17. Gia

In the morning, I once again wake up alone. The sheets and blanket on Salvatore's side of the bed are once again tucked up neatly and smoothed over. I frown, wondering how he once again managed to get up and leave without disturbing me at all. I typically sleep well, but either he's actually being careful not to wake me—which seems like more concern than he actually feels—or the sun and relaxation of vacation has me sleeping more deeply than usual.

I sit up, glancing to see if he's left another note for me, but there's nothing. I didn't take the card out of my bag yesterday, and I hope that it's still there. If he retrieved it, I won't be able to go out today.

Pushing back the covers, I stretch and swing my legs out of bed. I'll have a quick breakfast, I decide, and then go see about those surfing lessons. I have no idea if I'll like it or not, but it seems like fun. At the very least, the flirtation with Blake will be, especially after Salvatore's attitude last night.

I pad to the bathroom, pushing the door open with the intent to take a quick shower—and freeze as I see Salvatore standing at the counter, not unlike that first morning that I walked in on him in our bathroom at home.

He's shirtless, his soft sleep pants pushed down below his hips, low enough to show the deep cuts of muscle in his abdomen that carve down to the thick tuft of his pubic hair, his hipbones standing out in sharp relief, the swell of his ass just visible. His eyes are closed and his jaw set, his forearm flexed as his hand grips his swollen, lubed cock, sliding swiftly up and down the hard, straining length.

"What the hell?" I burst out before I can think better of it, staring at him. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Salvatore's eyes fly open. His hand goes still, clenched around his cock, and I see frustrated anger glimmer in his eyes. "For fuck's sake, Gia," he snaps. "Do you ever knock?"

It's hard for me to tear my gaze away from his cock. That's been inside of me. It felt?—

It felt like it could have been good. If he'd slowed down, if he'd given me a chance to really feel it, if he hadn't rushed to the finish because he wanted it over with. I bite my lip, and I don't miss the way Salvatore's gaze briefly flicks to my mouth.

God, he really is handsome.He looks like he's been carved from stone, all chiseled muscle and tanned olive skin, that dark chest hair inviting me to run my fingers over it.

"Gia." He growls my name in a way that makes a shiver run down my spine. "Get. Out."

Defiance rears its head, and I shut the door behind me, crossing my arms over my chest as I start to move toward him instead. "No."

Salvatore's eyes widen. He lets go of his cock abruptly, as if he's only just remembered he was still holding it. "Gia?—"

"Go on." I motion to his stiff cock. "Since you can't be bothered to fuck your wife. Let me see how you take care of it yourself."

Salvatore lets out a shuddering breath, and I see his cock throb visibly. His hand flexes. "Gia?—"

"Good. You remember my name, at least." I move to one side as he starts to try to go around me, blocking him. "What, you don't want to finish? Or maybe you want me to take care of it for you." I reach out, as if to touch his cock, and Salvatore smacks my hand away. As he does, his own hand grazes his stiff length, and he lets out a hissing breath. His fingers wrap around it as if on instinct, and his jaw clenches.

I reach down impulsively, dragging my tank top over my head. I'm not wearing anything under it, and I see the muscle in Salvatore's jaw leap as his gaze flicks down to my bare breasts. A shiver of desire tingles over my skin, my nipples hardening, and I see his hand tighten around his cock.

"You don't want my hand, either?" I take a step closer, and he steps back, towards the counter. "Do you want my mouth? I could get on my knees for you, if you want. Wrap my lips around it, run my tongue all over you—" My voice lowers as I speak, teasing, husky, and Salvatore's gaze darkens. His hand moves, almost as if he doesn't mean for it to, stroking down his length as his palm rubs over the swollen head, and I see his hips jerk.

"A good mafia wife doesn't know about any of those things until her husband teaches her," Salvatore murmurs. His voice has lowered, too, thickening, his accent deeper as his hand convulses around his cock. I'm getting to him, and we both know it. I feel a delicious curl of anticipation in my stomach—tormenting him might be better than sex. It's better than the sex we had the other night, although maybe not as good as some of the other things we've done?—

"You're supposed to be innocent." Salvatore's hand slides along his length again, his gaze flicking to my breasts and back up. "A virgin bride shouldn't even know what to do with her husband's cock."

"Well, I guess you'll just have to make do with your spoiled bride." I reach up, plucking at my nipples with my fingers, and Salvatore's lips press together, his hand sliding up and down his length again. I see pre-cum pearling at the tip, dripping over his fingers, and I lick my lips. "You're going to make a mess," I pout, blinking innocently at him. "Do you want me to lick it up?"

"For fuck's sake, Gia—" Salvatore closes his eyes, his hand moving faster. His expression is taut, tortured, as if he wants to stop and can't. "You are fucking spoiled," he growls, his eyes opening again, his palm sliding down to rub over his tip again. "Just not in the way you mean. You're a little brat." The word comes out on a thick snarl, his voice catching in his throat. "You want to make me feel bad for what I've done. Nothing makes me feel worse than this." He narrows his eyes at me, still stroking. "Looking at you, and wanting to touch you. I'm so fucking hard it hurts, from sleeping next to you all night. And I can't even fucking get off in peace. I should punish you." His voice lowers. "Maybe then you'd learn to behave the way a wife should."

"How is a wife supposed to behave?" I taunt, raising an eyebrow. "Isn't a good wife supposed to make her husband feel good? Take his cock when he needs to come? Isn't she supposed to pleasure him however he wants?" I hook my fingers in the edge of my shorts, shoving them down my hips along with my panties, and I hear Salvatore's groan as he watches them fall to the floor. "You could bend me over the sink right now. You're so hard. I'd feel so good to you, wouldn't I? It'd feel so good to bury yourself in me while you come?—"

Salvatore lets out a pained sound, and I see his other hand flex, as if he wants to reach for me. He steps back, his hand still clenched around his cock, and I circle around him to the bathroom counter, pushing myself up onto the edge of it. I remember his reaction the first morning I woke up in his bed, when I teased him, and I spread my legs, letting him see every inch of me. I don't know if it's him I want or if it's just the sudden power that I feel that turns me on, but I can feel the heat between my thighs, the slick, dampness of my arousal.

"If you're so guilty," I murmur, spreading my legs wider still, "then stop jerking off. Stop right now."

Salvatore swallows convulsively, his throat tightening as his gaze dips between my thighs. I see his hand stutter on his cock, see the way it throbs in his fist, but he doesn't stop. He keeps stroking, and I can see the effort that it takes for him to look away from the view of my pussy, open and wet for him.

"You can't stop," I mock him, reaching down between my thighs. I'm so wet it startles even me, as I spread my folds open, making sure he can see exactly what he's missing. "You can't stop, and you can't fuck me, so what kind of man are you, Salvatore? One who can't control himself but can't fuck his wife?"

I rub my finger over my clit, leaning back with my other hand braced on the counter, and Salvatore groans. The look on his face is pained, his hand squeezing his throbbing cock. "Come fuck your wife," I purr, rolling my finger over my clit again. "I'm so wet. Don't you want me all over your cock? Don't you want to come in me?"

Salvatore snarls, and before I can take a breath, he crosses the space between us to stand between my legs. For one moment, my heart pounds as I think he's going to thrust into me, that he's finally going to break. But instead, he keeps stroking, his other hand coming up to grip my chin as he glares into my eyes.

"You are the bane of my existence," he hisses, his voice choked with lust. "You are a constant torment. You drive me insane, Gia, and all I have ever done is try to protect you. You are a spoiled, ungrateful woman. I continue to protect you, and all you do is try to hurt us both. To break me—" His voice breaks on a moan as his hips thrust into his fist. "You test everything I believe in, and to you, it's just a game."

"And you've stolen everything from me!" I try to wrench free of his grip, but he's holding me tight, keeping me there staring into his face as he jerks off an inch from my skin. I can feel the heat wafting off of him, see every clenched muscle in his body. And I can't seem to stop, either. My fingers are still rubbing frantically over my clit, my own body winding tight, the emotion and lust rising higher by the second as Salvatore leans in. "You took everything, and you won't give anything back."

"I won't allow you to destroy everything I've devoted my life to, Gia," he growls. "You can try all you like, but I can control my own lusts."

"Interesting you would say that," I gasp, arching into my hand as I feel my orgasm approaching, "when you're about to come all over me."

Salvatore's eyes squeeze shut, a groan tearing from his lips as his entire body goes rigid. I look down just in time to see his cock swell in his fist, throbbing as cum spurts from the tip, splashing over my belly and up to my breasts as his hips jerk rhythmically. He moans like an animal in pain, his hand on my chin tightening as he fucks into his fist, another spurt of hot cum coating my breasts and triggering my own orgasm.

"Oh, fuck!" I gasp aloud, my back arching as the sensation crashes over me, my hand gripping the counter to hold myself steady as I moan aloud. It feels incredibly good, better than I would have thought, the feeling of the liquid heat splashing over my skin, combined with the sound of Salvatore's near-feral groan and the forbidden tension of it all heightening my climax to something that feels as if it rips free of my body. I keep rubbing my fingers over my clit, wanting to draw it out, to make it last. I feel Salvatore's hand drop away from my face, hear his panting breaths, and open my eyes to see him turning his back, looking away from me as he tugs his pants up around his hips.

"It's unfortunate there's only one shower in here," he growls, his voice low and irritated. "But even though it'll make me late, I'll be a gentleman and let you go first, Gia."

And then he turns and stalks out of the bathroom, closing the door hard behind him.

—

A half-hour later, I emerge to find the bedroom empty. I lingered in the shower longer than I probably should have—not out of a desire to make him even more late, but just to get my thoughts in order. I feel more confused and frustrated than ever.

I thought I'd feel more of a sense of satisfaction from "winning" that particular fight. I did win, I think—Salvatore might not have given in and fucked me, but he certainly did something he didn't mean to do. He wanted to force me to leave while he took care of business himself, alone. I forced him to face up to his fantasies, to look me in the eye while he gave himself the relief he so clearly needed. Not to mention, he lost control enough to come on me, something I'm sure he thought he was too good to do.

But I don't feel satisfied, or happy, or in control. If anything, I just feel tired, as if the fighting is starting to wear on me, too. As if the entire situation is beginning to wear me down.

If Salvatore is telling the truth, and Pyotr really would have been awful to me, then I would have been in a bad situation no matter what. Maybe a worse one than this, if he's to be believed. But no matter what, if that's true, I would have left that altar facing an unhappy future. It feels almost soul-crushing to believe, to feel that my future was doomed regardless.

An emotionally unavailable husband who pretends he doesn't want me to salve his own conscience, or a violent one. Neither are options I wanted, and neither is what I expected to get. It's a hard thing, to think that I'm stuck between the past possibility of a cruel marriage, or my present situation of a marriage that's cold and contentious by turns.

I catch a glimpse of Salvatore sitting out on the deck, what looks like a breakfast spread arranged next to one of the lounge chairs. The glass door leading out to the deck is open, letting the warm tropical breeze in, and I see Salvatore look up as I walk through the bedroom.

He stands, and I flinch, knowing he's going to come and talk to me. I don't have any idea what to say.

"Gia." His voice is flat and neutral. Courteous, even, as he walks into the bedroom. "Are you finished in there?" He nods towards the bathroom.

I touch my wet hair self-consciously. "Um—yes. I was just going to let my hair air-dry." The strangeness of the conversation strikes me instantly, discussing something so innocuous with a man who, moments ago, was grasping my chin in his fingers while he jerked off naked between my legs. It's like he's an entirely different person now, outside the grip of the lust he's trying to suppress. It makes me wonder what he'd be like if he just let himself feel what he wants to feel.

"There's still breakfast outside." Salvatore gestures towards the deck. "I'm finished, feel free. The coffee should still be hot."

"Thanks." I bite my lip, unsure of what to say, but he doesn't really give me a chance to say anything else. Instead, he strides to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. I think I hear it lock.

I go out to the deck, where an array of breakfast foods very similar to what was brought to me yesterday is laid out. I pour myself a cup of coffee and pick at some scrambled eggs, looking out towards the sandy beach beyond the rippling water. It seems like I'm going to have another day to myself, and the anticipation of that is enough to suppress the confused feelings tangling up in my chest.

Except—

I let myself imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like if Salvatore and I were behaving like a real couple on this "honeymoon." I try to imagine him out here having breakfast with me, walking down to the beach together, strolling through the market. I imagine him buying me something because it caught his eye and made him think of me, sharing lunch and a drink in the open-air bar, splashing each other in the water. It's hard to envision Salvatore enjoying himself so much.

Maybe that's part of his problem. He's been so focused on duty his whole life, he doesn't know how to enjoy himself. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if he felt that way about sex, too. If it's always just been a means to an end for him, rather than something done in pursuit of hedonistic pleasure, and so he can't fathom letting himself lose that much control.

I want to know what it feels like to lose myself in that kind of pleasure, to give myself completely over to my partner in bed. I want to discover all the things I've only ever read about or imagined, and I want to do them with someone who wants me. I don't want to have to be half in and half out of my head the entire time, wondering what's going through my husband's mind while he works up the initiative to fuck me.

This isn't fair. And at least Salvatore had a choice in the matter, even if he wants to act like he didn't.

The door opens a little wider, and I turn to see Salvatore standing there, his wet, dark hair swept back, wearing his more relaxed "vacation" clothes. "I'll be back this evening, Gia. Feel free to do whatever you like, as long as you have your security."

"Okay." I bite my lip, wondering why I feel the urge to ask the next question that slips out. I don't really care, do I? "Why are you going somewhere to work? Can't you just work here at the villa? It's not like you need to meet anyone in person?—"

Salvatore frowns. For a brief second, I think he's going to tell me it's none of my business. But then he lifts one shoulder in a careless half-shrug. "Staff comes in and out of the villa during the day to clean and such. I rented a space where I can have privacy for meetings and work. There's silence, a beautiful view, and I'll be left alone."

"So this isn't a vacation for you." I look at him curiously. "Did you ever intend on relaxing on this trip? Or was that all just made up to make me think that's how it was going to go?"

He gives me an odd look. "Why do you care? It's not as if you want to spend time with me."

That makes me pause. The truth is, I don't really know why I care, or why I asked. I don't have an answer for him. Salvatore seems to realize that, because after a few beats of silence, he shrugs and turns away. "Enjoy your day, Gia," he says flatly. "I'll see you for dinner this evening."

I watch him leave, hearing the sound of the front door shutting behind him. And once he's gone, all that there's left for me to do is finish my breakfast and head down to the beach.

—

At this point, checking out Blake's surfing lessons is just a distraction. I slather on sunscreen, put on shorts and a patterned, fluttery crop top over my bathing suit, and start the trek toward the stretch of sand just beyond the bar where I met him yesterday. True to his word, I see a shack-like wooden stand with surfboards propped up against it, a small crowd made up of mostly women, and Blake standing behind the low wooden counter, shirtless and wearing only a pair of board shorts.

I try not to feel a flutter of jealousy at the idea that I'm far from the only woman he's flirted with into coming down here, and that he's clearly not hurting for attention—that I'm just one more in a sea of pretty, tanned, eager women waiting for him to look at them with those big blue eyes.

But the moment I approach the counter, his gaze immediately locks onto mine, and his mouth spreads into another of those wide, genuine smiles that I was the recipient of yesterday.

"Gia." He steps away from the blonde talking to him, and walks towards where I'm standing, his gaze flitting over me with frank appreciation before he looks back up at my face. "I'm so glad you came. I wasn't sure you would, actually."

I want to ask him why that is, but I'm pretty sure I already know—he can't have missed the name on the credit card I used yesterday. "I've never tried anything like this before. But it sounds like fun."

"It's a blast." Blake grins. "Come on, I'll get you signed up, and then we'll all troop down to the water and get started."

He hands me a piece of paper—just a waiver in case of injury and some basic information about myself. I fill it out quickly, hesitating only a moment over the spot for my name. I end up writing my maiden name, Gia D'Amelio, instead of my married one. It's a tiny rebellion, but it feels like taking a small bit of my own agency back. I prefer the name my father gave me to the one that Salvatore did.

I leave my tote bag and sandals at the shack, curling my toes into the warm sand as I wait with the other women for directions. I can't help but wonder what Vince and the rest of my security are thinking about this. I feel a small curl of unease in my stomach, wondering if Vince might call Salvatore and tell him. But I'm not doing anything wrong, I remind myself. I'm taking a surfing lesson—there's nothing wrong with that. Just because the instructor happens to be handsome and flirtatious doesn't mean that I'm committing some kind of sin.

"Okay, Alice, you first." Blake motions to the blonde as we get down to the water's edge, and she walks over to where a surfboard is waiting in the sand. I feel another of those tiny flickers of jealousy that he didn't pick me first, but I quickly quell it. It'll be my turn soon enough.

"Have you done this before?" A tall, thin, dark-haired girl to my left turns towards me. "I'm Michelle, by the way," she adds.

I shake my head. "No, this is my first time. Oh—Gia. I'm Gia."

"Nice to meet you." She glances back towards the water. "I've been here for a week. This is my third lesson. Blake's a really good teacher—very patient. Which is great, because I'm far from a talented surfer." She laughs self-consciously.

"I've only been here a couple of days. I went out exploring yesterday—I met Blake at that bar." I gesture up the beach. "He told me I should come check this out."

"I'm glad you did! It's always nice to make new friends. Here, let me introduce you."

She nudges me towards three other girls who are standing and talking in a small circle, and I'm quickly introduced to Melanie, Bethany, and Victoria. The entire foursome has similarly perfectly fit, toned figures, all of them exuding careless wealth and the kind of sleek gloss that only comes from having lived that way their whole lives. It only takes me a few minutes to find out that they're here on a bachelorette week away, and Victoria holds up her left hand. There's a gigantic oval-shaped diamond on it, and she waves it so that the sun glints off of it, sending out a prism of rainbows.

"That's gorgeous." I'm glad I slipped my band off and left it in my tote again. If anyone looked closely enough, they might notice the thin tan line on my left ring finger, but I doubt any of them will.

"He picked it out himself." Victoria grins. "After I left a bunch of magazine photos in very conspicuous places, obviously. I might have accidentally forwarded him an email about ring styles I liked, too."

I bite my lip, thinking of what ring I might have liked to have. I hadn't ever really considered it. Pyotr hadn't given me a ring at our engagement, telling me instead that it was his family's tradition to gift an heirloom ring at the altar. And Salvatore had just pushed a gold band onto my finger. I hadn't even had a chance to think of whether I liked an engagement ring I'd been given or not.

Now, I probably never will.I can't imagine Salvatore going out of his way to buy me a ring, especially when he doesn't have to. As far as he's concerned, he's done everything he has to do in order to protect me. There's no reason to go further than that.

"Where are you from?" Michelle asks. "I live in Boston. Victoria and Melanie co-own a clothing store in San Francisco, and Bethany owns a chain of restaurants in Seattle. You can imagine we don't manage to get together very often, so this vacation has been really nice."

"I'm from New York." I bite my lip. Thankfully, she hasn't asked what I do—I have no idea how I would actually answer that question. I never put much thought into why the only friends I've had—the only friends that my friends have—are the daughters of other mafia families. But now it occurs to me why that is. Who else could understand us, and our way of life that doesn't entirely fit into the twenty-first century? I can't tell any of these women, as nice and eager for friendship as they seem, that I'm the daughter of a mafia don, that my marriage was arranged, that I'm here on my honeymoon, and my husband is my godfather, who upended my planned wedding at the altar because he claims to have been afraid for my life.

I can only imagine what the looks on their faces would be.

"What brought you here?" Their curiosity seems genuine, and I feel bad having to skate around the truth. But I can't really give it, and I don't want to talk about Salvatore, especially not with strangers.

Right now, all I want to do is escape from my reality, and that's what I came down here to do. Not be reminded of it.

"Oh, just—you know." I raise one shoulder in what I hope looks like a casual shrug. "Just needed to get away."

That, at least, is true—even if it's probably not the reasons that they'll assume.

"I hear that!" Michelle laughs, only to turn and glance towards Blake as he calls her name for her turn. "Okay, wish me luck."

I watch as she strides down towards the surfboard. Alice doesn't appear to have done too well—her hair is half out of its ponytail and plastered around her face. Michelle, on the other hand, seems to be keeping her balance fairly well for all her claims that she was bad at it.

While we wait, I end up learning a little more about my new friends. Victoria and Melanie both went through fashion school, intending to open up a boutique clothing store. Victoria's fiancé is a hedge fund manager in San Francisco. Bethany has aspirations of opening a new restaurant in Los Angeles in a few years. They're all clearly from wealthy families—they all grew up together in Boston, where apparently Michelle stayed and became a lawyer, but they've all gone on to inherit their trust funds and have their own aspirations and careers. Victoria is the only one who's engaged, although Melanie thinks her boyfriend is going to propose any day.

It reminds me that I don't have aspirations like that—or rather, I can't. My life has always been set. I can't have my own career, business, or plans. My life was always going to revolve around the husband that was chosen for me and my place in the mafia world. It makes my stomach sink when it hits me that even if I had married Pyotr, even if he wasn't what Salvatore claims, that would still have been my life.

I believed that it would make it better that Pyotr seemed to see me as an equal. That I'd be his partner in running the Bratva, not just someone left on the sidelines. But being here, seeing the full lives that these women have in vivid color, I wonder if even that would have been enough. Or, if one day, I would have wished for more.

I hadn't realized how much I was missing. And I don't know if it makes it better or worse that I'm experiencing a small part of it now.

Michelle and her friends must have signed up as a group, because Blake calls their names one after another, before bringing them all down to the surfboards together for a final group lesson. I spread my towel out on the sand as they all go to meet him and watch, nervous for my turn. I don't want to embarrass myself.

Finally, Blake calls my name. Michelle grabs my arm as I pass, flashing me a smile. "Meet us up at the bar when you're done," she says. "We can all get drinks and lunch. We're going to go do some shopping first."

"Okay." I return the smile, nodding. "That sounds great."

Blake is waiting for me when I make my way down the sand, his blond hair plastered to his skull and darkened from getting wet. The sun is glinting off of his damp abs, and I try not to look too hard. I'm sure he's used to women ogling him all of the time, but I'm not supposed to.

It cuts both ways, though. I left my shorts and crop top on my towel before coming down to meet him, and I can tell from the way he looks at my skimpy bikini that he likes what he sees. All that Pilates paid off, I think wryly, as I wait for instructions. I might have plenty of insecurities, especially when it comes to my own husband, but at least I know I can hold my own against all the other gorgeous women on this beach.

"Alright," he says enthusiastically, as if he never gets tired of trying to give awkward women lessons on how to use a surfboard. "We're gonna push it out into the water, just up to like hip-deep, and then you sit on it. Just try to get your balance at first, okay?"

I feel my cheeks flush when he says sit on it. I can think of things I'd like to sit on, and I'm glad my better sense keeps me from saying it aloud. I don't want him to think of me as just another married woman who's flirting with him because she's lonely or bored. A part of me just wants him to like me. It feels like that, as much as anything, is what's missing from my life. A man who not only finds me attractive, but genuinely likes me.

Blake pushes the board out into the water, and I follow, shivering a little when the chilly water hits my bare legs. He moves around to stand next to me, and I nearly flinch when his bare hand touches my back. "Alright. Can you get up on it?"

I nod, hoping that the sun is a good enough explanation for how hot my face is. Blake's hand stays on my back, steadying me as I try to climb up on the surfboard as gracefully as possible, and I have another small flash of fear as I wonder if any of my security can see what's going on in enough detail to see Blake touching me. I can only imagine how Salvatore might feel about that.

And what would their opinion be if they saw someone else touching him? Probably nothing, and that thought pisses me off enough that I stop worrying about it.

Once I'm astride the surfboard, Blake grabs his and jumps onto it. "Alright. We're just gonna paddle around a little to start. Get used to feeling it under you, how it moves, get your balance. Okay?"

I nod speechlessly. I'm already way off-balance. I hadn't realized how sexual learning to surf could sound. Or maybe it's just me, and my mind's in the gutter because of all the unresolved tension in my marriage.

"There you go," Blake praises, as we move the surfboards through the crystal water. "You're getting the hang of it. Now, let's try getting up on your knees, and balancing that way."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Everything about his expression as he says it, is completely guileless. But I don't miss the way his gaze is fixed on me as I carefully rearrange myself on the board, getting onto my knees. I can't help but wonder if he's imagining this in a different scenario, a scenario that then leaps into my mind, and I feel myself blushing deeper than I imagined possible.

"Are you alright?" Blake raises an eyebrow. "You look flushed. If the sun is too much?—"

"No, I'm fine," I reassure him, almost a little too quickly. "What now?"

The rest of the lesson, at least, requires enough focus that I'm able to stop thinking about him quite so much. Eventually, I get to a standing position on the board, and Blake praises me effusively, which only makes me feel that much more flushed and uncertain around him.

"I rarely see anyone able to make it all the way up on their first lesson!" he exclaims, grinning. "You must have great core strength."

"It's the Pilates," I mumble, still red-faced and looking out towards the breaking waves to see if any of them are heading our way. "Should I stay up?—"

"Yes! There's a small wave coming this way; see if you can ride it to shore." Blake gestures, moving his own board out of the way to give me a clear line to stay on mine and take the wave back to the beach.

"I don't know?—"

"You can do it!" His enthusiasm, truthfully, is enough to make me believe it. He'd be a great coach. I eye the small wave again, trying to hold my center of balance—and then I feel momentarily as if I'm floating as the wave catches the board, sending me towards the beach and the small cluster of other women waiting there.

For a second, I think I'm going to fall. And then I find my balance again, and manage to stay upright all the way until my board skids onto the sand, stumbling off of it as I try to get a new kind of balance once more.

My crush on the instructor aside, it was fun, I realize. The kind of fun I've rarely had—the kind I've been discovering since I got here. I'm glad, suddenly, that we have at least the rest of the week here, if not longer. I want more of this.

"I told you that you could do it!" Blake comes up behind me, his hand touching my waist as he grins at me, his skin once again glistening from the water. This time, I don't think I can pretend that the touch is normal, or that he does this with everyone. In the water, it could be construed as help, but I didn't see him touching any of the other women when they finished their lessons.

"I'm impressed with myself." I manage a small, shaky laugh. "It was a lot of fun."

"You should come back. You'll keep improving." Blake's hand is still brushing against my skin, and I feel a warm tingle spreading out from where his fingers are lying against the curve of my waist. I think if I leaned in and kissed him, impulsively, he wouldn't hate it. He'd laugh, and probably kiss me back. And then he'd ask me to meet him later.

It would be careless, and fun, and mean nothing, I realize. And I wish I could do something reckless that meant nothing. I've never been able to do anything like that.

I take a step back, putting distance between us before I can make a mistake. "I need to meet my friends. Thanks for the lesson."

"Anytime. And I mean that." Blake grins. "I'll be at the bar when I'm done with lessons for the day."

"We're going to have lunch there. So maybe I'll see you."

"I hope so." He winks, that smile still on his face, and goes back down to where the boards—and the other women—are waiting.

I swallow hard. The smart thing to do would be to go back to the villa. But I want to have lunch with my newfound friends, and I want to have a drink in the sun, and I want to flirt with Blake a little more, and hold onto this feeling. So I move my towel a little further down the beach, stretching out in the sun until I've dried off enough to get dressed again, and then I gather up my things to meet the other four women.

They're not there yet when I get up to the bar, and neither is Blake. I get a table this time, ordering a water and looking over the menu while I wait. The day is beautiful, just this side of hot, but the breeze that moves through the open-air bar helps mitigate it enough that it's pleasant. Besides, after months of New York winter, I'd rather be too hot than cold.

About twenty minutes later, I see Michelle and her three friends walking up to the bar. I wave in their direction, and they immediately make a beeline toward me, setting their bags from the market down by the chairs.

"How was the lesson?" Michelle grins at me, waving at the waiter to come over. "I saw the way you were looking at Blake. Hard to focus with an instructor that hot, isn't it?"

I can immediately feel myself blush again, and I feel a flicker of panic. If this woman, who's known me for less than an hour, picked that up, I'm worried about what Vince might have thought—especially after his warning yesterday.

But I haven't done anything wrong. Nothing that Salvatore can legitimately be angry about. If Vince wants to tattle on me for looking, I'll be sure to let Salvatore know how I feel about that.

"He said I actually did really well. I managed to stand up and ride a small wave in."

Melanie whistles. "I don't think any of us did that well! But we were all too busy staring at him to pay attention, I think."

Bethany laughs. "There's so many surfers on the West Coast. The three of us see them all the time." She motions to herself, Melanie, and Victoria. "But honestly? He's really up there in the top ten hottest ones I've seen. And this whole I don't care, island life vibe that he has is really hot, too. A lot of the guys out there pretend to be carefree and the type to just ignore rules or whatever, but they actually want to make it to the top and eventually be rich. Everyone out there just wants to get noticed, one way or another."

"It's so true." Victoria lets out a little sigh. "I'm so glad we made that no social media rule for this trip. It's been so nice not worrying about posting every little thing." She glances at me. "It's so exhausting, you know?"

I bite my lip. "I actually don't have any social media," I admit. "I never have."

Michelle lets out a surprised sound. "Well, lucky you. To be fair, I ignore mine most of the time. Being a lawyer means every post on the Internet is a minefield. Wrong person gets ahold of it, twists my words around—there goes being a judge, or any kind of political career. But there's still that pressure to post every latte and aesthetic breakfast I have, you know?" She laughs. "Or I guess you don't."

"It sounds stressful." Privately, I think it actually sounds kind of fun—the idea of showing off a carefully artistic, curated view of my life to others. But I'm sure it sounds appealing only because I've never had a chance to actually do it. I'd probably be exhausted if it was an expectation, the way it seems to be for them.

"It can be." Bethany pulls out a menu, looking it over as she sips at her water. "But I try to just stick to the parts of it I like. Food influencing can be a lot of fun. It's Victoria and Melanie that really have to do all that daily nonsense to keep their brand going."

"Hey." Michelle taps me on the arm. "Blake made it back."

I look up, and see him walking in, a tank top and cargo shorts on now, his blond hair still damp and shaggy around his face. I feel a flutter of something that could be anticipation or apprehension, I'm not sure which.

He looks over, scanning the bar as if looking for something—or someone—and stops as soon as he sees me. I feel that flutter again, and see Victoria's knowing grin.

"Go talk to him." She smirks at me. "He likes you. He kept looking at you this morning, even with everyone there paying attention to him."

"Oh shit," Melanie murmurs. "He's coming over here."

Blake walks directly to our table, stopping at the edge of it. "Hey there, ladies. Gia." He smiles at me, and I can't miss the way my name is the only one he says. "Can I get you all something to drink? Gia, I can make you what you had yesterday, unless you want to try something new."

I don't think I'm imagining the undercurrent in his voice, the insinuation there. His hand is resting on the back of my chair, and I'm very aware of how close he is.

"What you made me yesterday is fine," I manage, swallowing hard, and I can see the expressions on the others' faces.

"Oh my god," Melanie whispers once Blake takes the rest of their drink orders and heads back to the bar. "He's really into you. You should see if he wants to meet up. Maybe after he gets off of work?—"

She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, and I blush.

"It's just fun to flirt." I shake my head. "It's not going anywhere."

"Why not?" Victoria laughs. "If I wasn't engaged?—"

Because I'm married.It's the obvious answer, but it's one I can't give—to them, especially. It'll open up an entire line of questioning that I'm not prepared to fill them in on, and that I don't want them to know the answers to. I don't want to explain my life and its strange ins and outs to them. I want to be this version of myself, the one who isn't tied to the mafia, who can have an innocent flirtation, who has an entire life that I could make up on the spot if I felt like it.

I shrug instead. "I just don't know if I want to do all of that on my vacation. But who knows?"

Who knows?The question lingers as Blake brings our drinks, hanging around to talk a few minutes more before returning to the bar, and the girls tease me a little bit before turning to other topics of conversation. Could I let it go further? I'm not sure how—I can't leave the villa without security. I can only imagine the hell that Salvatore would rain down if I tried to sneak off and evade them…especially if something bad happened as a result.

Especially if he found out it was over another man.

But I can't help but let the fantasy go a little further. If what Salvatore has given me is all my marriage is ever going to be, then why shouldn't I think about having fun elsewhere? If my marriage bed is going to be cold, then why shouldn't I find pleasure where I can? That's what mafia husbands do all the time, after all, and no one stops them. It feels wholly unfair that I'm held to different standards just because I'm a woman.

We order lunch—a platter of different tacos—and sit and chat, ordering a second round of drinks. Each time, Blake brings our drinks personally, standing by my chair while he hands them out. Michelle makes sure to point that out, and I try to brush it off. But it makes me feel shivery, anticipatory, even though I know I can't act out what I'm thinking.

I can't add as much to the conversation as I'd like—I can tell that the other women know I'm being cagey. "You must have one of those jobs where you get in trouble just for talking about it," Victoria says teasingly, and I just smile, letting them believe that. It's easier than the truth, or saying that I just don't want to talk about it. But I like hearing about their lives—about the high-powered rat race of being a lawyer that Michelle is so happy to get away from for a week, looking through Bethany's Instagram profile as she shows me some of the dishes she's created, or hearing about Victoria's plans for her wedding. In the space of a couple hours, over fruity drinks and tacos, I hear about an entire world that I know I'll think about in the future, wondering how their lives are going.

Of course, it all comes up short when they want to exchange phone numbers, promising to get in touch when we're all back in the States. I tell them I forgot my phone back at the villa, but write theirs down, promising to text once I'm back. Of course, I'm not going to—and that realization makes me more than a little sad. I probably won't ever see or talk to these women again once I go back to New York.

"You should go talk to him," Melanie urges, as we pay our checks and they prepare to head back to their villa. "I know there's something there. He's been looking over at you the whole time we've been here."

I linger for just a moment after they leave, considering going up to the bar to talk to Blake. He's busy taking orders, the bar packed, but I know he'd take a minute if I went up there. But what would I say?

I need to go back.It's starting to get late in the afternoon, and by the time I get back to the villa, shower, and change, it will be dinnertime. And the more time I spend talking to Blake, the more chances there are that Vince will think something is amiss, and tell Salvatore about it.

So instead, I grab my tote, and start the walk back to the villa.

It's the same as yesterday when I return. The sky is beginning to turn the brilliant colors of the tropical sunset, but Salvatore isn't back yet. The villa smells fresh and clean, everything organized, quiet except for the lap of the water outside. I can't help but think, as I set my things down and go to get in the shower, that it's strange how easily people adapt. I've been here all of two days, but I've already started to form a routine.

By the time I get out of the shower and change, Salvatore still isn't back. I'm surprised to feel a flicker of worry, and I reach for my phone, hesitating. He's never told me not to text or call him, but I can't help but wonder how he'll feel about my checking up on him. Still—it feels strange that it's dark out, only a few minutes away from the staff starting to bring dinner, and he's still not here.

Letting out a sharp breath, I walk out onto the deck, sinking into one of the lounge chairs and quickly typing out a message.

Hey. I'm not trying to nag or anything, but you're not back yet, and I'm a little worried. Are you alright?

There's no immediate response. As the minutes tick by, I frown, wondering if I should go get Vince and ask him to check in with Salvatore's security. I've never really thought of what I should do in this scenario. But just as I'm about to get up, my phone buzzes.

I'm surprised you worried about me. I was just briefly held up. I'll be back soon.

I purse my lips, glaring down at the message. I can almost hear the sarcasm in Salvatore's voice as he says it, and it's more than a little irritating. But before I can give in to the urge to say anything back, the door opens, and one of the staff starts to bring out dinner.

"Mr. Morelli is running late," I tell her quickly, as she starts to set up the ice bucket for the wine, and puts a glass dish of shrimp cocktail on the table. "If you can hold anything hot, he should be here soon."

"Of course, Mrs. Morelli." The woman smiles at me, and then hurries back out. I wince, getting up to go to the table. Hearing myself referred to as Mrs. Morelli is always strange. I don't like it. But then again, I haven't liked very much about my circumstances since my wedding day.

It's another fifteen minutes before I see Salvatore's shadow moving through the bedroom. I've already finished a glass of wine and nibbled my way through half the shrimp cocktail. I see his raised eyebrow when he steps out onto the deck and sees the decimated appetizer.

"What?" I ask defensively. "You didn't say anything about waiting to eat."

"I would never," he assures me, his tone amused. He walks over to join me, sitting down and immediately reaching for the bottle of wine. "Far be it from me to deny my wife food if she's hungry."

"Well, at least that's one thing you won't deny me." The words come out sharp and biting, before I can even think twice about them, and from the way Salvatore pauses with the wine bottle halfway to his glass, they sting more than I realized they would.

He lets out a slow breath, pouring himself a full glass of the chilled white wine before setting it back into the bucket, and glancing over towards the door. He doesn't say anything until the woman bringing our salads drops them off and scurries away, and then he turns his tired gaze on me.

"I know fighting with me is your favorite pastime, Gia." His voice is laced with exhaustion, and I feel another surprising flicker of worry. "But could we take a night off from it? I don't have the energy to fight with you tonight."

I don't care what he has going on,I tell myself—but for once, I can't convince myself that it's entirely true. Looking at his slightly drawn expression and tired eyes, I find myself wanting to know what's bothering him. "Alright," I say slowly, and I don't miss the slight raise of one eyebrow, as if he's surprised that I've given in. "Did something happen?"

Salvatore draws in a slow breath, pausing as he looks at me almost warily, as if he's deciding whether or not to discuss it with me. "There was an attack at the mansion," he says finally. "A test, I think, to see what our defenses were like. And possibly, whether or not you and I were there. Igor still refuses to speak with me, but I am still trying to open communication with him, especially after this."

"You don't want to just retaliate?" I frown. "Isn't that how you would normally respond?"

"In the past, perhaps yes." Salvatore takes another sip of his wine, visibly uninterested in his food. I find myself suddenly worrying about that, too. "I would have urged your father to take stronger action, in a situation like this. But I find myself wanting to negotiate for a more peaceful solution, in the hopes of still achieving some of what your father set out to do." He looks at me warily. "I would still like to achieve that peace that he worked for, and honor his wishes. Just without endangering you in the process."

I hesitate, looking at him uncertainly. I can hear the tension in his voice, see the stress in his expression, in the way he's holding himself. He doesn't look like a man on vacation. He looks like a man overwhelmed.

"Maybe you should try to relax a little while we're here," I venture, picking at my own salad. "This is supposed to be our honeymoon, after all. Maybe take a little break?—"

Salvatore lets out a sharp, exasperated breath. "How do you suggest I do that, when the danger is so imminent? When the men I've left behind in New York, the men who work for me, for the mafia, for our family, are now in danger from the Bratva? When I need to consider whether or not Igor will try to find us, once he finds out we've left? Or take into consideration how long we need to stay, and how to try to come to an agreement before we return, so that I'm not delivering you directly back into that same danger?"

He shakes his head. "None of this needs to be laid on you, Gia. It's my responsibility to protect you, not burden you with my worries and concerns. But since you're asking—I don't think you realize the pressure there is on me, to make sure not only you, but countless others are as protected as I can manage. The responsibility of having so many who rely on me—for their employment, for their futures, for their safety. The men who work for me do so knowing the danger, to themselves and their families—but they trust me to mitigate that danger as much as I'm able. Not every don takes that responsibility seriously, but I do."

The sincerity in his voice brings me up short. For the first time, before I respond, I think—really think, about what it is that he's saying. What he's trying to tell me, to impart by saying that much. It's more than he's said before, in these conversations.

"You could talk to me about these things," I venture slowly. "We're married. That's what a husband and wife should do, right? Talk about their problems with each other? Lean on each other?"

Salvatore presses his lips together thinly. "I don't think we have that kind of marriage, Gia."

He says it curtly, as if it closes the topic, but I'm not so certain that it does. I look at him across the table, and I feel a flicker of understanding that I didn't have before. Not regarding the state of our marital intimacy—just thinking about that still makes me angry and resentful. But the rest of it—the tension that's always simmering just below the surface, his restraint, the way he always seems distracted by things outside of what's going on between us—I think I understand that a little better. And I feel a burgeoning respect, too, that I didn't have before.

Regardless of the problems in our relationship, it's clear that he takes his duties as don seriously. As seriously as my father did—perhaps even more so, because it was his job then to oversee those duties, just as it is now, only with added pressure. Now, the decisions are his and his alone.

I can see how sincere he is. How worried. And it reframes all of this once again, making me doubt everything I've believed. The man sitting in front of me isn't a man who would upend the security of the family for his own lust. He's not a man who knows how to give in to those lusts. He doesn't even seem to want to admit that he has them.

"It could be different." I bite my lip, wondering what's possessing me to reach out to him like this. To try to bridge this gap between us. What's the point, when it always ends in fighting?

But no matter how much I tell myself that I don't care about him, that I want him to hurt, the idea of revenge for what he's done just doesn't feel the same any longer. Not when I see this look on his face, and feel that he's punishing himself enough. Not when I'm beginning to believe that his desire to protect me is genuine—that it really is what drove all of this.

I feel a flicker of guilt, too, for my flirtation with Blake. While I've been ogling a bartender and teasing myself with fantasies about what I could enjoy if I weren't married, Salvatore has been worrying about me, about his home, about his men still in New York. About the Bratva. It makes me feel like the spoiled girl he's accused me of being in the past, and I don't like it.

"Gia." Salvatore lets out a sigh, and I realize with a cold, sinking pit in my stomach that this isn't going to work. We're two different people, and he doesn't want me to reach out to him. He wants me to stay where I am, obeying him but not standing next to him. "This isn't necessary. You don't need to pretend to care. I've been handling all of this for years; I can continue to handle it now."

His dismissal should make me angry. It usually does. But instead, I just feel a wave of disappointment, followed by the sting of rejection.

He doesn't want my affection, or my desire, or my love. He simply wants to know he's done his duty. He wants me safe, and nothing more.

But I want more than that from the man I'm going to spend the rest of my life with. And I don't know how we're ever going to get across the chasm that divides us.