24. Gia

Ifeel jittery and restless, waiting for Salvatore to come home from his last meeting. We're heading into the city tonight for the wedding tomorrow, and I'm ready for all of this to be over with.

With every day that's passed over the last month, my fears that things will go back to the way they were before our honeymoon between Salvatore and me have dimmed. Nothing has changed. He's been caring and protective without smothering me, keeping me informed about the Bratva and the upcoming wedding, and he's given me everything I could possibly want in bed. The house has been mine to decorate freely, and his wealth mine to spend however I please in that endeavor. It's kept my mind occupied over the past month, keeping me from thinking too hard about the upcoming wedding and the possibility that something could still go wrong, and Salvatore has kept me occupied the remainder of the time.

I no longer worry about him wanting me. But I do wonder whether he'll ever be able to tell me that he loves me—or how long it will take. The words have been on the tip of my tongue for a while now, but I don't want to be the one to say them first. I want him to give that to me, and I'm willing to wait for it. I can feel him holding back, and I'm hoping that it's all this mess with the Bratva that's keeping him from telling me how he feels. That when it's over, he'll tell me what I want so badly to hear.

With a sigh, I set my suitcase on the bed, pausing for a second as a wave of dizziness followed by nausea washes over me. I put one hand on the foot of the bed, taking a deep, slow breath, and I'm so focused on not throwing up that I don't hear Salvatore walk into the room.

"Are you alright, tesoro?"

I jump, letting out a small squeak, and turn to face him. "Yes," I tell him quickly. "Just feeling a little under the weather, that's all. It's probably stress."

Salvatore doesn't ask me what I could possibly be stressed about—he doesn't need to. He knows as well as I do that I'm not looking forward to going to my former fiancé's wedding—the fiancé that was thrown out of the church before Salvatore dragged me in front of the altar himself. I'm no longer angry at him over that. Still, it doesn't change the circumstances of how we began, and it doesn't make seeing Pyotr again any easier.

"The stress will be over this time tomorrow, tesoro," he murmurs, kissing the top of my head lightly. "In the meantime, I'm going to call Leah and have her come up and help you pack. You can tell her what you want to bring."

"I'm fine—" I start to protest, but Salvatore shakes his head, gently pressing a finger to my lips.

"Don't argue, Gia," he murmurs. "In fact, I'm going to tell Leah to draw you a bath, and you can relax while she packs. I want you well-rested before this."

I can hear the protective note in his voice, a tone I've gotten used to hearing, and I don't argue. It's strange, sometimes, how that dynamic has changed between us. I no longer want to fight him tooth and nail on everything, because I trust now that he means well, even when his protective instincts grate a little against my desire for independence. I know he wants to take care of me and keep me safe, and because I trust him now, that fills me with warmth instead of making me want to fly into a rage.

"Alright," I agree, and I see his eyebrow go up.

"Maybe you are feeling ill," he teases, even though it's been a while now since I've fought him on every little thing. But he enjoys reminding me that once upon a time, I did, if only because I think he enjoys getting a bit of a rise out of me.

I narrow my eyes at him, about to fling a retort back, only for another wave of dizziness to hit me. I weave on my feet a little, briefly wondering if I can somehow leverage this to get out of going to the wedding entirely, but I know that's not fair. Salvatore needs me there, to put on a united front for the Bratva deal, and I want to support him. If his duty is to protect me as my husband, then that's mine, as his wife.

"Gia." There's a faint note of worry in his voice as he guides me to the bed, picking up the phone to call Leah. "Just sit down for a minute."

Ten minutes later, I'm neck-deep in a hot, steaming bath that smells like rich vanilla oil, while Leah follows a list that I dictated to her for packing. I feel a flicker of guilt that she's handling all of it, but Salvatore does pay her for that, and the bath is helping. The dizziness has mostly worn off, replaced with a tiredness that makes me wish I could just go to bed instead of us driving into the city tonight.

By the time I get out, I find that Salvatore had dinner sent up to the room, a covered tray waiting for me. My bags are packed and set neatly by the door, and Salvatore is nowhere to be seen—probably downstairs in his office finalizing details for the trip. I feel a faint glow of intimacy at how used to each other's routines we've become, and I sit down on the bed to eat what I can, feeling especially cared for by that gesture.

I know how Salvatore feels about me. I'm just looking forward to him feeling as if he can say it.

The nausea returns after I eat—necessitating asking Leah to bring me up a ginger ale—and I opt for black leggings and a long dove-grey silk tunic-style shirt with ankle boots, instead of something sexier for the drive. I'd had visions of wearing a short skirt and getting up to all kinds of fun with Salvatore in the back of the car, but just now, I don't feel like I'm capable of anything more than a nap.

Salvatore notices, when I come downstairs. He's waiting in the foyer, our bags already taken out to the car, and he immediately loops his arm through mine when I reach his side. "You look a little pale," he says concernedly. "We'll check into our hotel as soon as we get to the city, and you can get a good night's sleep. You look like you need it."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," I tell him dryly as he leads me out to the car, but I know he's worried about me. I feel sure that it's just stress, until we get into the car and I look for a champagne flute to pour myself a glass.

"Are you sure you should drink that?" Salvatore frowns, his brow creasing. "What if you're pregnant?"

I pause, my hand halfway to the glass, a sudden burst of excitement jolting through me. I hadn't thought about it, despite the fact that Salvatore and I have been having enough sex over the past month to get me pregnant three times over—probably because I have been so distracted that I'd put it to the back of my head. But now the possibility seems sudden and immediate, and I look at him, a hopeful expression on my face.

"You think so?"

"Well, if not, then I guess I really am going to have to keep you tied to that bed," Salvatore says wryly, pulling his phone out. He starts to type out a message, and I look at him curiously.

"What are you doing?"

He glances up at me. "Texting my assistant. There'll be a pregnancy test waiting for you at the hotel room when we get there."

I blink at him, a sudden, soft warmth filling me. I can hear the hope in his voice, too—a hope that I once wondered if I'd ever hear, and hearing it now gives me faith that eventually, I'll hear the rest of what he feels for me, too.

I find myself hoping that once we get to the hotel and I take the test, it will be positive. This is exactly what we need before tomorrow, I think to myself as I lean back against the seat, feeling exhausted all over again. Something to look forward to, together, when this is all over.

I'm woken some time later by the feeling of Salvatore lifting me out of the car and into his arms, cradling me against his chest. I blink my eyes open to see the shape of the hotel ahead of us, rising up in a stately white shape against the dark skyline, and I look up at him. "You don't need to do all of this—" I mumble sleepily, and Salvatore shakes his head.

"Shh," he murmurs, kissing the top of my head lightly. "I want to take care of you, Gia. And our unborn child. So you're going to let me do just that."

It's the closest he's ever come to telling me how he feels. I soak in the words, half wondering if I'm dreaming as I lay my head against his shoulder, sinking back into sleep all over again.

—

I don't get a chance to take the test until I wake up the next morning. I slept so hard that I barely registered Salvatore taking me up to our room, or putting me in the huge king-sized bed that took up a good portion of the suite. I feel a little guilty for wasting the chance to enjoy the bed together, but appreciative that he let me sleep.

He'sstill asleep when I wake up, and I slide carefully out of bed, heading to the bathroom. The pregnancy test is sitting out on the counter, and my heart flips in my chest as I pick up the box.

I'm nervous to take it. Not because I don't want it to be positive, but because I want it to be positive so badly. Salvatore has said that he's not in any hurry, and that he's happy to have me to himself for as long as it takes, and I feel the same way. But I'm ready to start a family with him. I've been ready to have my own family since I was old enough to start thinking about marriage.

My fingers shake a little as I slip one of the tests out of the box. It's easy enough to take. Minutes later, I'm standing at the counter, watching the little window as I wait for the result. And when it shows up, the word pregnant clearly written there, I cover my mouth with my hands to muffle my yelp of excitement.

I grab the test, rush back out into the bedroom, and jump onto the bed. Salvatore groans, rolling onto his back as his eyes flutter open, and he blinks several times as he peers up at me.

"What's going on—what are you waving at me, tesoro?"

His voice is deep, raspy with sleep, and in any other circumstances, I'd be quick to slide back into bed with him and bask in all the deliciously dirty things that voice can whisper in my ear. But right now, my thoughts are entirely consumed with one thing.

"Look," I whisper, pushing the test closer to his face. "I'm pregnant."

Salvatore comes fully awake in an instant, sitting up abruptly as he reaches for it. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until the moment his face lights up, his gaze meeting mine with such absolute elation that I realize just how afraid I was that he wouldn't be happy.

"Tesoro. Gia." He breathes my name, dropping the test on the nightstand as he pulls me close, his hand sliding into my hair as he kisses me. "How are you? How do you feel?"

"I'm fine," I laugh, breaking the kiss and pulling back. "I don't feel sick this morning, actually. Maybe I have evening sickness instead."

"Whatever sickness you have, I'll make sure you're taken care of." He throws the blankets back, sliding out of bed and tugging on a shirt. "I'll call room service now, and get them to bring breakfast up. Coffee—decaf, of course?—"

I can already see his mind spinning, thinking of how I need to be protected, doted on, for the length of this just-realized pregnancy. And I know he's showing me how much he cares for me, that he loves me, in ways that words can't measure up to.

But still, I can't help but feel a little disappointed that he didn't say the words. I'd hoped he would, when I told him the news, that this would be the thing that pulled it out of him.

It makes me fear that things aren't as fixed as I thought they were. That there are still things between us that need to be repaired—or maybe that can't be. That maybe Salvatore can't let his walls down completely after building them so high for so many years.

But as I watch my husband bustle around the room, calling downstairs for my breakfast and intent on making sure I'm pampered within an inch of my life, I tell myself to stay optimistic.

Things have been different between us ever since Tahiti. Today, every obstacle to our happiness will be removed. And by tonight, there will be nothing left but us.

I have to hope that's all he will need.

—

I might not have morning sickness, but I underestimated just how tired even early pregnancy would make me. After breakfast, I end up napping again until lunch, and then eat with Salvatore downstairs while he goes over some paperwork on his tablet. I can feel his agitation from across the table, and I know he's trying to keep himself busy until the wedding. I do the same, nestling in an armchair with a book after lunch, until it's time to get ready.

About three o'clock, I get into the shower, taking my time. Salvatore waits for me to finish—I've found that he likes his space in the shower—and then swaps places with me while I dry and style my hair, curling it in long, bouncy pieces before pinning them up on my head on a twisted chignon that makes me look put-together and elegant. My dress for the wedding is a soft sage green silk, with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a scooped neckline, the slits on either side coming up modestly to just above my knees. It's a beautiful dress, meant to make me look every bit the wife of the don, while not drawing too much attention. I slip it on, and I'm just finished putting on my strappy nude high heels when Salvatore walks out of the bathroom in his suit, a box in his hand.

I look up at him, surprised. I'd brought the onyx and diamond jewelry he gave me as my first gift from him—I hadn't expected anything else. The box is small, and my heart stutters in my chest for a moment, wondering if he's going to give me a ring. I'm still just wearing the plain, thin gold band that he slipped on my finger at our wedding, and there's never been any discussion of getting me anything else.

"I wanted to surprise you with this," Salvatore says, holding out the box. "But I think the news today makes them even more meaningful."

I feel a slight drop in my stomach, a momentary disappointment that it's not a ring, but it's almost immediately overshadowed by how happy he is that we're having a baby. I reach for the box, opening it, and gasp softly when I see the long, sapphire drop earrings, a diamond stud at the top, and a teardrop at the very bottom framing them.

"They're gorgeous," I whisper, immediately slipping them free to put them on. "Thank you."

Salvatore puts a hand on my waist, drawing me in to kiss him. "Not as beautiful as you, tesoro." His hand on my waist tightens as my lips press against his, and I feel the tension thrumming through him, wound tight. We're both on edge, and I can't help but wonder if we really have to go to the reception, or if our presence at the ceremony is enough. I don't want to spend all night watching my former fiancé enjoy his wedding reception—I'd rather come back to the hotel and enjoy this gorgeous suite with my husband.

Salvatore checks his watch as I look in the mirror, admiring the earrings. "We should go. The driver will be here in a minute." There's a hint of regret in his voice, and I know he doesn't want to go any more than I do. But we don't really have a choice.

There are certain duties that are required of a don, and his wife, and this is one of those—our personal feelings about it aside.

Salvatore threads his fingers through mine as we walk down the stairs, his hand holding mine a little more tightly than usual. My heart beats a little faster, anxious at his possessiveness and a little excited by it, too. It's a welcome distraction from my tangled thoughts about the ceremony we're about to sit through, which is raising a multitude of emotions that I don't want to think about.

It's impossible not to, though, as we slip into the car. I remember my hopes for my wedding day. I remember how I felt when I was on the verge of walking down the aisle to Pyotr—and how I felt only minutes later, when Salvatore upended my whole world. Now I'm grateful for the choice he made, happy for our life together and all the future promises it holds. However, I can still remember the blind rage I felt that day, and how awful things were shortly after. I remember how I felt about Pyotr, and what I believed he felt for me. I don't love him any longer, but I still feel the sting of finding out that he never loved me, and I know it will take some time for that to fade.

I'm happier than I ever thought I could be. But with Salvatore's feelings for me still unspoken, I can't help but have moments where it's hard to completely trust in it. And I can't help but be unsure about how I'll feel when I see Pyotr, for the first time since I was snatched away from him at the altar.

As if Salvatore can sense my thoughts, his hand moves from mine to my thigh, resting heavily against it. I can feel the heat of his palm through the thin silk, and my breath quickens, my pulse beating faster in my throat.

"What are you thinking about, wife?"he murmurs, the pointed emphasis on the word telling me exactly what he's thinking.

"Just—getting through the wedding." The words stick in my throat a little as I say them, not least of which because of the look on his face when I turn to glance at my husband.

There's a dark, possessive heat in his eyes. His hand slides down my thigh, his fingers dipping beneath the slit in my skirt, pushing the silk up my leg. "What about the wedding?"

I can feel the tension rippling off of him, hot as pavement in the summer. Salvatore's jaw tightens, and I know he's thinking about me seeing Pyotr twenty minutes from now, about how I used to feel about him, about everything that's happened since then. His fingertips graze the inside of my leg, and I gasp.

"Answer me." Salvatore's hand slides higher, and my breath catches in my throat.

I can't answer. I don't want to tell him that I'm remembering how I felt on my wedding day, sorting through all the complicated feelings then and since, looking forward to the closure that today will give. I don't want to talk about this at all. I just want this part to be over.

Salvatore moves closer, sliding smoothly across the leather seat until he's pressed against me. His hand slides up my thigh, to the very edge of it, and I swallow hard.

He reaches up, pressing his palm to my cheek, and turns my head so my face is pressed against the seat, and I'm looking straight at him. His touch is gentle but firm, and I feel the fingertips of his other hand slip between my thighs, sliding over the smooth fabric of my panties.

"I'll give you something to think about, then," he murmurs, his lips an inch from mine. "You can think about this, while we're in this car. You can think about it in the church, while I sit next to you with my hand on your leg. All the way until you walk out of there with me, because you're my wife, Gia."

As he says it, his fingers slip under the edge of my panties, delving between my soft folds. I'm already wet, and I gasp, my mouth an inch from his as his fingers slip easily into me, curling inside of my pussy as I clench around him, his thumb pressing against my clit.

His other hand holds my cheek, keeping me facing him, his fingertip brushing my lower lip as he starts to work his fingers inside of me with excruciating slowness.

"I'm going to keep you on the edge, tesoro, just like this," he whispers, the words ghosting over my mouth. "All the way until we pull up in front of St. Patrick's. And then you'll come for me, and we'll walk in with the scent of you still on my fingertips, and you still pulsing with the orgasm I give you when you see him again for the first time."

His hand tightens on my face, and his fingers press deeper inside of me, making me moan and gasp. "Understand, tesoro?"

I nod breathlessly, unable to speak. I already feel close to the edge, the sensation of his fingers in me and the driver just on the other side of the divider, along with his husky voice murmuring those words to me, sending me to the very brink of an orgasm. I don't know how I'll follow his instructions, how I'll keep from coming, but as it turns out, I don't have to worry.

He keeps me on the edge, all the way there, just as he promised. His fingers move in small strokes, keeping me close, until he feels me start to tremble, and then he goes torturously still, literally holding me in the palm of his hand as I quiver around him. Until we feel the car start to slow, and Salvatore suddenly starts to thrust his fingers hard, his thumb moving rapidly over my clit as he leans in to whisper in my ear.

"Come for me, Gia. My good little wife."

The orgasm breaks over me like a wave. My mouth opens on a cry of pleasure, only for the sound to be swallowed up as Salvatore kisses me hard, his tongue sweeping possessively into my mouth as I come on his fingers.

When he slips his hand free from my skirt, tugging it down neatly with his other hand, I'm flushed and shaking. The car rolls to a stop, and I put my hands to my cheeks, willing my heartbeat and breathing to return to normal. I see Salvatore adjust himself, pressing down on his obvious erection with the heel of his hand, and I have the sudden urge to lean over, unzip his suit trousers and take him in my mouth until he floods my tongue with his cum.

Instead, I stare at him as he waits a beat, and then another, before taking a deep breath and opening his door as if nothing out of the ordinary happened at all.

He walks around as I try to compose myself, opening my door, and holding out his hand to help me to the curb. His eyes meet mine, as calm as if I didn't just come all over the hand he's holding out to me seconds ago, and my heart flutters in my chest.

"You're mine, Gia," he whispers in my ear as I slip out of the car, and I turn towards him, my lips an inch from his.

"Always," I whisper back.

I feel him relax, just a little. And I feel a new confidence that we can get through this day, so long as we're together.

He needed a little reassurance. And I will, too, I'm sure, before the day is over.

Salvatore links my arm through his as we walk to the church. I should be embarrassed, knowing what we just did, but I can't help liking it more than I should. I liked his possessiveness, his driving need to make sure I remembered who I was married to before I see the man who was originally meant to claim my hand. I would rather this than the Salvatore who was consumed by guilt every time he touched me, a thousand times over.

The guests are all beginning to arrive, and we meld into the crowd, moving to the bride's side of the room and finding a place in one of the pews. My stomach tightens as I see Pyotr standing at the altar, wearing a crisp, bespoke suit, his gaze sweeping over the room. He looks exactly as I remember him, but my heart doesn't flutter the way it once did when I would see him. I remember what I once thought we were to each other, the days we spent together, and all the once-bright moments of our courtship, but it feels like it happened to someone else.

Like it's all just a distant dream now.

Even the sting of betrayal is lessened, with Salvatore next to me, his hand on my leg possessively just as he'd said, reminding me of who I'm married to—and what he just did to me. My cheeks heat a little, but the blush is all for him. And from the way he's looking at me when I glance his way, he knows it.

I glance around the church, trying to distract myself. It's wreathed in white and pink roses, decked out for a wedding, and as the last of the guests settle into the pews and the priest steps up to the altar, the music changes. We all turn to face the double doors at the back of the room, craning for a glimpse of the bride.

Bella looks beautiful. She's standing behind her two bridesmaids as the door opens, and I get a good view of her dress as they start to walk down the aisle ahead of her. Her dark brown hair is elegantly pinned up, her eyes downcast on the pink and white bouquet she's holding, so I can't tell if she seems happy or not. Her dress is a beautiful, fitted confection of lace and satin, the bodice off-the-shoulder and long-sleeved, lace all the way down to the full satin skirt that swishes over the narrow aisle carpet as she walks. She keeps her eyes fixed on the flowers, all the way to the altar, when her father pauses in preparation to give her hand to Pyotr.

My breath catches in my throat as the priest steps up, and I hear the same words that sealed my fate, barely two months ago.

If anyone has any objection to why these two should be wed…

No one says a word. I let out a slow breath, preparing myself for the rest of the ceremony, my thoughts already dashing ahead to the moment when I can go back to the hotel with Salvatore, and all of this will be in the past.

I hear the doors of the church shut, the heavy thud of the wood echoing through the room. And then, on the heels of that sound, the loud click of an ancient lock.

I twist around, just as Salvatore grabs my hand, my stomach dropping. Ten black-garbed, armed Bratva men coalesce in front of the door, just as more of them spill out from the back of the church, surrounding the altar.

Salvatore pulls me to my feet, as the guests start to surge out of the pews, panic filling the room. I hear Bella scream, hear the shouts, hear Salvatore speaking to me as our security tries to fight their way to us, but it's all such chaos that I feel like I'm drowning. I can't hear anything over the pounding of my heart in my ears, think of anything but the terror I see in Bella's eyes and the smugness in Pyotr's, as his gaze finally meets mine. He looks past her, and directly at me, and I know.

I know why Igor agreed to this in the first place.

They were planning this all along.

Gunshots erupt, and I scream. A heavy hand closes on my other arm, yanking me backward. For a moment, I'm caught between that hand and Salvatore, dragged in two different directions before my captor yanks me free, pulling me backward.

"Salvatore!" I shriek his name, and he turns, but a wave of guests and security, both mafia and Bratva, have already poured into the space I left, separating us. I scream for him again, and I hear him shout my name, but I'm being dragged back, heavy arms around me as I kick and punch and shriek, twisting to see who it is that's grabbed me.

A Bratva guard. He could be anyone. His face is set, expressionless, and four more men close around us as I'm pulled back into the shadows of the church, towards a back door that someone is unlocking to let us out. I kick again, twisting, trying to get enough purchase on the floor with my feet to get out of his grip, but he lifts me like a sack of potatoes—like I weigh nothing—and hauls me bodily out of the back door towards a waiting, running car.

I scream again, over and over, until my throat is hoarse, but no one comes. I feel my dress rip as he shoves me into the car, and I nearly fall face-first into the lap of another guard, who laughs and grabs me roughly.

"You make a lot of noise, devochka," he growls. "Time to do something about that."

I try to fling myself back, away from his grasp, but the door is closed, and the car is moving, and he boxes me in against the door in an instant. Panicking, I fumble for the handle to open it, preferring spilling out into the street from a moving car to being trapped in here with him. But it's locked, and there's nowhere to go.

"Good try, devochka," he says, grinning toothily. "But there's nowhere for you to run now."

I see the glint of a needle in his hand, and feel a prick in the side of my neck. He pulls away, sinking back into his side of the car, and I realize why a moment later as the world begins to spin around me.

I've been drugged. I'm about to pass out. And I have no idea where I'll be when I wake up.

Salvatore.

His face, his name, are the last things that go through my head before the world goes dark.

I crumple onto the leather seat of the car, insensible.