18. Salvatore

Imake sure to get up well before Gia, as soon as the sunlight coming in through the gauzy curtains wakes me. I don't want a repeat of yesterday morning, or a difficult conversation before I leave for the day.

I want peace, but it's clear that with my marriage, any chance of that has been well and truly shattered.

It's only been a short time since I stood at that altar and coerced that I do out of her, but it feels like a lifetime. I knew it would be a struggle for her to adapt, that her strong personality and willfulness would make this difficult at first—but I hadn't imagined how much I would struggle. How hard this would be on me.

I had no idea how much I would want her. I hadn't imagined I could desire her the way a husband should desire his wife, or how differently I would see her once she was in that role.

I also hadn't imagined that I would begin to truly care for her. Not just as a ward, or as my responsibility—but as a woman. As my wife.

There are aspects about her that make me wish that there was a way to make this genuinely work between us. She's smart, and brave, and tougher than I realized. Not everyone would take the opportunity to explore a new place on their own—or as much as security would allow them to—but Gia didn't hesitate to go out and enjoy the island. I can tell that if she would give up her stubborn refusal to think badly of the Bratva, she would understand the risk they pose. She might even have useful ideas on how to handle the situation.

And, despite the headache that it gives me, she hasn't backed down in the face of our marriage, no matter how much she dislikes it. Her willfulness and attitude drive me to the brink of madness at times, but I have to admit that I prefer it over someone who would cry endlessly, or lock themselves away in a room and pout. She's not shy about showing her displeasure, but she's also tough and defiant in the face of what she considers to be adversity. She's not a wilting flower, or someone who crumbles under pressure.

I'm beginning to see how rash I was in my decision-making, when it came to this union. I still believe that there was no other choice, that marrying her was the only way to protect her from the Bratva and their cruelty. But I understand how that decision not only upended my life, but hers as well.

I look at her as I dress, feeling a pang in my chest. She looks fragile when she sleeps in a way that she never does when she's awake, her face soft and young, her dark hair tumbling around it. Awake, it's hard to believe that she would need protecting from anything or anyone, but like this, the urge to keep her safe wells up in me until it's nearly overwhelming.

It could be different.Her words from last night come back to me, haunting me. She's right, of course. It could be different. I just don't see how.

The gulf between us is too vast. Not just in age and experience, but in what we want. She wants a fantasy of a husband, a passionate, intense lover who puts her on a pedestal, and I've never let an encounter with anyone go beyond a night or two. Sex, for me, has always been about fulfilling a need, like eating a meal or drinking water. I've always kept my baser desires on a tight rein. And what I feel for her?—

I'm afraid to let myself indulge it. It feels wrong, especially when it comes to her. I'm supposed to protect her, not ravish her. Shelter her, not bare her to me, and make her expose all the softest and most vulnerable parts of herself. And truth be told—I'm not sure that I want her to see mine, either. That kind of passion cuts both ways, I expect, and I've never let a woman see me laid bare. Gia, with her ability to cut to the bone even now, could tear me apart in ways I can't imagine if I let myself be vulnerable with her.

When it comes to the other part of a marriage, the idea of partnership—I know how to work for someone, and how to manage my own affairs, but working with someone is not my strong suit. I can follow authority, as I did with her father, but sharing it is another matter. And all of that, aside from my commitment to Enzo and his legacy, is why marriage was never on the table for me before this.

I've never been the marrying kind, until I was pushed into this as surely as she was. And now all we've accomplished so far, besides her tentative safety, is making both of us miserable.

Guilt floods me as I look at her once more, while I gather up my things. The ache of desire that I feel for her is a constant, and the guilt that I feel because of it is overwhelming. I shouldn't want her. I shouldn't feel the things for her that I do. I shouldn't want to go back to bed, to pull the blankets back, to strip us both bare so I can touch every inch of her flawless skin with mine.

The heavy ache in my groin is another constant, but I ignore it, focusing on the guilt. I gave in yesterday—what red-blooded man wouldn't, after seeing her since we arrived, for two nights, wet and half-naked in the bikinis she brought along undoubtedly to torment me? And all that resulted from that was Gia catching me, and escalating things in a way that satisfied neither of us and only made me feel worse.

How long can I endure this?That question plagues me as I leave the villa, heading to the space that I've rented to work at while we're here. Breakfast is waiting for me as requested—an egg and bacon sandwich on a croissant with coffee—and I sit heavily down in my chair, picking at it while I open my laptop and try not to think about how long a lifetime of this will undoubtedly be.

But the question worms its way back in, over and over, as the morning crawls by. Gia confronted me about being unfaithful, which she clearly expects from me, and I didn't know what answer to give her. I have no desire to be unfaithful to my wife, but I'm also not certain that one quick, perfunctory fuck every month—or not at all, once I have a son with her—will always be enough for me. I certainly don't think celibacy is something I can manage, although I've never sought out company before on a constant basis. But at the same time, I recognize how unfair that is to her—on both sides of the question—just as surely as I recognize that the idea of anyone else touching her makes me feel half-mad with rage.

But the thought of touching her outside of sheer necessity makes me feel as if I'm being swallowed up by guilt for the things I want. It's an impossible problem, and one that I don't know how to resolve.

I have a meeting with Josef over a video call, discussing reinforcements and how best to proceed with Igor. It's hard for me to focus as we talk, my thoughts constantly drifting back to Gia. This morning, after I got up, I found one of her romance novels next to the bath. I flicked through it for just a minute, startled at what I read on the pages. It made a little more sense, then, how she knows as much as she does about what she thinks I want in the bedroom—and imagining doing those things to her nearly drove me to lock the door and wrap my hand around my cock again, just to ease the arousal. Some of it, I could so easily imagine—and some of it made me feel filthy, for reading it and knowing that it would turn me on to do those things with her, when they should horrify me.

Frustrated, I get up when the meeting is over, intending to go for a walk in the afternoon sunshine—maybe get some lunch instead of having it delivered to me. My conversation with Gia from the night before replays in my head, and I can't help but wonder if I was too abrupt in cutting off her bid to close that gap between us. If, maybe, it would have been better to entertain her attempt, and encourage her to open up to me.

I can't be the lover she wants me to be. I'm not even sure that I can be the sort of husband that would make her happy. But maybe things could be less contentious between us. Last night was the first inkling I've had from her that she's willing to try to achieve that. I'm sure that my curt response caused her to throw up her walls again. But there's the possibility that I could soften the blow from last night.

I know her well enough to know that she likes pretty things—luxurious things. I know she likes jewelry. Despite the contention between us, she's worn the set I gave her for our evening out more than once. There's a small jewelry shop that I've passed twice now on my way to my workspace, and I head there as I leave, just to take a look.

A small bell chimes as I walk in, and I can smell watch oil and the scent of some kind of potpourri, along with floor wax. My shoes click on the gleaming hardwood floor as I walk in, and I immediately see a middle-aged woman with her black hair up in a high bun come out from the back, a welcoming smile on her face.

"Is there anything I can help you find?" She walks up to the glass counter. "We have all sorts of jewelry. Are you looking for anything specific?"

"Just looking around. I'll know what I want when I see it, I think." I return her smile, pleasantly, and she nods.

"Well, just call for me if you want to see something closer up. I'll be in the back."

There are several displays of engagement rings and wedding sets—unsurprising, since I imagine there are plenty of people who come here for a proposal or to get married. It occurs to me that Gia doesn't have an engagement ring, but it feels disingenuous to get one for her, considering that I didn't ask, and she has no way out now. I don't know what she would want, either, and picking something out she disliked would have the opposite effect of what I'm trying for.

I browse a selection of necklaces, and then look a little further down, at a case displaying bracelets on plastic wrist mannequins. Most of them are diamond, a few turquoise, but one catches my eye.

"Can I see this closer?" I call out, and the woman appears immediately, bustling toward the case where I'm standing.

"Of course." She unlocks the glass case, reaching for the bracelet I point out and laying it out on a velvet pad. "Here you are."

It's lovely. Delicate and feminine—a tennis bracelet style comprised of pink garnets and small pearls interspersed between each other. I can picture it on Gia's delicate wrist easily, and I have a feeling that she'll love it.

"I'll take it," I tell the woman decisively, reaching for my credit card.

"Of course. We have matching earrings, too." She carries the bracelet to the register, dipping into a different case to pull the earrings out to show me. They're dainty flowers, the petals comprised of matching pink garnets, with a pearl in the center of each. "I'm sure your wife would love these. Or whoever it is that you're purchasing them for." She gives me a sly smile, and I raise an eyebrow.

"I'll take them as well." I ignore the comment, pushing my card towards her. I'm sure there are plenty of men who bring mistresses here, but that's not my style, and it's also none of this woman's business.

I actually can't recall ever having bought a woman a gift before, other than those first gifts I bought Gia. As I wait for the woman to wrap them up, I find myself hoping that Gia will like them. I thank her as she hands them over, tucking the small boxes into my pocket, and look at my phone to see where she is. The location sharing on the phones isn't because I want to keep track of her so much as to ensure that if anything ever were to happen, I'd have a better chance of getting to her quickly, if she managed to keep ahold of her phone. It makes me feel more secure, knowing I have at least some chance of knowing where she is and that she's safe, although I'm sure Gia might have other opinions about it if she knew.

The map on my phone shows that she's at a bar and restaurant about a mile away—probably having lunch. I tuck my phone back into my pocket and pick up my pace, and I find that I'm looking forward to the idea of surprising her at lunch. The thought of sitting down for an impromptu meal with her and giving her the gift lifts my spirits, and makes me wonder all over again if maybe she was right. Maybe we do have a chance, if we try. Even if we can't come to an agreement just yet on the physical aspects of our relationship, maybe there's the possibility of a friendship between us. With time, and carefully growing that friendship, maybe there can even be some measure of a partnership between us.

For the first time since I interrupted the wedding, I feel a flicker of hope for the future, rather than just resignation. There are a vast amount of issues to conquer between Gia and me, but I consider that we can, perhaps, tackle them one at a time. If she continues to feel the way she did last night, when she was willing to talk with me rather than fighting, I feel as if it's possible.

I round the corner towards the restaurant, looking forward to seeing her. And then I do—and I stop in my tracks.

Gia—my wife—is sitting at the bar. That in and of itself wouldn't be cause for alarm—except for the fact that the bartender, a handsome younger blond man, is leaning towards her. His hand is on her arm, his thumb brushing the soft inner skin of her wrist. And I feel a surge of anger, so sharp and primal that it doesn't begin to compare to anything I've ever felt before.

I've never been an overly violent man. In my younger days, I enjoyed my enforcement duties a little more than I should have, from time to time. I liked the feeling of being tough, of bringing down Bratva, of ensuring that the mafia territory was protected. But I grew out of that quickly enough—and I never felt anything close to what I'm feeling now.

I want to rip his hand off of her arm, and break every bone in it. I want to snap his fingers while he begs for mercy, for daring to touch her. And then?—

Slowly, I move closer, wanting to hear the conversation. And what I overhear makes my blood boil even hotter.

"—I didn't see you at the surfing lesson this morning." The bartender's hand doesn't leave her arm, and Gia doesn't pull away. "I didn't run you off, did I? Maybe I came on a little strong yesterday, but?—"

"It's complicated." Gia's voice is soft, almost breathy. There's none of the sharp anger that I'm used to, the cutting edge. Her eyes are wide, looking at him with an expression that makes me seethe.

"I get it." His hand slides down, wrapping around her fingers, and I clench my jaw tight. "I saw the name on the credit card. You're not here with girlfriends, are you?"

"Blake—" Gia bites her lip, and it takes everything in me to wait a moment to approach, to let myself find out where this is going. I'm seeing red, my hands clenching into fists, on the verge of exploding into a rage more violent than anything I've ever felt.

While I was working to lessen the Bratva threat, this is what she's been doing. While I've been buying her jewelry, she's been sitting here flirting with another man. My teeth grind together, the anger in me a living, palpable thing.

"Come back tonight," he urges, still holding her hand. "Sneak out after he's asleep, or whatever. We'll go dancing and have a good time. You can't be enjoying your vacation with him, not if you're here, flirting with me."

"Is that what this is?" Gia gives him a small smile, still biting her lower lip, and I can't contain myself any longer.

"It certainly looks like that's what it is," I growl as I stride forward, nearly knocking over a barstool.

Gia jumps, snatching her hand back from Blake's. Her eyes go wide, her cheeks instantly flushed, and I can see the guilty look in her eyes. "Salvatore, it's not?—"

"Don't bother." I reach out, my hand gripping her upper arm as I pull her up off of the stool. "We'll talk when we get back to the villa."

"Salvatore—"

"Hey, man. Maybe take your hands off of her—" Blake starts to speak, only to blanch, flinching backward as I turn towards him with a vicious expression on my face.

"Listen carefully, son," I growl, narrowing my eyes at him. "You're only in one piece because I have more important things to do than take you apart joint by joint for touching my wife. But there's a hell of a lot of security around here, even though you won't have noticed them, and they all do my bidding. If I tell them to, they'll mince you into so many pieces even your dental records won't be enough to tell who you are. Do you understand me?"

The boy looks so pale, I think for a minute that he actually might pass out. "Yes. Yes, I?—"

I snort. "See this, Gia? One threat, and he's practically on his knees begging. This is what you prefer?"

"No, I—" She swallows hard, looking fearfully at Blake and then back at me. "It was just a flirtation, Salvatore. It didn't mean anything. Just harmless fun."

I know she's frightened because she's not snapping at me, not arguing, not yelling, and demanding I take my fucking hands off of her. I want to feel bad that I'm scaring her, but I can't, because I know that she's not afraid for herself. She's afraid for him, and that makes me even more furious.

"We'll talk about it in private." I pull her away from the stool, towards the door. "And you, Blake—I suggest not sleeping too soundly for a while."

He stammers something that I don't hear, because I'm already hauling Gia towards the door. Unsurprisingly, the moment I get her outside, she tries to wrench free of my grasp.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she hisses, trying to pull away. "You can't just come grab me and take me wherever you want—ow! You're hurting me. And how the hell did you know where I was, anyway?"

I whirl her to face me, both of my hands on her upper arms. "You're lucky I don't have Vince kill that bartender on sight," I snap, glaring down at her. "Not another word until we're back."

For once, she actually listens. Her mouth is set in a hard line, her eyes snapping fire, but she follows me as I keep my hand wrapped around her wrist, taking her back to the villa. She doesn't say a word until we're inside, and I've marched her all the way to the bedroom, closing the door hard behind us.

The moment I let go, she yanks her hand away, crossing her arms over her chest as she backs up.

"You're overreacting." She tilts her chin up, giving me a haughty, arrogant look that just pisses me off that much more.

"I'm not." I stalk towards her, the anger still burning in my chest as I back her towards the bed. "You're mine, Gia. Mine, and no one else looks at or touches what's mine? Do you understand?" I reach for her again, holding her in place as I stare down at her gorgeous, defiant face. "I'll lock you up in a room if I have to, if this is how you're going to behave."

The words pour out, sharp and angry, and they might startle me if I could think past my anger. I've never been a man given to rages. I've never been possessive of anyone or anything. But just the sight of that boy's hands on Gia made me murderous. It made me want to do unforgivable things. And right now, having her here, in our bedroom, I want to do far worse than that.

I want to remind her who her husband is. I want to drive every other thought of any other man out of her head, until she's so wholly mine that nothing and no one can take her from me. I want to devastate her, ruin her for anyone else. And the worst part of it is that I think deep down, she wants it, too.

I think a part of her didn't want him at all. She just wanted to push me to this.

And my control is so very, very close to snapping.

"I don't belong to you," Gia hisses, trying once again to wrench away from me. Her hair has tumbled down out of the loose bun it was in, falling around her face, and she looks painfully beautiful like this. "You can't treat me like this, Salvatore?—"

"I can do what I want." I push her back, until her legs hit the edge of the bed, and I feel her tremble—with fear or anticipation, I'm not sure which. My cock twitches, thickening against my leg as I hold her there, and desire mingles with the anger until I feel like I'm going mad with it. No one has ever made me feel this way before, as if every repressed desire and emotion I've ever felt is surging to the surface all at once, on the verge of drowning us both.

"No, you can't!" She twists in my grasp again. "I won't stand for it, Salvatore! You can treat me as an equal, fuck me like a wife, or leave me alone to my own devices. But you can't have it all! You can't ignore me, leave me cold and push me away, and expect me to just take it?—"

"And you think your Bratva husband would have treated you as an equal?" I nearly snarl the words, and I feel her stiffen, but I don't care. We're too far gone for me to stop, her flirtation with another man, the spark that's lit the fuse, about to go off.

"Yes!" She cries out. "Yes, I thought that. And now I'll never know, because you?—"

"So what do you want?" I let go of her with one hand, grabbing the romance novel off of her nightstand that I saw this morning. "This? Is this what you want? The kind of thing written in here?"

"Salvatore—"

"Is this what you fantasized about when you were engaged to Pyotr? Do you picture him, while you read this?"

"I—"

Before she can say another word, I toss the book back onto the nightstand, spinning her around to face the bed. I grab both of her wrists, pulling them behind her back as I grip them in one hand, fumbling for my belt buckle with the other. "Alright, Gia," I growl, yanking my belt free. "If you want to behave like a slut, I'll give you what you want. If you want a man who acts like a Bratva husband, I can give you that, too. Since you crave it so much, you can go ahead and fucking have it."

She's shaking now, her lips parted and her eyes wide, but I can't tell if it's fear or arousal that's driving her. The possibility of the latter stiffens my cock until it aches, until it's straining against my fly as I push her face-down onto the bed. I toss the belt onto the bed next to her, grabbing the skirt of her dress in my fist and shoving it up to her waist.

"Salvatore, what are you—" She gasps the words, and I curl my fingers into the side of her bikini bottoms, yanking them down her thighs and letting the damp fabric hit the floor with a soft thud.

"Punishing my wife." I push her dress up higher, so that I'm holding it out of the way with the same hand gripping her wrists. "Teaching you a lesson, Gia. I should have done this the first time you talked back to me. I should have taught you what happens to spoiled brats. But better late than never," I add, reaching for my belt and folding the leather, gripping it by the buckle and the end in my other hand. "If you take your punishment well, Gia, I'll stop at ten."

"Salvatore—" She gasps my name, twisting against my hold on her wrists. "Please?—"

"Please, what?" I mock. My cock throbs as she says it, the sound of her gasping, please, doing things to me that I didn't know were possible. "‘Please, stop?' Or ‘please, keep going.' This is what you fantasize about, isn't it?"

"I—" She swallows hard, letting out a whimper as I drag the leather belt over the firm, tanned curve of her ass.

She's perfect.She's so goddamned perfect it hurts. My cock is aching, every muscle in my body wound tight, all of me demanding that I take this further. I've never spanked a woman, never done anything like this before, but just the thought of it has me so hard that I can feel the pre-cum dripping from my tip, soaking my boxers and my shaft as I grit my teeth against the throbbing, driving need to be inside of her.

But first, I want to see her ass red while she begs me to forgive her.

"Ten strokes with the belt." I drag it over her ass again, down to her thighs. "To remind you what happens to unfaithful wives."

"What happens to unfaithful husbands?" Gia snaps, some of her defiance returning as she twists her head to look at me. "What do I get to do to you in this scenario?"

"I don't know." I lift the belt, looking down at her. "But I haven't been, so we'll cross that bridge if we get there."

And then I bring the belt down across her ass with a crack of leather against flesh.

She cries out, and my cock lurches, straining to be free. The red stripe against her ass is perfect, and I resist the urge to let go of her so that I can run my other hand across it. I bring it down again, across the other side, and Gia yelps again.

"Please!"

"Please, what?" I growl, bringing the belt down twice more in quick succession. "That's not the word I want to hear from you, Gia."

"What, then?" She gasps as I spank her a fourth time. "What do you want?"

I want you to beg my forgiveness for ever looking at another man. I want you down on your knees as an apology, worshiping my fucking cock until I let you have my cum, and swallow down every drop as a thank you for my forgiveness. I want?—

My balls tighten at the thought, lust rippling down my spine and tightening my muscles until I'm afraid for a moment that I'm going to lose control of my orgasm at the picture of her on her knees, whispering how sorry she is around my cock stuffed in her mouth.

I've never imagined such filthy things before. Never wanted to defile a woman so badly, especially her. But my control is fraying, the guilt no longer enough to stop me, and I don't know what happens next.

Gia lets out a muffled sob as I bring the belt down again, her perfect skin crisscrossed with red now. "It hurts?—"

"It's a punishment. It's supposed to." I spank her again, twice more, bringing the count to seven. "Take it like a good girl who knows she's done wrong, Gia."

As I say it, my cock throbs—only to hear her soft, almost imperceptible moan, enough to make me freeze for a split second.

I had wondered if it might turn her on. As I nudge my foot between her ankles, pushing her legs apart, I see the telltale gleam of her arousal on her soft, puffy lips, swollen with desire and dripping wet for me.

My erection hardens to the point of pain. I grit my teeth, bringing the belt down again twice more, my hand tightening around her wrists. Gia lets out another sobbing moan, and I bite back the growl that nearly erupts from me as I bring the belt down once more, hard across her ass.

Her back arches, her legs spreading wider as she cries out, and I can't tell if it's pain or pleasure any longer. Her folds part as she does, showing me the wet, glistening pink of her hot, tight opening, and my head pounds. I can hear the blood roaring in my ears, and I feel almost dizzy with lust.

I can't stand it any longer. I toss the belt aside, my hand still gripping her wrist, and tear open the front of my pants. I hear a button clink against the floor, but I don't care. I don't care about anything except being inside of her, can't think about anything beyond how badly I need to fuck her, how badly I need to come.

I moan as my hand closes around my hard length, the skin taut and beyond sensitive as I free my aching cock, the tip slick with my arousal. I push the swollen head against her drenched entrance, the heat tearing another pained groan free of my lips—and then I thrust into her, hard and fast, giving us both what we want.

What I can't stop myself from taking any longer.