16. Gia

I'm not entirely sure why I'm crying. Maybe it's the roller-coaster of hormones and emotions from finally losing my virginity. Maybe it's the shock of the actual act lasting less than a minute. Maybe it's the disappointment of realizing that even this isn't going to be what I want. Even if I convince Salvatore to take me to bed, he isn't going to crack and give that to me.

I'm not ever going to have the marriage I dreamed of.

Another sob escapes me, my hand covering my mouth as my shoulders shake, and I sink down onto the lounge chair with the sheet wadded around me. It's over. It's all over. It doesn't matter if Pyotr comes for me now. It doesn't matter if he wants to rescue me, if he still cares about me, or if Salvatore is right, and he never really gave a shit at all.

I'm no longer a virgin. I can't argue that Salvatore's cock hasn't been inside of me, that I'm still a virgin on a technicality, that if Pyotr stole me back, he would still be the only man to have ever fucked me, the only man who could be the father of my children.

Salvatore was inside of me. He came inside of me. I'm his wife now, in every way that matters in our world.

And all the other ways—all the other things that I dreamed of in a marriage, they only matter to me.

This is all I get.I'd gambled that if I could convince him to go to bed with me, if I could break that much of his control, he'd snap and show me everything I dreamed of. He'd crumble under the barrage of my taunts, and his ego would get the better of him. I thought he'd need to be the man who made me scream for him in bed, who taught me everything he could do to me.

But Salvatore is stronger than that. And for the first time, I think I actually believe that he didn't marry me out of lust. He married me out of a belief—misdirected or not—that he was keeping me safe. And somehow, that's actually worse.

I will never get what I wanted. I'll never have a husband who loves me, who desires me, who gives me passion and romance, and all the fantasies I once had. The best I can hope for is a family. And even then, Salvatore has as much as said that he doesn't see himself as a part of that family. Not with me.

Because he can't let himself feel about me the way a husband should feel about his wife. And truthfully—it's not fair to either of us.

But he dug his own grave, and now I have to lie in it with him.

I cover my face with my hands, sobs spilling out of me. I never expected losing my virginity to feel like this. I feel robbed, just like I did that first night—robbed of a passionate wedding night, robbed of the marriage I planned for, robbed of love and hope and sex and everything that I thought I was getting out of the marriage my father arranged for me.

And Salvatore can't even try to give me what he took for himself. I can't believe any longer that he took me out of lust, because if he had, he should have been ravishing me every night. If he had, he shouldn't have been able to control himself while I lay there in our bed, naked and moaning for him.

He acts like it's a chore, and now I actually believe that it is one for him. It hurts more than ever, knowing that I'm nothing but a burden. A duty. I could hate him for lusting after me, for stealing me—but this just makes me feel crushed. Hopeless. This is something I can't fix. Something that won't be made better by anything I can think of.

Emotions wash over me like a tide as I sit there and cry. Anger and hurt tangle up in knots in my stomach, and I regret ever trying to understand him. All I wanted was pleasure and affection, and he can't give me either of those things. All he can give me are attempts to spoil me, and vague tries at meeting me halfway in conversation.

Nothing that I actually want.

I hear the door open, but I refuse to look up. Even when Salvatore says my name, I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the deck, wiping at my swollen eyes.

"Gia." He repeats my name, his tone more tired than anything else. I let myself look up just enough to see that he's put on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, as if covering himself will help at all. As if anything could help now. "What's going on?"

I shake my head, rubbing my hands over my face again. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me." There's a tense note to Salvatore's voice. "We're sharing a house right now, Gia. When we go home, we'll continue to share a bedroom. Even the mansion isn't big enough for all of this, if you're sobbing this way. Tell me what's wrong."

"I feel—" I don't even know how to begin to explain how I feel. I don't know if I want to. But the idea of bottling it up and refusing to say anything at all feels equally terrible. "I feel unwanted. Heartbroken. Disappointed. Angry—" I bite my lip. "You took everything I wanted from me. And you won't give any of it back. I can't even have a good sex life with my husband. I can't find out what it's like to really be a wife, when it comes to that. All I get is—" I wave my hand towards the bedroom. "I might not know everything, and a lot of it might come from books, but I know it's supposed to be better than that!"

I look up defiantly then, glaring at him. "I know that much, at least," I repeat stubbornly, and Salvatore lets out a sigh.

"Any desire I might feel for you is wrong, Gia. You were my goddaughter. You were entrusted to me. I married you to make good on that trust, on that responsibility, not to have you for my own selfish desires. If I want you, if I let myself do the things to you that you're asking for, if I truly treat you like a wife in every way—that's taking advantage of that trust. I'm supposed to look after you, not?—"

"Not fuck me?" I can hear the bitterness in my own voice, so I know he can.

"You're right that we have a duty to make an heir," Salvatore continues, as if I haven't even spoken. "With any luck, you'll be pregnant from tonight, and I won't need to touch you again. You'll have the child you want, and I'll have the heir I need."

Every word feels like a slap in my face. I push myself up to my feet, all my tears forgotten in the rush of anger that I feel at how easily he's dismissing my wants, my needs. "So that's it? You decide to marry me, you decide where I live, you decide when I get to have sex, you decide how much pleasure I get out of it, you decide, you decide!" I shout it into his face. "And what are you going to do? Go out and fuck whoever you please when you get horny, so you can pretend like you're some honorable man for not going to bed with your wife? Just because once upon a time you had an entirely different role in my life? Don't fling that godfather shit in my face either—that's nothing but a title. But you should understand that, since you seem really fucking stuck on making sure that husband is just a title, too!"

"Gia—" There's a warning note in Salvatore's voice, but I ignore it. I'm in no mood for a lecture, in no mood to be told to calm down.

"You're not more honorable for cheating on your wife instead of fucking her, just because you feel guilty that you want me!" I fling the sheet to the deck, letting it pool around my feet as I stand there naked in front of him, under the moonlight, as bare as I was earlier underneath him. "That's your definition of a good man? One who is unfaithful?"

"For fuck's sake, Gia!" Salvatore grabs my arm, a little more roughly than usual, and pulls me back into the villa. "Stop it! You're letting your emotions get the better of you, instead of thinking. You're acting like a child."

"Well, you married an eighteen-year-old, so what the fuck did you expect?" I shout it at him, trembling with rage, not even caring any longer that I'm naked and he's clothed. His face is flushed with anger, and I can see his pulse beating hard in his throat.

"I never said I was going to cheat on you." His voice is deep and rough, nearly as angry as mine, but I don't care. I do my best to ignore the shiver that runs down my spine at the sound of it, at the dark look in his eyes. "I never said anything about that at all."

"So, what? You're going to be celibate for the rest of your life?"

The moment I fling the question in his face, I can see that he hasn't thought through the consequences of marrying a woman that he can't bring himself to fuck. I see the flicker of uncertainty, the knowledge that the rest of his life is a long time to go with a cold bed. I know then and there that a faithful husband is yet another thing that's going to be stolen from me.

"I'll add that to the list," I grind out between my teeth. "A marriage I didn't want. A husband who won't fuck me the way I deserve. A house I didn't ask to live in that I'm not allowed to leave when I please. A child oh-so-begrudgingly given to me, eventually, that you don't want to be a father to, because I'm its mother. And now an unfaithful husband, on top of that."

"You really think Pyotr would have been faithful to you?" Salvatore's voice rises, his own anger spilling over. "You think he wasn't out there getting his cock wet every night he pleased while you were engaged? That he'd have kept his pants zipped up unless it was you he was fucking? You're more goddamn naive than I knew, if you really believe that, Gia. And as for the rest—" He shakes his head angrily. "Pyotr wasn't going to dote on your children. He wasn't going to play the adoring husband. He was going to use you and lock you away and make your life a living hell, while pretending that he was keeping up the agreement he made with your father. And you can believe me or not, but for god's sake, stop pretending that I've robbed you of some fucking fairytale!"

He's shouting so loudly the glass door next to us vibrates. I see the cords standing out in his throat, his teeth clenched, so much anger balled up in him that he's holding back.

"We're both in this, Gia. I kept your life from being a hell you couldn't have come back from. I don't care anymore if you believe me. You're my wife now, whether you like it or not. And I'll decide what my goddamned honor means to me."

"I don't like it," I hiss, and Salvatore scoffs, shaking his head.

"Fine." He turns on his heel, stalking back towards the bed.

I stand there, on the other side of the room, watching him go. A part of me wants to go sleep on the couch, just to be away from him, but the other part resents the idea that he can not only ice me out of our marriage but also keep me from sleeping in a bed. So instead, I snatch my sleep shorts and a t-shirt out of the dresser, throw them on, and crawl into bed as far away from him as I can manage.

It's not difficult. The bed is huge—we're not touching unless we want to.

And right now, the last thing I want is to touch him.

—

In the morning when I wake up, Salvatore is already gone. The sheets and blankets are tugged up on his side of the bed, smoothed over as if he wanted to erase any trace of where he was the night before. I sit up blearily, wondering if he's still somewhere in the villa, but I don't hear any sounds that indicate there's anyone else here. Even the security has made themselves scarce since we got here. However, how they've managed to stay so invisible, I have no idea. Whatever Salvatore pays them, he should probably pay them more.

My head is pounding from crying last night, and I'm sore. Salvatore tried to be gentle, I'll give him that much, but I was always going to be sore the morning after no matter what.

With the memory comes a sinking feeling of dread, a reminder of how we left things. My marriage is set in stone now, a divorce nearly impossible, and all possibility of my former engagement coming to pass vanished. But nothing is better between Salvatore and I. If anything, it's worse.

I shove the blankets back, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, and see a note left for me on the nightstand. Next to it is a heavy black credit card.

Gia,

I'll be gone on business most of the day, probably until dinnertime. You're free to explore, so long as you take plenty of security with you and don't try to evade them. The credit card is for you to use as you please.

–Salvatore

That feeling of dread eases, just a little. It's still there in the back of my mind, that feeling of being trapped with no way out, but at least I'm not trapped in this villa for the entirety of our "honeymoon," with only Salvatore for company when he comes back. I can get out and get some fresh air and explore, and that at least feels like a reprieve.

The day is mine, and the thought of being able to do whatever I please with it is enough to lift my spirits a little more. I call the number for our personal concierge for breakfast, and then, while I wait on that, I take two aspirin for my pounding head and sink into a hot bath, adding a generous pour of lavender vanilla Epsom salts from a vial sitting on the gold tray that's perched atop the bathroom counter with a variety of expensive toiletries. The heat instantly soothes the tenderness between my thighs and my aching muscles from last night. I pile my hair up on my head to keep it out of the water, sinking deep into the tub and closing my eyes.

When the water starts to cool off, I pry myself out of it, drying off and putting on my emerald-green bikini with the palm-frond print maxi dress and a pair of woven espadrilles. I pull my hair up in a high, fluffy ponytail, adding hoops and a dangly bracelet, and rub sunscreen over all of my exposed skin before I go back out into the bedroom and find my breakfast waiting for me.

It's practically a buffet. There's coffee, coconut-flavored and plain creamer, orange juice, and water, along with a plate of scrambled eggs, blueberry maple sausage, smoked salmon, and a stack of fluffy pancakes with strawberry syrup and butter. It's more food than I could ever eat in a single meal, and I pick at it, taking a few bites of each thing while I sip my coffee. The smoked salmon and eggs, in particular, are delicious, and I end up putting more of that onto a single plate and carrying it out to the deck to nibble at while I finish the coffee.

The morning is beautiful. This is absolutely a tiny slice of paradise, with the crystal-blue water stretching out in every direction and the white-sugar sand beach visible like a thin strip in the distance. I glance out at the other villas scattered along the water, wondering about the other people staying there. Other honeymooners, maybe, happier ones than Salvatore and I. Or couples here on their anniversaries, girlfriends on a trip for a bachelorette, a girls' weekend away. I can't help but wonder if anyone else here feels the same way I do, the same way that Salvatore claims he does. If anyone else is here trying to save a marriage, or get pregnant after trying for a long time, or on a honeymoon they'd rather be sharing with someone else. Surely, even here in such a blissful place, we can't be the only ones struggling.

The sun is warm and bright, the morning just this side of a little too hot, but after being in the rainy, cold spring weather at home, I don't mind. A part of me is tempted to just sit on the deck in the sun with a book, but I don't want to squander the opportunity to wander almost on my own. So I finish up my breakfast and coffee, and pack up a straw beach tote with a towel, my book, sunscreen, and a few other things I might need for the day. But as I walk out of the front door and onto the pier leading to the beach, I'm immediately stopped by a tall, bulky man in cargos and a black t-shirt.

"Salvatore said I could leave for the day." It comes out automatically, and I can hear the defensiveness in my voice. "He said?—"

"I know what he said." The man speaking to me looks vaguely familiar—I think his name is Vince. I know Salvatore's primary security enforcer, Josef, is always with him, so it's definitely not that guy. They all start to blur together for me—men in the same outfits, with the same buzz-cuts and stern expressions on their faces. "I'm just letting you know that I and several of my men will be accompanying you, Mrs. Morelli."

"I figured as much." I shade my eyes with my hand, glaring up at him in irritation. I knew he and some of the other guards would be coming along, but I didn't want to be reminded of it. "Can I go, then? Or do I need to wait for you to collect them?"

"No, ma'am. We'll be right behind you."

He steps out of the way, and I let out a sharp breath, my excitement somewhat dimmed by his attitude. But he can't completely kill my mood, and I still have the whole day stretching out in front of me.

I do my best to ignore the fact that I know I have an entourage, walking at my own pace as I head down the pier and out to the sandy beach just beyond it. I pull up a guide on my phone, eagerly looking for what I want to fill my day with.

There's a local open-air market, and I head there first, the sound of the waves fading into the distance as I head away from the beach. I'm sweating a little by the time I get there, but I don't mind. Ironically, this is the first time I've ever had this much freedom. My father, for all that I know, he loved me very much and kept me very sheltered. I was allowed to go out with my friends into the city—with the same kind of security that Salvatore insists on—but he never would have allowed anything like this. Like Salvatore said, the reason I've never been away from home before is because my father worried about the possible consequences of straying very far.

It feels blissful being out like this. The chatter and noise of the open-air market sounds like its own kind of music, filling the air with the sounds of happy people out shopping and haggling and just enjoying the morning. I walk past stand after stand of bags and jewelry, scarves and home goods, and further down, stands selling various types of food. I get a bowl of sliced fruit sprinkled with chili-lime salt and a cup of lemonade, perching on a nearby bench to eat it while I watch the people passing by. I know somewhere nearby, that Vince and his security are watching me, but I do my best to ignore it. If I try hard enough, I can almost pretend I'm entirely alone.

When I finish the fruit and lemonade, I circle back to some of the stands I passed earlier, ready to put Salvatore's credit card to work. I buy a gorgeous handwoven silk sarong that will look perfect with my bikinis, and a gorgeous pearl bracelet. The bracelet is a string of pearls in different shades—light blue, purple, and near-black—interspersed with tiny diamonds and aquamarines. I slip it onto my wrist, and then, just for fun, I buy a pair of matching earrings— black pearls with a small aquamarine stud at the top of each one.

I tuck the sarong into my tote, and head out of the market, back towards the beach. The sun is hotter now, beating down on me, and I can feel a light sweat trickling down the back of my neck by the time I reach the sand. Even as much as I work out, walking in the hot sun takes more out of me than I would have expected, and by the time I walk down the beach, I'm ready to stretch out on a blanket and relax for a little while.

The crashing sound of the waves against the sand is soothing. I shake out my huge beach towel and spread it out, getting out my book and slipping my dress off so that I can get some sun. I look around as I pour sunscreen into my hand, looking for Vince or any of his men, but they've made themselves scarce in the way they so often do.

A small part of me likes the idea of them watching me strip out of my dress, my taut, toned body on display in the skimpy emerald green bikini, the halter top pushing up my breasts. Salvatore might not have an appreciation for the view, but I bet some of his men do. I wonder how often they've watched me since we got here, while I took a dip in the pool or laid out under the sun, or if they're watching now while I rub sunscreen over my cleavage and down the flat expanse of my stomach, wishing they could touch me and knowing they can't.

I shouldn't fantasize about men other than my husband. I know that. That's definitely not what a good mafia wife does. But I'm angry with Salvatore, feeling robbed and neglected, and I can't help seeking what little pleasure I can find elsewhere.

Like, for example, imagining that even if my husband doesn't want me, surely one or more of the men set to keep watch over me do.

The thought makes me linger a little while I apply the sunscreen, slowly sliding my hands over my long legs, pushing up the edges of my bikini bottoms to smooth it over the curves of my ass, making sure to thoroughly coat my breasts and rub it in. When every inch of me is well-protected, I roll onto my stomach on the towel, opening my book and letting every other thought drift away.

Eventually, it gets too hot, and I tuck my book away and wander down to the water's edge. I've never swam at a beach before, only in pools, and I wade in carefully, keeping an eye out for sharp shells or jellyfish. I can only imagine Salvatore's reaction if I came back injured in some way—it would give him the perfect excuse to not allow me out again.

That's the last thing I want.

The water is cold, and I let out a little yelp as it laps at my calves, slowly wading deeper. I make it all the way to my hips, pausing as I try to get used to the chill, running my hands through the lapping small waves.

It feels good, all of it. The relative freedom, compared to what I've had before, the hot sun and the cold water, the smell of salt, and the taste of the fruit and lemonade that I had in the market still lingering on my tongue. For a brief second, I consider the wild idea of trying to disappear here, of running away from Salvatore and my marriage and my responsibilities as his wife. Of the kind of freedom that only those not born to this life can ever expect to truly have.

I know some people—a lot of them, actually—would laugh at me for thinking that way. Hate me, even, because I never have to worry about money or a roof over my head or enough food to eat. Yet, at this moment, I so desperately want to run. I know I'm privileged enough to have a lot of things that others don't.

But what I don't have is my own life. My own agency. And sometimes, I think there are so many things I'd be willing to give up in order to experience what that's like.

I walk out further into the water, welcoming the chill that pebbles my skin, the shock of the water in comparison to the hot sun. When it's nearly up to my breasts, I take a deep breath and dive underneath it, forcing myself to open my eyes after a moment.

The salt stings my eyes, but it's worth it. Under the water, everything is crystal clear, from the sand to the small fish that I can see swimming around. I let myself sink down a little, watching the way the sun's rays cut through the water to shimmer on the sea floor.

It would never work.I want to dream of the possibility of running away, of disappearing here, but I know better than that. Even if I went to the nearest ATM, withdrew every cent that it would allow me from the credit card, and threw it in the trash before trying to slip away, Salvatore would find me. His men would find me. And then he'd make sure I never had the opportunity to run again. Not in any explicitly cruel way, I don't think—he'd just ensure that I couldn't leave the mansion. My every need would be provided for, but within a gilded cage, the bars locked tight to make sure I could only sing from behind them.

My life was set from the day I was born. I can only make do with the cards I was dealt, not draw a new hand.

I push myself up to the glittering surface, sucking in a deep breath of air. Further down the beach, I see a glimpse of my security, probably making sure I didn't try to drown myself or get swept out to sea.

Just to make them worry a little, I dive back under the water, blowing out my air so I sink to the bottom. I run my fingers through the grains of sand, picking up tiny shells, sticking my hand out to try to touch one of the small fish that swims away too quickly before my fingers can brush against it. It's beautiful down here, and I promise myself that I'll come back if I get another chance to wander out on my own.

When I surface again, this time, I start to walk back to the shore. I go back to my towel, stretching out until I dry off again under the hot sun. By the time all the water has evaporated off of my skin, I'm a little too warm, and starting to get hungry. I don't want to go back to the villa yet, so instead, I slip my book back into my bag and shake out my towel, reaching for my dress.

And then, on second thought, I wrap the silk sarong around my waist instead, slipping my feet back into my sandals and tucking my folded dress away. I'm sure Salvatore would have a fit if he saw his wife walking around in public in a bikini top and sarong, but I don't care. The same jealous rebelliousness that led me to linger while I put on sunscreen in hopes of flustering my security guards makes me like the idea of the attention I might get going back into town dressed like this. And it's not like it's abnormal—plenty of tourists walk around in their swimsuits. I saw several earlier, while I was in the market.

I wait for someone to put a stop to my fun, for Vince to come and tell me to cover up or something like that, but no one does. My feet are starting to hurt, but I'm in no hurry to return to the villa. Instead, I head towards where I saw a string of restaurants and bars, further down the beach.

One of the first ones I see is open air, with a long bar towards the back and tables scattered throughout it. It's fairly busy, but I see room at the bar, and I feel a small thrill go through me at the idea of going and sitting at a bar alone and ordering a drink. It's something I've never done before, and, truthfully, never really thought I would do. But today, no one is going to stop me.

I can hear the faint sound of music playing over the speakers as I walk in, a backdrop to the hum of conversation filling the space. And then I walk towards the bar—and I see the man standing behind it.

He's gorgeous. Tall, with dirty blond hair that gives him a surfer look, medium length in a shaggy cut. He's wearing a tank top with the sides cut out, revealing deep cuts of muscle along his abdomen every time he moves, and leather armbands on his wrists. There's a thong necklace with what looks like a pirate coin hanging from his neck, and I catch a glimpse of shorts as he ducks around the other side of the bar to grab a bucket of ice.

When I get closer, I can see that he has bright blue eyes, as full of mischief and laughter as his smile appears to be. And as soon as he catches sight of me, I see him stop in the middle of reaching for a glass.

"Hey, there." He grins at me as I approach the bar and slide onto one of the stools. His gaze flicks down to my bikini top briefly, before trailing back up to my face. He's not ashamed of checking me out, and I can't really imagine why he would be—there are probably plenty of gorgeous women who make their way through this bar, and plenty of them probably end up in his bed. He definitely looks like the kind of man who would never be lonely for very long.

He also looks to be around my age. As he pushes a menu towards me, his eyes don't leave mine for a second. "See anything you like?" he asks with that same glimmering smile, and I'm not so naive that I don't know a flirtation when I hear it. I haven't even had a chance to look at the menu yet.

"I don't know. I haven't had a chance to look around." I flash him a smile, and his deepens.

"Well, feel free to look all you like." He winks at me, leaning on the bar, his hands tapping against the wood as if he can't stay still for long. I notice he has an engraved silver band on his index finger. "Do you know what you want to drink?"

"I—" I hesitate. I've only ever drank wine and champagne, and I want to try something new. "Something tropical? Surprise me."

"My favorite two words to hear." He grins at me, moving a little further down the bar. "You're going to love what I have for you."

I bet I would.I bite my lip, watching his long-fingered, dexterous hands as he muddles fruit in a glass, pouring shots of liquor and coconut water. It baffles me to imagine that there are so many people in this world for whom this is a normal occurrence—going to a bar, ordering a drink, flirting with a hot bartender. Going home with one, even. What feels daring and exciting to me is a normal Friday night for someone else. Jealousy floods me at the thought. Not because I desperately want to hook up with this bartender, but because I wish I had the option to. I wish I had the option to choose anything about how my nights will go—my days, too.

"Here you go." He pushes a glass towards me, filled with a fruity pink and yellow concoction. "If you don't love it, I'll make you something else. On the house."

I reach for it, taking a tentative sip. It's sweet and fruity, with the barest bite of liquor under all the fruit and sugar. I have a feeling I'd have a hard time walking back to the villa if I drank more than one of these. "It's really good."

"I knew you'd like it." He flashes me another of those perfect smiles. "I'm Blake. You on vacation?"

No, I'm on my honeymoon.Instead, I nod. "Gia," I introduce myself, taking another sip of the drink. His gaze flicks over me again with clear appreciation, taking in my breasts in the bikini top, my small waist, the silk sarong clinging to my hips. But I can hardly blame him—I haven't stopped looking at his abs since I walked up to the bar.

"That's a pretty name. Your first time here?"

I nod again. "I haven't really traveled much." That's a truth I can tell him without giving too much away.

"You picked a hell of a spot for your first time." He drums his fingers against the wood of the bar again. "Have you been surfing yet?"

I shake my head. "I don't know if I'm that adventurous."

"I teach lessons three days a week. I'll be out on the beach tomorrow. You should try coming out later at night, too. A lot of the bars go wild—live music, dancing…it's a great time." He has a keen interest in his gaze that tells me he's thinking of doing those things with me. My heart leaps a little at the thought, if only just because of how pissed off it would make Salvatore. But that's not exactly a risk I can take.

Not to mention, he won't let me out of his sight once he gets back to the villa.

"I'm not here alone. I don't know what plans there are for the evenings." I don't say that I'm with someone, exactly, and I'm not sure why I'm dancing around it. It's not like it can change anything, or as if something could happen between Blake and me. But I have a feeling he might stop flirting if he knew I was married, and I like the feeling of being flirted with, of being wanted. I'm not ready for it to be over so soon.

I wrap my left hand into a fist in my lap, slipping off my ring. I don't want him to see it. I know I can't get away with anything, but this feels like getting back at Salvatore, just a little. A small victory.

I drop the ring into my tote. "Those surfing lessons sound like they could be fun, though."

"You should come and find out." That smile is still on his face, and I don't really know much about men or flirting, but it looks genuine to me.

Genuine enough to get us both in trouble, if I were to let it go too far. But this is just flirting, and that can't hurt anyone. Especially not when I feel sure that my husband is going to spend our marriage doing far more than just flirting with whoever catches his eye.

He didn't say he intended to be unfaithful last night, but he also didn't deny it. I saw the look in his eyes, the one that said he hadn't considered whether or not celibacy was something he could commit to, if he was committed to not sleeping with me unless absolutely necessary.

Just the memory makes me grit my teeth. Salvatore acts like it's a chore to take me to bed, like he's defiling us both in some terrible way, and it feels good to be looked at differently. To see this sexy bartender eyeing me purely because he can, with no moral qualms about it or feelings of guilt that he likes what he sees.

Salvatore isn't the man I chose, but if he's insistent on being my husband, he should at least be able to do that.

I scan the menu to try and distract myself while sipping at the drink Blake made me, finally settling on sweet potato and corn tacos with a cream of coconut drizzle on them. When he offers me a second drink, I take him up on it, even though I know it's probably not the best idea. But I don't really care. I have no idea how many more days like this one I'll be allowed, on my own with only my stealthy security for company, and I want to make the most of this one.

It feels like the closest thing to a really good day that I've had in a long time.

It's not until I push Salvatore's credit card across the bar to pay for my meal and drinks that I remember his name is on it. Blake's going to figure out pretty quickly that I'm here with a man. And even though I don't have any plans to do more than flirt, I feel a flicker of disappointment at the thought that I won't be able to come back and have this feeling again.

But when he brings the card back, I don't see any change in his expression. He pushes it and the receipt back towards me, that mischievous smile still on his face.

"You should think about checking out the surfing tomorrow. I'll even give you one free lesson on the house." He winks, and I feel a flutter in my chest.

This is a bad idea, and I know it. But I tell myself that a little flirtation never hurt anyone. That if Salvatore is so uninterested in treating me as his real wife, that it shouldn't matter what else I do, so long as I don't cross certain lines.

I know I'm rationalizing. But I return Blake's smile, slipping the card back into my tote. "Maybe I'll stop by."

"I hope you do." He looks at me for a moment longer, before grabbing the dishes and disappearing into the back room to the left of the bar.

I slide down from the barstool, feeling a little tipsy. It's time to head back to the villa, and I take a moment to steady myself before I start to walk. I feel warm and slightly sunburnt despite all the sunscreen, full of good food, the taste of the sweet, tropical drink still lingering on my tongue and the feeling of it buzzing in my head. I feel a little like I'm floating, and I realize that I'm spontaneously smiling for the first time in days.

That is, until Vince appears seemingly out of nowhere at my elbow. "You might not realize it," he says quietly, his voice pitched so that only he and I can hear what he's saying. "But Salvatore is a dangerous man. He's not one you want to cross."

He falls back then, without another word, melting back into the stealthy obscurity that he and the rest of his men have maintained.

I know the warning for what it is. He saw me flirting with Blake, maybe even saw me take my ring off, and is letting me know that there could be consequences to my actions. It annoys me more than anything else—I know that already. Of course, I do.

It's not as if I were planning to let anything happen between us,I think irritably as I walk back, fumbling in my tote bag for the ring to slip it back onto my finger. I'm just having a little fun. God forbid I get to have fun.

Salvatore isn't back yet when I walk into the villa. Someone has been by to clean, and it smells of lemon spray and clean floors, everything neat and polished. I set my things down in the bedroom, stripping off my clothes and going to take a long shower, washing the salt and sand off. I linger until I hear the faint sound of the door shutting from the front room of the villa, before I finally get out and braid my wet hair again, slipping into a different sundress.

"Gia?" I hear Salvatore call my name from the bedroom. "They'll be serving dinner soon."

"I'll be right out!" My stomach knots at the thought of sitting down at the table with him for dinner after last night. I can't tell from his tone how he's feeling—if he's still angry, or if he's planning on pretending as if none of it ever happened—and it makes me anxious.

This doesn't feel like a honeymoon. But then again, I'm not sure why I expected that it would.

When I emerge out onto the deck, Salvatore is sitting at the table already, wearing what I've come to think of as his vacation uniform—chinos rolled at the ankles and a linen shirt with the first few buttons open. There's a similar setup to last night waiting for me—a bottle of wine with a glass already poured for me, a platter of baked oysters, and a plate of sashimi, along with a clear soup. I sit down, smoothing my napkin over my lap, and glance up at him as I put some of the sashimi on my plate.

"How was your day?" I ask neutrally, not sure if I really want to know, but asking all the same. It's the only topic of conversation I can think of that doesn't lead us back to the same old argument.

"I was about to ask you the same." Salvatore takes a sip of his wine, reaching for one of the oysters. "Vince tells me that there were no issues."

Oh, thank fuck.I'd been a little afraid that Vince might tattle on me, that he might tell Salvatore about my excursion to the bar and what he saw—or what he thought he saw. Although I suppose if he had, Salvatore wouldn't have been nearly so calm when I came out to dinner.

"It was fine." I shrug, as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. As if today hadn't been one of the best days of my life. I don't want to give Salvatore a chance to give himself the credit for it, to pat himself on the back and say that he's the reason because he brought me here, and allowed me the freedom to explore. That he's doing a fine job as a husband because of it. "I went to the market and did a little shopping, and went to the beach. I had lunch and came back home. It was a beautiful day out. I think I might go back to the beach tomorrow morning, if you're planning on being occupied with work again." I watch his face cautiously for some sign that he might object, but he just nods.

"That sounds acceptable, so long as you don't try to evade your security."

"I didn't try today," I mutter irritably, reaching for another piece of fish. "I'm not a child, Salvatore. I understand that they're there to keep me safe." I might not like it, but I do understand. Here, the danger of something happening to Salvatore or me is low, but it still exists. It's possible that someone could figure out who we are, or that we could have been followed by someone who wishes us harm. Not even just the supposed threat of the Bratva. A man like Salvatore has other enemies, and by extension, they're my enemies, too.

"All the same, Gia, it bears reminding." He scoops another of the oysters out of its shell, looking out over the water as he reaches for his wine glass. "You're reasonably safe here, but it's still my job to make sure you stay that way."

"Of course." I give him a faux-sweet smile, reaching for my wine. "You'll protect me physically, just not my emotions."

Salvatore gives me a warning look. "I tried to speak with Igor today. I wanted to find some way to come to terms with him, something he would accept as a different means of brokering peace. As I think you can expect, he wasn't overly receptive. I didn't actually manage to speak with him, only one of his brigadiers."

"Why are you telling me this?" I wait for his answer, as the first course of our dinner is taken away and replaced with a spread of fish tacos and various accoutrements to sprinkle over them. "It's not as if you want my opinion on any of it."

Salvatore sighs. "I thought it might help you to understand that Igor is angry. You're not safe at home, and it was a good idea to bring you here. It's also worth noting that they're not without the resources to find where we've gone, although I don't think we'll be followed."

"Of course, he's angry. You stole his son's wife." I reach for one of the thin corn tortillas, beginning to pile flaky fish, pico, a lime crema, and crumbly cheese onto it. "He's not going to say thank you."

"We're not going to debate the semantics of that again." Salvatore begins to fix a taco of his own, but I can't help but notice that there isn't all that much enthusiasm to it. He barely touched the first course, either. He doesn't seem to have much appetite—almost as if he's preoccupied or worried.

Why do I care?I'm preoccupied and upset, too, and he seems determined to avoid any discussion of my emotions tonight. I look down at my food, frustrated at him dismissing me so easily.

"Are you going to be gone every day of our honeymoon?" I ask innocently, leaning down to take a bite of my taco.

Salvatore raises an eyebrow. "I would have thought you'd be glad to not have to deal with my company. I don't seem to improve your mood."

There's a hint of something in his voice that stops me for a moment. It's similar to the moment on the jet when it seemed as if it had hurt his feelings to realize that I was excited about our destination, not about spending time with him. As if a part of him wants me to want him around.

I can't resist poking at him. "There are things we could do that I'm sure would improve my mood."

Salvatore narrows his eyes at me. "We've been over this, Gia. It's entirely possible that you're already pregnant from last night, and if so?—"

"What if I'm not?" I interrupt him. That sharp, hot resentment rises up in me again, bitterness that he's intent on depriving me of an essential part of our marriage, that he finds it so repugnant.

"Then we'll try again next month." He says it with a finality that feels like a slap.

I sit back, slowly absorbing that. His intent is only to sleep with me once a month? I'm well aware that he's always framed it as a chore, but that feels somehow even worse. I can see him timing it to when I might be most likely to get pregnant, perfunctorily fucking me, and then leaving me cold for the other twenty-nine days. It's so clinical that it makes me feel physically ill.

"You can't be serious."

Salvatore blinks slowly, as if reining in his own impatience with me. "I'm entirely serious, Gia. And I have no intention of last night happening again, while on this vacation. You convinced me of the need for an heir. So we've started that process."

I stare at him. "You make it sound like a—like a fucking passport application or something! For fuck's sake, you know it probably takes more than once, right?" I can feel my cheeks heating. "This is ridiculous?—"

"I'm in no hurry." Salvatore leans back, his expression impassive. "It's been a long day, Gia. While you were out gallivanting on the beach, I was dealing with stressful matters back home. I'd like some peace at the end of my day. We are in paradise, after all. I'd like to be able to enjoy the calm."

I'm nearly trembling with anger. He makes me sound like a fishwife, like a shrieking harpy that won't give him a moment's peace, and all I want is for my husband to treat me like a wife. For him to want me.

"Don't you even care how it makes me feel?" I hate how my voice trembles, but I hate the feelings coursing through me just as much. I feel small and unwanted and trapped, confused as to how the man who married me could find it so awful to sleep with me. He claims it's about honor, that it has nothing to do with desire or a lack thereof, but I don't know what to believe any longer.

Salvatore narrows his eyes at me. "I'm well aware of how it makes you feel, Gia. You've told me at length."

Except I haven't. Not the most vulnerable parts of it, not the parts that right now are making me feel as if I'm going to burst into tears. And I don't feel like I can sit at the table with him for a moment longer.

"Excuse me," I blurt out, tossing my napkin onto the table with my unfinished dinner. I grab my wine glass, getting up quickly, and heading towards the door that leads back inside the villa, and a part of me wants Salvatore to call after me. A part of me wants him to tell me to come back, that we'll talk things out.

But he doesn't. I slip inside, glancing back once through the glass door, and I see him still sitting pensively at the table, looking out over the water.

I go to the living room with my wine, curling up on the couch and pressing my forehead into the back of it. There's silence in the villa for a long time, except for the staff coming in and out to swap out the courses and clear away dinner. They don't acknowledge me, and I sit there until I hear Salvatore come in from the deck, and the sounds of the shower turning on a few minutes later.

Once I hear the water, I go into the bedroom and change into one of my bikinis, slipping back out to the deck. The moon is high over the water, shining on the glassy surface of the pool, and I watch it break apart as I slip into it. All traces of dinner are cleared away, the deck empty and clean, and I set my wine glass on the edge of the pool as I swim. I half-expect Salvatore to come out after a while, but he doesn't.

I'm tired after a long day, but I'm not ready to face sleeping next to him yet. I stay in the water for a long time, thinking about Pyotr, Salvatore, and my father, about all the ways I thought my life would go, and trying to imagine what might happen now.

It all feels uncertain, uncharted, but not in a good way. Not in a way I can anticipate. I just don't know what will happen.

I don't even know if I'll be able to be happy.

I felt lonely after my father died, the first time in my life that I ever felt it. I thought that feeling would pass after I married Pyotr, that my life would be full again, that I'd have someone at my side to chase the loneliness away.

But now, I'm lonelier than ever. And to hear Salvatore tell it, I never would have had what I thought was possible with Pyotr and me.

Apparently, I was always going to feel this way.

Eventually, I go back inside and change into something to sleep in, after rinsing the chlorine off. Salvatore is already in bed, and I realize when I sit down on the edge of the mattress that he's already asleep, snoring lightly. Somehow, that only makes the ache in my chest worse—that he went about his night as if I weren't even here.

I slip under the covers and close my eyes, wishing that I could hope tomorrow will be better.

But it feels like it's just going to be more of the same.