Sabine falls silent, leaving me to puzzle over these words. They leave me with a picture of a man. One who is lonely and cold-hearted, one who is, beneath his rage and ice, good and just. I don’t know of many men in the Mafia who give a damn about justice or family. Even my own father is guilty of caring more about money and power than really anything else. And I suppose that’s why, in the end, I’m here.
“Don’t speak of this to Santo,” Sabine orders me, drawing back to observe her work. She’s dressed me in a long-sleeved gown of emerald silk. It’s the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever worn, and it almost makes me feel worthy of walking the halls of a castle—almost. “I tell you only because I want you to be close with him. I want your marriage to be made of stronger stuff than debts and payments. There needs to be understanding, at the very least.”
I nod, though my heart, stupid and naïve, wonders what else there could be. Passion? Fondness?
Love?
“That’s the door. He’ll need to clean up, and he may not wish to eat tonight. I’ll send for you once he’s made his decision.” Sabine is gone in a flurry of starched skirts, and as I have been for the last week, I am alone again.
I pace until I can’t bear it. I keep seeing the fight on the drive, the viciousness, the blood. The rage that broke Santo’s beautiful face. I need to see him. I just need to know, for myself, that he’s OK.
I find him in the parlor where we met that first night. I thought to bring a few things from my own bathroom, and I’m glad. He’s shirtless and bloody, pouring himself a second or perhaps a third glass of ruby-colored wine.
“Get out,” he says simply, when I enter. When I don’t, he turns stiffly to face me. “Did you hear me?”
My heart is in my throat. But now that I know the root of his anger, I’m less afraid of it. “Yes.”
“Then why the fuck are you still standing there, hm?” He throws back the wine, and without warning, hurls the stemmed crystal glass across the room. It shatters against the hearth, glass spraying over stone. I flinch. “I should never have brought you here.”
I’m startled by this. “I chose to come.”
“You didn’t know.” He stares into the fire, every hard line of him cast in hard shadow by the dancing, deep orange light: jaw, cheekbone, clavicle. Every ridge of his abs, the hard swell of his biceps, the steep curve of bare hipbones. “You didn’t know what the fuck you were signing up for.”
I force my stiff legs to carry me into the parlor. “Sit.”
He looks at me, eyes burning. “What did you say?”
“Sit.”
“Are you ordering me?”
“Commanding,” I say, in jest. My tone is light, but my heart is a stone behind my ribs. I clutch the little tub I brought from the bathroom to hide the tremor in my hands. “The sofa is fine.”
“You’re here to mend me, then, is that it?” He slowly walks toward me, knuckles bloodied black, brow split and bleeding, a bruise blossoming on one side of his jaw. “To fix me, perhaps?”
“Someone has to.”
His cold mask falters, but only for a bare instant. “Don’t I frighten you, little Dani?”
“Yes.” Why lie? “Now sit.”
He takes the bin from my hands and hurls it across the room. I flinch as something inside, a bottle maybe, shatters. “You should listen when I tell you to leave.”
I bite my cheek, force myself to stand my ground.
“There’s a reason, you know. It’s because I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” I say, but there’s a clear shiver in my voice. Santo’s hand rises slowly, stroking a line between my breasts, finding my neck. A pang of hunger twists in me. Last he had his hand around my throat, his fingers were inside of me, and I was swallowing screams of pleasure. “I trust you.”
“How can you trust me, Dani? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”
“Let me learn.” My breath catches as he leans forward and gently takes my lower lip between his teeth. “Teach me.”
He chuckles, and I feel the vibration in every bone. “So brave, Dani, aren’t you?”
“It’s not bravery.”
“Is it duty?”
