I think of Giovanni’s eyes. The way his mouth tightened when he said,You do not get to test that.The way his hands trembled, almost imperceptibly, when he held my wrist.
He’s not a man who trembles.
And I did that to him.
Guilt is a slow poison. It spreads while it convinces you that repair is urgent. And maybe it is.
By late afternoon, the idea has taken shape in my mind. Something I choose that I refuse to call surrender or capitulation.
A gesture. Call it a peace offering. Or a reminder that I am here.
That I’m not packing bags.
I’m not running tonight.
Caterina raises her brows when I ask for something lighter for dinner, something indulgent. She says nothing, only nods, as though she understands far more than she ever voices.
I shower slowly, letting the heat loosen the tension in my shoulders, and when I dress, I do not reach for defiance.
I reach for honesty in a barely there dress. The one Giovanni looked at as though he wanted to tear it apart withhisteeth. Then the world apart to ram home his primal ownership.
I tell myself it is strategy… or maybe it’s control. But I know deep in my bones that I’m doing this because I want to smooth what has frayed.
Maybe all of those things are true.
And maybe, somewhere beneath them, is the simplest truth of all.
I want him. As a husband and a lover and hell, even as my occasional tormentor.
Is there weakness in this? Oh yes. Danger too. And that’s the thing Isabella would exploit if she could.
But guess what? Over my dead body is that bitch going to get her way.
So when I descend the stairs in sky-high heels, I do it with measured calm, even as my heart beats too fast, and I sit at the dining table alone, waiting.
The soft jazz Giovanni likes plays in the background. The air smells of rosemary and expensive wine. Of candles and the breathless promise of seduction.
Iwanttime to pass faster because the house is quiet. Too quiet.
I picture Giovanni walking in, his gaze catching on me, his mouth softening into that dark approval he tries not to show, even as his feral hunger ratchets high.
I imagine words, conversation, something almost normal. I imagine his hands and his mouth and his cock and I imagine confessing how much I need him. Maybe even how sorry I am to have thrown a moment’s doubt into… what? This everlasting union fraught with danger?
No. That’s not it.
Because I’ve realised something these last two weeks. I ran too quickly from my marriage before I had the full picture.
Is Giovanni Dragoni a crime lord? Yes.
But is he also a powerful, astute businessman who could walk away from his blood legacy and still thrive should he choose to? Also yes.
And do I want this man whose face and authorityarestamped on both sides of this coin?
I’m gearing up tomakea seismic admission to myself when the sound hits.
A screech of vehicles outside.
Sharp.
