11. Simon

Imake preparations before I drive to my future wife's apartment early the next morning.

And I hate this place. I scowl at the rundown house in the bad neighborhood. She lives in the equivalent of a damn closet, and the idea of her spending her life in squalor pisses me off. No human should be forced to live in these conditions. But in my research, I figured out that Emily has been feeding her father practically every single dime she's made ever since she found out about the scam. She moved into this smaller place to save on rent, and she took on extra jobs, just to keep him from losing his home.

I'm not sure he knows how much his daughter loves him.

I've never felt anything like that before. That level of devotion. I sit outside her place and wonder if I would do the same thing for my father—and think that maybe I am, in my own way. He's suffering in his role as the Don, and though he thinks I crave the power, that couldn't be further from the truth.

I don't want the responsibility, but it's my curse to shoulder.

Another few years in my current role wouldn't be bad. Life as the heir has been good. I can do what I want, when I want, and in the past, I've pushed against my boundaries, and yes, I've made more than a few mistakes. I'm a stupid man sometimes.

But I've grown, and it's obvious that I need to step up.

Just like she stepped up for her father.

I admire that in her. I have to admit it. I admire a lot about her?—

Like the way she kisses.

Fucking hell.

I planned on sealing our agreement with a peck on the cheek. Something chaste and appropriate to the moment. But then she turned into me and I was kissing her like I wanted to fuck her mouth into a cum-soaked oblivion.

I hadn't expected it. And it only left me wanting more.

Which is not an ideal situation, given I have to keep my hands to myself for four months, and even then, I'm probably going to have to fuck my own fist.

Not the best start to my marriage, but fine, there's only up from here.

I ring her bell. Emily answers, looking dazed. She's dressed in a gray polo shirt and jeans with a little nametag shaped like a piece of bacon.

I narrow my eyes at the outfit. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Uh, Simon, I mean, I have work?—"

I step forward, forcing her back inside. "Get changed."

"No, I have a shift in fifteen minutes." She crosses her arms. "This can wait until it's done, okay? I have a few hours this afternoon?—"

I stare at the ceiling. My god, this girl is beyond dense sometimes. "You don't need to work anymore, topolina. Don't you get that?"

Her jaw works, and she looks annoyed.

Fucking annoyed.

I'm giving her financial security and freedom, and the girl has the balls to look like I'm in the wrong here. What the hell is with her?

"I like working," she says and sounds like she's struggling to keep herself under control. "I've always had a job. Maybe I don't need two anymore, but?—"

"You can stay at Cucina Amore if you really have to. That's one of my places and it's always filled with my men, so that will be acceptable. Though I'll have to come up with some excuse when my family criticizes me for letting my wife work as a waitress, which won't be comfortable."

Her mouth falls open, and that was obviously the wrong thing to say.

"I don't give a crap what your snooty little family thinks of my profession." She storms over and jabs a finger in my chest. It's like a bee buzzing around with a dull stinger. Cute, but annoying. "I work hard because I have to. We're not all born rich. I won't be shamed for it."

"I'm aware of that, baby." I gently guide her wrist away. "But you're also rich now, whether you like it or not." She glares at me, and I glare right back. "None of this is relevant. Call your breakfast boss and tell him you're not showing up because you're getting married today."

That finally gets her attention. She squirms away, putting some distance between us. Her lips open and she turns pale as what's going to happen sinks in.

"We're really doing this?" she asks, whispering.

"Ideally in the next half hour." I check my watch. We're already running late. "I have a priest waiting?—"

"You have a priest waiting?" She throws up her hands. "Maybe you should've told me about this before booking a freaking priest."

"He's a family friend." Which is a nice way of saying Father O'Shea takes a lot of bribes. "Don't worry about him. He's just there to make it legal."

"There's no ceremony?"

"Just you, me, and my sister as a witness." I look at my watch again. Elena's going to be annoyed, and unlike the priest, she's not on my payroll. "We need to get moving."

"Wait," Emily says, hurrying toward her bedroom area, which is like six steps away. "Just let me get changed really fast." She starts grabbing her clothes, ripping them from drawers and tossing them onto her bed.

It's a frenzy. I lean back against the door and watch, unable to hide my amusement, and then my excitement. She lands on a black silky top with a bow at the throat and lace around the shoulders plus a pair of black slacks. It's not exactly the traditional color for a wedding, but I couldn't care less, because she starts getting changed right in front of me.

Her gray polo comes off, tossed onto the floor, and she's muttering to herself as she unhooks her bra?—

And pauses, her eyes going wide, when she realizes I'm still standing there.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks, holding the cups against her breasts.

"Enjoying the show," I admit because, holy shit, she looks good. She's got a firm, toned stomach and soft, gentle collarbones, and her breasts are full, slightly bigger than her palms. My heart's a wreck and my cock's hard just looking at her, because I don't know how I got so lucky to find a gorgeous wife. And to bring it all home, there's the slight gleam of a silver belly button ring.

Fucking hell.

Kill me now.

A pierced belly button like it's 2003 again.

I'm such a sucker for that look, and it's taking all my self-control not to slam her down on the bed and lick every inch of her delicious skin.

"Uh, how about you get the fuck out of my apartment?" she snaps, her cheeks burning bright red.

"You're the one that started to strip in front of me."

"There's not exactly a whole ton of privacy in here, okay? I was in a rush and just sort of went on auto-pilot. Now will you get the hell out so I can finish getting dressed?"

"Ten minutes," I warn and I open the door. I hesitate, because I really don't want to leave right now. "Or else I'm coming back in and throwing you over my shoulder."

"I'd love to see you try," she says, raising her chin. "Now, out."

I step into the hallway and text Elena to let her know we'll be slightly late. My sister replies a minute later with a big thumbs-down emoji, but that's fine, let her be annoyed.

I'm too busy thinking about my wife's bare back, her smooth stomach, that little silver button glinting in the light, bright against her dark tone. I check my watch, keeping a close eye on it, timing Emily down to the minute, and when she's not in the hall when the timer goes off, I practically kick the door open and storm back inside.

Only to find her putting a bag over her shoulder, fully dressed, hair pulled back and make-up done, looking like she's ready for a formal business partner retreat. "Ready," she says.

I grunt, disappointed. I wanted a struggle. "I can still throw you over my shoulder. That might be fun."

"No, thanks, hubster." She pats my chest on her way out. "No fun for you."

I fight a smile as I take her to my truck. No fun, at least for now.