“I’ll suck you off in the shower if you go down on me after.”
“Deal.”
Five orgasms and alongshower later, we finally made our way out of the Suite and downstairs to meet everyone, as planned at noon.
The morning after our wedding tasted like salt in the air and the faint burn of too much champagne. The DeMone’s Hamptons mansion glowed in the February afternoon. White roses in elegant vases from last night filled the place, specs of glitter still scattered across the marble like fallen stars. Sunlight poured through the towering windows in golden stripes.
Mywifewalked beside me through the corridor, spine straight, chin high.
A weird feeling ached in my chest. Something between excitement and contempt.
Last night replayed in my mind over and over again – her lips, her nails on my back, the way she’d breathed my name like a secret. And I knew exactly what was coming next.
The tradition. A barbaric relic of old-world honor – one she insisted she would handle.
“Let me deal with it,” she’d told me upstairs, slipping diamond earrings into place with unbothered grace, battling the rock on her ring-finger. “I don’t want you to cause a scene. Not today.”
I agreed, though every instinct in my body rebelled. I didn’t like anyone questioning her. She was the current Consigliere and future Underboss, and deserved to be treated as such.
We stepped into the grand ballroom, the tables set for brunch, white linens crisp, silver shining. Only the other Families remained now.
We took our seats at a long table as everyone greeted us, exchanging small talk. I didn’t participate, my anger threatening to spill.
Francesca’s thigh brushed mine before her hand came down to rest on my knee in reassurance. I felt it like a spark.
A moment later, a maid descended from the staircase carrying our folded sheets. My jaw locked. Francesca pretended not to stiffen beside me.
Whispers shifted in anticipation. I could feel eyes on us – on her. Everyone but the DeMone Family looked.
The maid hung them neatly over the back of a velvet couch.
The room soured instantly.
The white sheets remained untouched.
Brows raised. Murmurs sharpened. One of the older Philly Dons – gray hair slicked back, cigar lit – leaned forward.
“Tradition is tradition.” he said, voice heavy with disapproval
I felt my hand twitch under the table, fingers curling like they wanted to break something. Or someone.
Francesca slid her hand over mine – light, barely noticeable to anyone else. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were steel.
Conversations rippled – discontent, judgment.
They wanted proof. Proof she belonged to me last night.
My teeth ground together. I was one breath away from ending the entire conversation with force. I could feel blood rising in my veins like black fire. But I couldn’t risk Francesca’s business.
Then she squeezed my hand. Hard. Almost painful.
So I sat there. Silent. Coiled like a loaded gun at mywife’sside. My eyes tracked every Boss, every flicker of disrespect, and noted it down in the back of my mind for future reference.
They didn’t know her yet. But they would.
I looked at Francesca – red lipstick, diamonds on her throat, eyes like a blade. And beneath the rage…
The tension had been simmering for minutes – old men with old rules, staring at my wife like she was something to be examined and approved of. Like she didn’t already outrank half the room in brains and brutality.
