads with gorgonzola and a berry vinaigrette, along with more champagne. "You're excited for this, aren't you? I hadn't expected you to be so thrilled about our honeymoon. Or being alone with me for so long."

"That's not why I'm excited." It comes out before I have a chance to think about it, my automatic biting reply, and I'm startled to see what looks like hurt cross his face for a split second. It's so fast that I'm not entirely sure it's really what I saw, but it seemed like it hurt his feelings.

My stomach unexpectedly twists, which brings me up short. I've enjoyed hurting Salvatore's feelings up to this point, tormenting him, and making everything as difficult as possible for him. I had planned to continue that. But I don't feel pleasure or gratification when I see that look on his face.

If anything, I feel a little bit bad.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I just meant that I'm excited about going somewhere new for the first time. And flying. And staying in a hotel. It's all new for me."

"Of course," Salvatore says mildly. "I wouldn't have expected you to be thrilled at just the prospect of time away with me."

His tone is neutral as he says it, but I suspect what I said cut deeper than I realized. And it brings up that doubt again that I felt last night, that feeling that maybe I've gotten this wrong. That maybe what I thought I knew isn't entirely correct.

I curl up under the cashmere blanket as the air-conditioning on the jet makes it a little chilly, putting in my earbuds and reading my book as the hours pass. I think I fall asleep for a little while, because before I know it, I'm woken by the sound of dinner being served—or the first course, at least.

Salvatore has a glass of cognac next to him now, and there's chilled white wine for me. I pour a glass—the champagne has worn off, and I wouldn't mind being a little buzzed for all of this. Any kind of alcohol has an effect on me, since I've only recently started drinking more.

On the table, there's caviar and crostini, as well as thin crackers with delicately folded prosciutto, soft cheese, a tiny jar of fig jam, and slices of salted cantaloupe. I glance up at Salvatore, who is setting his work aside in preparation to eat.

"This is an awfully fancy dinner to have in the air."

"I'm a billionaire, Gia," he says calmly, reaching for a crostini and the tiny spoon to spread caviar onto it. "You know that as well as I do. So nothing is too fancy."

I don't exactly believe him. Not about the billionaire part—I do know that's true. But the casualness with which he says it rings hollow. Salvatore is a man who ordinarily toes the line of austere—I don't believe for a second that it's his usual way to have caviar and expensive champagne on a jet. He told me just a couple of nights ago that he's never taken a vacation outside of fishing trips with my father. This jet didn't even belong to him until six months ago.

I think this is all for me. A display of something, although I'm not sure what. His ability to protect me and provide for me, maybe. A reminder that everything my father had, he entrusted to Salvatore after his death—except for me. And now Salvatore has taken it upon himself to have that, too.

The thought makes my throat close up, until I'm not sure I'll be able to eat. My first reaction, every time I'm reminded of that fact, is always anger. But with the doubts that have filtered in, this time, there's another thought, too.

If my father trusted Salvatore so much, enough to give him everything, then should I do the same? Should I trust that Salvatore's reasons were honorable, instead of looking for something illicit in everything he does when it comes to me?

I don't have answers, and the only person in the world I would have trusted unquestioningly to tell me is gone. I only have Salvatore now—and he's either my captor, or my savior. I know which one he wants to paint himself as.

I'm just not sure which one is the truth.

I've never had caviar before. It's salty and rich, as is the prosciutto, which pairs wonderfully with the sweetness of the soft cheese and jam. The entire first course is a study of those salty and sweet flavors, washed down by the cold, crisp white wine, and I focus on enjoying it. I love this kind of thing—good food and the pleasures of luxury. I've never been ashamed of it in the past, and I don't intend to start now.

The rest of the meal is equally delicious. The first course is followed by a Caesar salad, and then by delicately cooked salmon in a buttery lemon-blueberry sauce, with roasted potatoes and vegetables on the side. Dessert is a coconut creme brulee, and by the end of it, I'm stuffed and sleepy all over again.

"I never would have thought that we could have such a fancy meal on a plane," I murmur sleepily, and Salvatore chuckles.

"There's more to come, Gia. Get some rest."

I oblige, retiring to the bedroom at the back of the plane. There's a small shower and bathroom, and I quickly rinse off, brushing my teeth and washing my face before changing into my pajamas and going to lie down in the surprisingly soft and large bed. It feels not all that different from being back in the mansion.

I wondered if Salvatore would join me, eventually. But he doesn't. I fall asleep alone.

—

When I wake up, I'm still alone. I get up and go through my usual morning routine, opting for a pair of denim shorts and a ruffled, cropped yellow off-the-shoulder shirt from my shopping trip. It shows a sliver of my flat, toned stomach and my long legs, and I decide that it's as good a time as any to show Salvatore what he's missing. I might have felt bad yesterday about hurting his feelings, but I still intend to try and get under his skin.

I want to uncover the truth about this marriage that I've been forced into. I want to know for sure why it is that Salvatore married me. And I don't intend to be relegated to a corner of his mansion while he goes about his life as if he didn't upend mine.

If I have no way out of this, then he's going to be my husband in all the ways that matter, and give me what I want. Or I'm going to drive him insane until he wants nothing more than to give me back.

I walk back to where I sat yesterday, to find Salvatore still there, a cup of coffee and a croissant on the table in front of him. He appears to be working still, as if he never actually stopped last night.

"Do you actually not sleep, and you were just pretending that first night I was in the mansion?" I accuse him as I flop down in the seat opposite. "Because you've only actually slept next to me once."

Salvatore looks up from his tablet. I see the momentary shock on his face as he sees what I'm wearing. I've generally dressed much more modestly around him in the past. For a moment, it's as if he can't gather himself as his gaze travels up my long legs, to the edge of the denim shorts, lingering on the bare skin between the waist and the hem of my top, flicking up to my breasts. His gaze finally meets mine, and he lets out a short breath.

"Maybe I'm a vampire," he says sarcastically, reaching for his coffee. "It would explain my preternaturally good looks at the ripe old age I've reached."

My breath catches a little. Not just because it makes me think of fantasizing about him in the bath the other night, while I read my romance novel, but because I want to laugh. He made me want to laugh, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he's made a joke I find funny this early in the morning.

"The flight attendant will bring you breakfast," he says neutrally, looking back at the files in his lap. "We'll be landing soon."

Soonis an understatement. I've barely gotten the cup of coffee and piece of coffee cake that the attendant brings me before the plane starts to descend. I abandon breakfast, instead looking out of the window as I see clear blue-green waters and crystal-white sands scattered with straw-topped buildings and floating piers come into view. I let out a small gasp at the beauty of it, and when I look over at Salvatore, I see that he's smiling.

"Welcome to Tahiti," he says, and my eyes widen.

"That's so far away."

"It is," he agrees. "Very far away, which I believe was part of the point of all of this. To make sure you were as far removed from the threat of the Bratva as possible."

My stomach swoops. All at once, I'm both excited and reminded of how far I am from Pyotr and the possibility of returning to him. I bite my lip, wanting to enjoy this moment, my first time being somewhere new. The plane is descending further, everything coming into clearer view, and I suddenly can't wait to be off of the jet.

Salvatore seems to sense my excitement. He packs up his things, glancing over at me. "We'll be off the jet in no time," he says. "And then you can see where we'll be staying."

He still hasn't said exactly how long that will be. But I'm not sure I care. This place is paradise, and I can't wait to explore it. I hope that Salvatore doesn't have plans to confine me to one of those villas, and then make sure that his security doesn't allow me to leave.

The humidity smacks me in the face the moment we walk off the plane and onto the tarmac, making me glad that I chose the outfit I did—and that most of my clothing is lightweight. Salvatore leads me to a waiting car, and I slide in after him, eager to get to our destination.

He sits across from me, looking at something on his phone. I'm struck all over again by the fact that he's barely touched me since the morning I woke up with him pressed against me, only to be followed by that scene in the bathroom. Not even the sort of affectionate touches that a husband would normally give his wife. His hand on my back as he escorted me onto the jet yesterday was one of the rare moments. He doesn't try to touch my hand or my leg. He barely looks at me.

The car pulls up at the edge of a long pier. The driver opens the door, and Salvatore steps out, waiting for me. I notice he changed clothes at some point—he's wearing a similar pair of chinos, this time dark brown with a tan linen shirt. He has that same ruffled, slightly undone air about him that made my heart flutter on the stairs, and I swallow hard, following him as we step onto the pier.

Our surroundings are so beautiful that they take my breath away. On either side of the pier we're walking down, clear, glass-blue water spreads out as far as the eye can see. Sprinkled further down the beach, I can see buildings—probably bars and restaurants, but the villas are scattered across the water, more of the long piers leading to each one.

One of them is ours.

Salvatore leads me all the way to the front door. He opens it to the scent of coconut and lemon, my sandals smacking against the tile floor as we step inside. Everything is cool and crisp and white, with tall, thin greenery in ceramic potting for contrast. The main room that we step into is bright and airy, with a pale light wood table next to the door—a mosaic dish sitting on it—a large three-pane bay window overlooking the water with a cushy reading nook, and a large sectional couch next to sliding glass doors that open up onto a balcony just above the water. To the left, next to the reading nook, is a doorway that leads to what looks like a small kitchenette. There's no stove—if I had to guess, we have our own personal concierge service here and meals delivered—but there's a refrigerator, a stocked bar cabinet, and a table nook overlooking the water.

The doors ahead of us are open, showing us the rest of the villa. My heart thumps hard in my chest as I see the huge white bed that takes up the center of the bedroom, a vibrantly colored throw blanket folded at the foot of it that matches the smaller pillows stacked against the crisp white ones. There's a pale wooden nightstand with a mosaic-shaded lamp on either side of the bed, a matching dresser and wardrobe, and a woven rug next to the bed stretched over the tile. To my right, glass doors open out to a deck with an infinity pool, the edgeless rim of it seemingly flush with the water surrounding it, although I know it's an optical illusion. There's a set of stairs leading down to the water, for anyone who would rather swim there.

The bathroom is equally luxurious. I walk in to take a look, trying to avoid thoughts of that huge bed and what might happen in it later. There's a glassed-in shower, a huge white soaking tub surrounded by greenery, and the calming scent of eucalyptus hangs in the air. The countertop is smooth granite, with bowl sinks, and a large well-lit mirror above it.

It's luxurious and beautiful, and it's in the middle of paradise. It's everything I could have possibly asked for on my honeymoon.

Salvatore is taking off his watch, setting it next to the bed when I walk back out. "Is it all to your liking?" he asks, and I nod, trying to think of what to say. I don't want to be too effusive, but at the same time, I find that I don't want to hurt his feelings again. Not when he so obviously picked this because he thought I would enjoy it.

"It's perfect," I tell him. "I didn't really have anything specific in mind, other than warm—but I couldn't have picked a better spot if I tried."

It looks as if genuine pleasure crosses Salvatore's face. He smiles, and then glances at the bed.

"I didn't sleep well on the plane," he says after a moment. "I think I might take a nap. Feel free to swim, lay out, whatever you like. But don't leave the villa just yet," he adds. "I brought plenty of security along, Gia. So don't think that they won't stop you if you try to go off and explore on your own."

Just like that, my enthusiasm dampens, just a little. I'm afraid he's going to confine me here, and that just makes me all the more worried that that's true. But he said don't leave just yet, which makes me hope it won't be a permanent situation for our entire stay here. That he'll loosen up before too long.

Although loosened up isn't a phrase I would ever really think of to describe Salvatore.

He slips off his shoes, setting them neatly next to the bed before lying back on it and closing his eyes. He's still fully clothed, and I bite my lip, trying not to look too hard at the muscled v of his chest showing in the open space of his shirt, or think of how it might feel to touch him there.

Instead, I go to the bathroom, and change into one of my bathing suits. I throw a sundress on over it, grab a book, and head out to the deck. The sun is warm and welcoming, the scent of salt and flowers in the air, and I take a deep breath. Despite everything, I feel some of the tension I've been carrying drift away, and I sink into one of the soft lounges on the deck in the sun, opening up my book.

I lie out there for a long time, at one point stripping off my sundress to take a dip in the cool, crystalline pool, and then drying out in the sun again while I read more of my romance novel. At some point, I fall asleep, because I wake to the sky blazing with the vibrant colors of a tropical sunset, and the air cooled off a little.

Inside, I hear Salvatore moving around. I throw my sundress back on, gathering up my book, and pad back into the villa to see him stepping out of the bathroom, freshly showered. He's barefoot, his chinos rolled up at the ankles and his linen shirt half unbuttoned, his dark hair wet against his head. There's that faint shadow of stubble, and my fingertips tingle as I think of what it might feel like to run them over his cheek.

He looks up as I walk inside. "Ah, there you are. I was about to come get you." His gaze flicks over me, taking in the sheer blue swimsuit cover I'm wearing and the outline of the bikini beneath it, and he clears his throat. "Dinner will be delivered soon. They'll set up on the balcony."

"Okay." I swallow hard, trying to ignore the tension that feels as if it's sprung up in the fifteen or so feet of space between us, thick enough to cut with a knife. "I'm going to shower, if I have time."

"Of course." Salvatore glances at me once more, as if I were something that might bite, and walks out onto the deck.

I walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me; the stone tiles cool on my bare feet. I'm suddenly acutely aware of how alone we are together, in how small of a space, that even here, behind a closed door, he's only a room or so away. There's no sprawling mansion, no staff, no one here but the two of us. It's intimate in a way that I don't know how to handle, because I've never experienced it before.

The shower is wonderful, hot and relaxing, the glass-enclosed space filling with eucalyptus-scented steam. I end up just sitting on the stone tiles of the shower floor for a little while, letting the spray beat against the back of my neck and back, closing my eyes, and breathing in the steam. Outside of the shower is Salvatore, and dinner, and navigating our honeymoon, and all of the things that I don't know how to navigate. In here, there's just me, and the ability to shut it all out for a little while.

Eventually, I get out of the shower, lingering in the bathroom to dry off, and braid my wet hair into two braids, pinning them around the back of my head. I slip into a white sundress with a ruffled v-neckline and thin straps, adding the diamond and onyx jewelry that Salvatore bought me and slipping on a pair of sandals. The villa is utterly quiet except for the sound of the breeze and the lap of waves, and when I walk out to where I can get a view of the balcony, I see that dinner has already been set up.

Salvatore is waiting for me at the table on the deck, overlooking the water and the view beyond. There's a lit candle in the center, champagne and wine chilling in ice buckets next to the table, and a spread of seafood waiting for us for an appetizer. Salvatore is scrolling through something on his phone, but he puts it away immediately and looks up when he hears the balcony door open.

"Dinner is served." He gives me a pleasant smile, motioning for me to join him, and I walk hesitantly towards the table. It's beautiful and romantic, everything I could have asked for, and I feel a little guilty for having even the slightest thought that I might prefer to be here with someone else.

He's trying. I can't describe it as anything else. No one is forcing him to have dinner with me, or to arrange for it to be this nice, or to sit and talk with me at all. He could have added up all of my rebuffs so far, and simply assumed that this was never going to work in any capacity other than the most basic components of a marriage. And as much as I want to cling to my anger, it's difficult when I see that he's clearly trying to meet me at least partway.

"I can't say I picked out all of the courses myself," Salvatore admits as I sit down, pouring us each a glass of white wine. "But I did ask for their recommendations, and I think you'll be quite pleased."

I can't argue with that. The appetizers look delicious—there's a silver dish of cocktail shrimp with a pool of sauce in the center, a tower of oysters with a dish of mignonette and lemon, and a plate of shelled crab with drawn butter, as well as a green salad in front of each of us with small tangerine slices and a light vinaigrette on top. Paired with the crisp, cold white wine, it's all exquisite, and something about the salt air and sitting on the deck with a view of the water only makes it that much more delicious.

Salvatore is quiet for several long minutes, sipping at his wine as he picks at the shrimp and oysters. Finally, he looks up at me, sitting back a little as he twirls his fingers around the long stem of his wine glass. "Assume for a moment, Gia, that our marriage is not dissolvable. That your dreams of being rescued by your former Bratva fiancé and your beliefs about his honor are, as I've said, false. Can you do that for me, for the sake of one conversation?"

I look up at him sharply, a little startled. My immediate instinct is to snap back, but there's something in his tone that stops me. It's not pleading, exactly—I can't imagine that Salvatore is a man who would ever plead for anything—but I get a sense that this conversation is one he needs to have. One that he has, perhaps, been waiting for the right moment to press forward with. So I let out a breath, and nod.

"Alright," I say softly.

Salvatore presses his lips together briefly. "Alright, then. What would our future look like, to you? What would you hope for, in a life with me?"

At first, I'm not sure what to say. Nothing, is the first word that comes to mind. I don't want this marriage at all, so how could I want anything? But I know that's not what he's asking. He's asking if I can picture any kind of future, and, if I had no choice, what would make our marriage palatable for me.

The problem is that I can't think of a good answer. Not when my focus has been on waiting for Pyotr to rescue me.

"I don't know," I say truthfully. "I know that's not what you want to hear. Children? We talked about that before. I've always wanted sons. Daughters too, of course, if that's what I'm given—but I always had so many dreams of raising adventurous sons. There was that part of me that wished I had been born a boy, I suppose, that I could find an outlet for. I wouldn't mind getting my hands dirty, playing sports with them, going outdoors, and making up adventures. Coming up with stories." I shrug. "There are plenty of mafia wives who don't love their husbands, right? I could be happy with a family, I think. As long as I had that."

There's the barest shadow that crosses over Salvatore's face. I'm not sure what it means. I don't know if it's disappointment that I don't want more from him, that nothing I've said has anything to do with the relationship between him and me, and everything to do with my relationship to the children we'll have to one day have. Or it could be his ever-present reticence to do what needs to be done to give me children at all.

That last thought makes my stomach tighten, a flare of resentment washing over me. I do my best to push it down, to not start a fight when he's so clearly trying to open up a conversation with me.

"Is that all?" Salvatore asks, his head cocked slightly to one side, and that flicker of resentment rears up again.

"No," I say briefly, picking up a piece of shrimp. "But that's all I can see getting out of this marriage."

That time, I'm sure that I see the shadow that darkens his eyes. "And if you had children, you would put ideas of running back to the Bratva out of your head? Of being whisked away by your fantasy prince?"

There's a hint of condescension in his tone, and I press my lips together, fighting the urge to say something rude back. Instead, I just give him a slight nod.

"If I had children, I can't imagine Pyotr would want me any longer," I say quietly, ignoring the small stab of pain in my chest at the statement. "There's no world where I have a place among the Bratva after having children with you, Salvatore, and we both know that."

"And you would no longer want to leave?"

"I wouldn't want to leave them." It's the best answer I intend to give him, and I think he knows that. "What about you? Don't you want heirs?"

Salvatore lets out a slow breath. "For a long time, I didn't have reason to think I would need them. I didn't know if Enzo would make me his heir, although it seemed certain that he would have no more children of his own. I thought, before he arranged your Bratva marriage, that he would make whoever he chose as your husband his heir."

I frown, reaching for an oyster and the delicate silver spoon to pour a little of the champagne mignonette over it. "That doesn't really answer my question."

Salvatore hesitates. "I suppose I don't have a good one for you, Gia. In my position, I need an heir. That is unquestionable. At the very least, I need a daughter who can marry well, and allow the family legacy to continue that way. That's how things have always been done."

"And that's all? Just the legacy? That's all that matters to you?" I don't know why it hurts to hear him say that. It's true that it's often all that matters to men in his position. The fact that my father cared about something else was a rare quality. "I suppose I thought since you and my father were so close, you would care about more than that, too."

He frowns. "I wish you wouldn't do that, Gia."

"Do what?" It's my turn to cock my head slightly, looking at him with narrowed eyes. "What is it that you would prefer for me to not do?"

"Use your father and my friendship with him against me."

"Why shouldn't I?" This time the words do come out with more of a bite. "He was my father. He made his wishes very plain. If he hadn't died, none of this would be happening, and you know that's true. So what makes you think you ever had the right to change any of that?"

Salvatore's jaw tightens, and I can tell that he's upset that we've come back to this. "The fact that he entrusted you to me," he says, as calmly as I think he can manage. "I have no entitlement to you, Gia; I know that. I always have. But your father trusted my judgment all his life. I have to believe that he would trust it in this, too." He sighs. "I don't want to fight over our differing opinions on the Bratva, Gia. It's clear you won't believe me, and you won't be swayed."

He pauses just then, as the rest of our dinner is brought out. The appetizers and salad bowls are cleared away, replaced with a platter that has a branzino sea bass in a pool of herbed olive oil, surrounded by roasted vegetables. There's a bowl of coconut rice and a plate of toasted bread with butter, all of it arranged as a fresh bottle of chilled wine is set in the ice bucket.

Salvatore is silent, cutting the fish and arranging some on both of our plates. "What's done is done, Gia," he says finally. "What I want is for us to find a way forward."

"You still didn't really answer my question." I spoon some of the coconut rice onto my plate. "Do you want children?"

He's quiet for a long moment, eating his food in small, precise movements that betray how hard he's thinking. "I rarely thought about it, before this," he says finally, setting his fork down. "My entire life was devoted to your father. It consumed all of my energy. When I did engage in a relationship, it was usually casual, and rarely lasted long. Marriage was not on the table for me, since I didn't have enough of myself to give to a relationship of that depth. And without marriage, I had no desire to have children. So now?—"

He goes quiet again, and my heart thumps oddly in my chest. I'm not sure what it is that I want him to say. All of this feels like uncharted territory, a conversation that we don't like each other or know each other well enough to have. Yet, we are having it, because we're husband and wife, and these are the things we need to know.

"I should say yes," he says finally. "When I think of having children—a family—I think it's something that would bring me joy. But not in the circumstances of our marriage. And I don't see that those circumstances will change. You were my ward, and now you're my wife. I married you for your own protection, with the intent for us to lead as separate of lives as possible, while you remained under my roof and within the safety of my household. That arrangement is not what I hoped for, when I imagined marriage and children in the past. But it's what has happened. So the necessity of children is just that, Gia. Something to be dealt with when it's necessary."

Just like me.But for once, I can't find the rancor within myself that I usually feel when he says things like that. Instead, all I can think about is part of what he said at the very end.

This arrangement is not what I hoped for.

That goes against everything I've believed since Salvatore claimed me at the altar. That implies that he's telling me the truth, that he didn't marry me for desire or lust, that he did believe he had no other choice than to protect me by marrying me. It shakes the foundation of my hatred for him more than anything else has so far.

Because I could hear how much it sounded as if he meant it, when he said that.

"So what now?" I ask tentatively, looking at him as I poke at my food with my fork. He glances up at me, refilling his glass of wine.

"I think that's largely up to you, Gia," Salvatore says quietly. And then he returns to his food, falling into silence.

The meal ends with a fruit pavlova, brought out after the dinner is cleared away. Salvatore doesn't ask me anything else, and I'm not sure what to say. I can feel that his walls have gone back up, whatever vulnerability I might have momentarily gotten from him locked away. And mine have, too.

But I feel as if I've seen a little bit of a different side to him. That last bit of conversation, especially, makes me wonder if I've been too harsh. If I'm beginning to understand him in a way that might change my perception of what's happened between us so far.

Salvatore finishes his dessert in silence, setting down his napkin, and picks up his wine glass as he gets up from the table. He retreats to the other side of the deck, and I can't help but wonder what he's thinking. If he's mulling over what we've talked about. I wonder if he would tell me, if I asked.

If I believe everything he's saying, then I'm not the only one unhappy with our circumstances. And if that's true, and we could meet in the middle somehow?—

It won't be what I dreamed of,I thought as I watched him sit on one of the lounge chairs, his pants rolled up around muscled calves as he looked pensively out over the darkened water. But maybe we could have a decent marriage.

I bite my lip as I walk back into the villa while the staff comes and clears away the rest of the meal. I get one of my bikinis, the black one with the thin chains, intending to go for a swim. But I also want to see Salvatore's reaction. I was covered up earlier, but now I want to see what he does. I slip the skimpy pieces of fabric on, putting my hair up in a loose bun atop my head and looking critically at myself in the mirror. There's nothing I can see to complain about—I look slender and fit, skin tanned and smooth, and I trace my fingers over the small divots of muscle just beneath my ribs. Is he really going to be able to hold out much longer? It feels like we've been playing a game, one that I'm not entirely sure I know what I want the outcome of to be.

He has a book propped on his knees when I walk out, and when he looks up, I see him go very still. His gaze sweeps over me, taking in the scant black bikini, the lines of my body, all the way from my face down to my toes and back up again. He doesn't try to hide it this time, a frank appraisal that makes my skin heat and my stomach twist uncomfortably. I should be angry at the way he's looking at me, my mind screams, but I'm not sure that I am.

A part of me, I think, likes it. A part of me wants his approval, and I think I might hate that part as much as I sometimes hate him.

But that warmth is traveling over my skin, into my blood, down between my legs. I feel myself draw in a breath as his gaze darkens. He doesn't move, and I wait for him to tell me to do something. To take off my clothes, maybe. To strip for him. I picture him laying me back on the lounge chair, burying his face between my thighs, pulling me astride him. All of the forbidden things that I've imagined and haven't yet had, that I wanted from someone else but could still get from him.

His jaw tightens, and he looks away from me, back to his book.

A flare of anger swells in my chest, transmuting that warmth of arousal into something else entirely. My frustration with our conversation earlier, with myself for not being sure of how I feel or what I want, all of my uncertainties and anger and confusion coalesce, driving me to the easiest solution in front of me.

Fighting with him is always the easiest solution, it seems.

"Are you serious?" I snap, glaring at him. I let my own gaze sweep down his body, over the glimpse of his tanned chest in the open v of his white shirt, down to where I can see the thick swelling of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. He's aroused by me—that's not the problem. The problem is that he doesn't want to admit it.

"You came out here to swim, didn't you?" His voice is flat, inflectionless. "So enjoy yourself, Gia."

I suck in a sharp breath, ready to retort. But he's pointedly ignoring me, and I'm suddenly tired. I'd intended to come out here and taunt him, aggravate him with the skimpy bathing suit and the view of me in it, but I realize that I hoped it might actually turn him on enough to stop fighting his desire instead. And now we're just locked in another standoff, with no glimpse of peace in sight, despite our conversation earlier.

So, instead of snapping back, I just turn away, walking to the edge of the infinity pool, and slip down into the water.

It's pleasantly cool, a little more so than the night air, and I let out a soft sigh as I sink deeper. Salvatore fades from my mind for a moment at the pleasure of the water washing over my skin and the beauty of the night around me. The sky is velvet-dark, studded with more stars than I'm ever able to see at home, even outside the city, and the moon hangs nearly full in the sky, gleaming white. The water laps against the pylons supporting the villa, a soft, rhythmic sound that only adds to the peace of the night. Salvatore says nothing; the only sound from him is the occasional dry brush of paper as he turns the pages of his book.

I turn in the pool, looking at him as I rest my forearms on the edge. He looks younger here, almost boyish in the slightly rumpled, more casual clothes, only the faint greying at his temples and in his stubble betraying the fact that my husband is a man in his early forties. That faint hum of desire stirs in my blood again, and as I look at him, I wonder what would happen if I gave in to this.

Pyotr isn't coming for me. He would have stormed the mansion by now, if he really loved me. If he really wanted me.I can hear the whispers in the back of my head, and it makes me wonder how much of all of this really was fantasy, the way Salvatore stubbornly claims that it is. If I was as naive as Salvatore seems to think I was. If I made up a dream in my head about a man who was never going to live up to it in reality.

If, maybe, Salvatore and I could have some measure of happiness, if we stopped fighting each other. If maybe I should just accept this.

What better place to try than in paradise?

I push myself up out of the pool, dripping water onto the deck. Salvatore looks up at the sound of splashing, and I see the way his face briefly tightens, his eyes sweeping over me again. I know what he's seeing—the black swimsuit clinging wetly to me like a second skin, the water beading off of me, dripping to the stone beneath my feet. He draws in a slow breath, setting down his book, and my heart flips in my chest with something that I can't deny feels like anticipation.

"Gia." He says my name with a rough exasperation, but there's something else in it, too, a scratchy rasp that makes my heart start to race. "Aren't you tired of playing these games?"

"Yes," I say simply, taking a step forward, and I can tell that's not what he expected. His eyes narrow, and he looks at me warily, as if he's waiting for the next barbed comment, the next biting remark.

I walk closer to where he's lying, my pulse beating a rapid pulse in my throat. "So let's stop playing, Salvatore."

He doesn't move. I hold out my hand, and I can see that he's aroused, in every inch of his body. He's tense, wound tight, the thick line of his cock straining against his fly. He's resisting me, but I don't think he has very much resistance left in him.

It gives me a heady sense of power that I've never had before. Suddenly, it feels better than those afternoons with Pyotr, better than my fantasies, better than anything. Salvatore is the most powerful man in New York, a man famous for his discipline and self-control, an austere and terse man.

And I want to break him. I want to make him lose control.

I want to be the thing that shatters him.

"We talked about this," I say quietly. "As recently as earlier tonight. You need an heir, Salvatore. So let's stop playing, and take me to bed."

His gaze flicks to my outstretched hand, back to my face, as if I'm a trap he's resisting stepping into. He sits up slowly, and stands up without taking my hand, his dark eyes fixed on mine.

"I will eventually need an heir," he agrees quietly. "You're right about that."

There's nothing seductive about the words either of us is saying, but the timbre of his voice tells an entirely different story. There's that rasp, that deep, faintly accented hoarseness, that tells me he's fighting desire with everything in him. My pulse flutters in my throat, and I can feel the flush creeping over my skin.

"There's no better place to start than on our honeymoon, right?" It comes out breathier than I intended, and Salvatore's gaze narrows, his eyes flicking briefly from mine down to my lips, and back up again.

I can feel his control fraying. He's standing so close to me that I could reach out and touch him, but I don't. I want him to touch me, for him to give in to what he wants, to admit that in some part of himself, this was never just about protecting me.

If we're going to be married, we're not supposed to lie to each other. At least, that's the sort of marriage I hoped for. And I'm convinced that Salvatore is lying both to me and to himself, when it comes to this.

His jaw tightens, the small muscle there leaping. "Fine," he says, the word gritted between his teeth. "You're right, Gia. What better place than here?"

My breath catches, my heart flipping in my chest. Anticipation and fear tangle together, tightening my throat as he steps away from me, opening the glass door that leads into the villa. I follow him inside, into the bedroom, nerves fluttering through my stomach. It's not a feeling light or pleasant enough to be called butterflies—moths, maybe. This feels like a monumental choice, like something that I won't be able to come back from, once we do it. Uncertainty grips me as he stops at the foot of my bed, and I feel my hands tremble.

But I don't back down. Some of it is curiosity, some of it is pride, and some of it is a simple desire to stop playing this game. The rest is a perverse desire to make him finish taking what he stole—to follow through on what he started when he claimed me at the altar. It's all mixed up inside of me until I'm something that needs a word stronger than confused to describe it, but I'm too stubborn to tell him that I'm not sure of my choice.

"Take it off." Salvatore nods to my bathing suit, as he reaches for his shirt. "Lie on the bed."

I blink, momentarily startled. He's colder than I thought he would be, more like he was on our wedding night. I wanted the man who held me against his chest and wrung pleasure out of me in front of that mirror, not the unfeeling husband who acts as if he's just going through the motions. I hesitate, on the verge of backpedaling.

Salvatore's lips press together. "I thought you were done playing games, Gia."

A flare of resentment washes over me. I tip my chin up defiantly, glaring at him as I hook the fingers of one hand in the thin chain on my hip, the other hand going to undo the one behind my neck. I let the two pieces of the bathing suit drop nearly at the same time, the fabric hitting the hard floor with a wet slap as I stare directly at Salvatore, daring him to do something about it.

I see him swallow hard, just before he slides his shirt over his head. I see the flex of muscle in his chest and his arms, the glitter of the thin golden chain he wears against the dark hair on his chest. He drapes the shirt over the foot of the bed, reaching for his belt. "On the bed, Gia."

His voice is still flat, hard, as if he's directing a business meeting instead of getting ready to take his wife's virginity. The contrast in his emotionless voice and the reactions of his body are startling, and it infuriates me. I can see how turned on he is; it's in the tension of his jaw and shoulders, the sharp, quick way he undoes his belt, the sight of the thick, swollen base of his cock as he starts to push his pants down his hips.

"Gia." He repeats my name, a command, and a shiver runs down my spine despite myself. My breath catches, and I toss my head, pulling the tie free that's holding my hair up. I see his gaze darken as my hair falls down in thick, heavy waves around my damp shoulders.

"Should I get on the bed?" I lower my voice, making it softer, huskier. "I'm all wet."

Something dangerous glints in his eyes. "What do you want, Gia? We can stop, if you've changed your mind."

His pants are still clinging to the edge of his hips, that deep cut of muscle and the dark trail of hair that dips into them visible, just the base of his cock showing. It's a challenge, one that I know he's throwing out because it's an escape for him. If I tell him no, he can retreat and continue to tell himself that this isn't what he really wants. That taking my virginity, fucking me, is an uncomfortable duty that he'll get around to eventually.

Fuck that.He doesn't get to treat me that way. Not when he's undone my whole life in order to put his own ring on my finger.

I walk to the bed, biting my lip at the sensation of the cool sheets against my damp, flushed skin. Salvatore pushes his pants the rest of the way down, letting them hit the floor, and I swallow hard as his cock springs free, the tip slapping against the hard muscle of his abdomen, leaving a faint damp gleam against his skin. I lie back against the pillows as he strides towards me, following me onto the bed as he kneels next to me.

His hand slips between my thighs, pushing my legs open as he moves between them. This close, I feel another small tremor of fear at the size of his cock, rock-hard and visibly throbbing, milky fluid pearling at the tip. He reaches up, wrapping one hand around himself and squeezing as he parts my legs. I feel a flood of hot arousal as I watch him catch that drop of pre-cum with his thumb, spreading it down his shaft as he groans low in his throat.

I lean up, reaching out to touch him. I want to feel the soft hair on his chest, scratch my nails down the ridges of his abs, feel that hot, straining flesh under my palm. But Salvatore pushes me back, his hand catching mine and moving it to one side.

"Hands at your sides, Gia."

I frown up at him. "What if I want to touch you?"

He strokes himself once more, letting go of his cock as he exhales, his breath hissing between his teeth. "This is about consummating our marriage, Gia, not pleasure. We've been over this before. Lie back."

His voice is a low growl, and I see his cock throb again, more pre-cum dripping down his shaft as he leans forward on his knees. His hand slides up my inner thigh, sending another flush of heat through me, and I gasp softly.

I try to reach for him again, and his grip on my wrist is rougher this time as he pushes my hand away, pinning it firmly to the mattress for a moment before letting go.

"I'm going to prepare you, like I did last time," he says roughly as his hand skims up my thigh. "So I don't hurt you when I'm inside of you.'

The words are cold, clinical. But the heat that floods through me is neither of those things, anticipation curling deep in my belly at the thought of his fingers on me, his tongue. "How are you going to prepare me?" I whisper, arching my hips upwards, my eyes widening. I see his jaw tighten, his cock twitch against his abdomen, and I know I'm getting to him. The pleasure I get from that is almost as strong as what I remember from how his hands felt on me last time. "Will you use your mouth?"

Salvatore's breath hitches, just for a second. His lips press together, and he lets out a slow breath. "Don't make this difficult, Gia," he murmurs, nudging my legs further apart as his fingers stroke over the soft folds between them, and I see the pulse of his cock as his thumb parts me, pressing against my clit.

I moan, arching upwards at his touch. One brush of the pad of his thumb against me, and I know I want more than just this. I want to find out what all of it is like.

And if he doesn't give it to me, he's going to find out the meaning of difficult.