38. Cristiano

C ristiano

I sit on the edge of the bed and just stare at her. I've already blocked three calls and silenced my phone, because I can't bring myself to move. I just want to stare, drink her in, bask in her warmth, inhale her scent. I want to be the first to see her open her eyes in the morning. Every morning. Starting with this one.

Her lips part, and I hope a little snore works its way out, because I want to absorb every single sound she makes.

"Are you going to stare at me all morning?"

I smile to myself. "If you'll let me."

She opens her eyes. They seem a brighter blue in the light of the master bedroom. "I'd rather not. It's weird."

I wipe the smile away with my thumb. "I have to go."

"Oh." She sits up and rakes her gaze hungrily over my freshly laundered suit. "Where?"

I trace a finger along her cheekbone. "To Benny's. I have papers to sign and businesses to run."

Her shoulders stiffen. "Oh, right." She takes a long breath. "What kind of businesses?"

I grind my teeth softly. "You want to have this talk now?"

We're getting married—she's going to find out the details of our operation before long. She's also not a typical Mafia wife-to-be, and I'm not a typical don. I want her to know everything about me, and that includes the work of our family. I don't expect her to get involved, but I don't want to keep secrets from her either.

"Well, there's the laundromat and the manufacturing business—they're the biggest. We have some small waste-disposal businesses, click farms, and a growing data-mining enterprise."

She nods slowly. "And the unions?"

"Yeah, those too."

"Drugs?"

"Cocaine," I affirm.

"Firearms?"

"Fewer now, but yes."

I can see a moral war waging behind her eyes. I can't bear to watch her slip away when faced with the reality of who I am now, but neither can I lie.

"Will you make it worth it?"

At first I don't understand her, but when she looks at me with hope in her eyes, I know what this is. She knows I can't change what a don does, but she's asking if a marriage to me will make up for the compromise—the sacrifice —she's making in going along with something she's feared for so long.

"I'll make it worth your while ten times over."

I mean every word.

"We can start by converting the ground floor."

She blinks. "To what?"

"A studio," I reply. "The light through the French doors is the best in the entire property. It's spacious. We don't have a need for a breakfast room, dining room, bar, utility, and kitchen. We can open up the whole side of the house. It can be yours to use however you wish."

"Are you serious?" Her eyes dart about as she formulates a plan in her head. "What about my career?"

I fold my arms and frown in concentration. "What career?"

"Well, now I've finished up the year, I can either go on to further study, or I could look for work in local art galleries, or I could quit altogether."

"What do you want to do?"

"I'd like to work in a gallery."

"So do it." I stand up and button my jacket.

"Really?"

"Yeah, of course."

She narrows her eyes. "This is too good to be true."

I grin.

"No, I mean it. There has to be a catch. You're the Di Santo don—my marriage to you will put a price on my head again, right?"

I inhale a sobering breath. "Right."

"Will I be safe working in a regular job?"

"If you pick a gallery in a part of the city I own, you'll be fine."

Her eyelids pop open. "And which parts do you own ?"

I cock my head to one side and narrow my gaze as I recall. "Pretty much all of them."

"And the Marchesis?"

"We've squeezed them out of Lower Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island. Newark aside, they've moved north. Otherwise, they won't be a problem for us."

She stares after me as I walk to the door.

"By the way," I say over my shoulder, "I've invited your aunt and sisters over for lunch."

"Why?"

"I didn't want you to feel lonely on your first day in your new home."

She looks panicked. "Do you, um, have food in?"

I rest my hand on the door handle and turn to face her. "I have more than food. I have staff. Not many, but the important ones. Lunch will be served on the terrace whenever you request it."

"Right. Okay." She nods. "Thanks. Um, Cristiano ..."

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure you want to marry me?"

I almost laugh at her question, but she's deadly serious.

"Queen, I killed my flesh and blood for you. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."