He cleared his throat, eyes sharp as blades as they cut to me. A silent order.
Fix this.
I leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of Francesca’s chair, claiming her without touching. She glanced at me – jaw set but eyes betraying the smallest spark of worry. If the Bosses believed we hadn’t consummated the marriage… If they even suspected this marriage wasn’t real…
I nodded once at her, then addressed the room, voice deep and even.
“What I do with my wife,” I said, letting my gaze drag across every face at the table, “Is my business. Is that clear?”
No one spoke, but the dissatisfaction ran deep. They weren’t pleased. Not about the Boston Boss, but rather the
Francesca squeezed my thigh harder, urging me to fix this.
“Plus,” I added, letting a slow, wicked smile curve my mouth, “I think the bed is overrated.”
Francesca rolled her eyes – dramatic, maybe a little annoyed at my angle – but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. A tiny smirk. Almost a laugh. Like she was just as amused at the others’ naivety.
A couple of chuckles came from the men, some light laughter from the women. And then the conversation moved to another topic, completely separate from Francesca and I’s private life.
She reached for her champagne, the diamond on her finger a bright declaration under the chandelier. I watched her throat work as she swallowed, pulse fluttering.
She was fire. Violence. Venus with blood on her nails.
And she was mine.
Whether they knew it or not.
My gaze met Francesca’s, her beautiful eyes narrowing on me.
I smirked.
Because this strong, intimidating woman wasmywoman.My wife. And, fake or not, she’d grinded herself on me all night, telling me how much she needed me.
I ran a thumb over my bottom lip, remembering the way she’d bit it.
This was just the beginning.
Chapter 22
Present
Upper-East Side, New York City
THE CITY GLITTERED BENEATH US like an ocean of gold as the doors to the private elevator opened into our new home. Manhattan at night always felt alive – ruthless, unapologetic, hungry. We stepped inside, the metal doors sliding shut behind us with a soft sigh. Neither of us talked. After two days of photographers, vows, family, champagne, blood, murder, and smiling until my face hurt, silence felt like the only answer.
A penthouse – recently purchased by Matteo in the last week, and where I’d had some of my things delivered. Two floors of glass and warmth, soft lamplight pooling across walnut floors and cream furniture. Textured walls, smoky sheer curtains near the wide panoramic windows. It smelled faintly of bourbon and vanilla, and something darker – perhaps his cologne lingering in the air.
Matteo dropped the keys on the marble console by the entrance, the sound loud in the dark quiet.
“I had your things set up in a different bedroom from mine,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Before the wedding.”
He watched me. I knew he was waiting for a reaction – to the apartment, to him, to us.
“You want a tour?” He asked eventually.
I shook my head. “No. Too tired.”
“Alright. Bedroom’s upstairs.”
