I kiss my wife on the lips before freeing her so she can dance with the big boss man. Renzo stomps off the dance floor, not looking one bit happy. I smirk at his retreating back as I walk to the top table to ask my mother to dance.
“We need eyes on that guy,” Fiero says, materializing at my side.
“Agreed. He clearly doesn’t approve of this marriage, and I suspect he’s in love with my wife.”
“I’ll message Allante, but first I’ve got some mischief to make.” He waggles his brows before making a beeline for Nicolina Agessi. It’s customary for the matron of honor and best man to dance at a wedding, so Dario cannot refuse Fiero, but he’ll be wishing for blood after Fiero has charmed the proverbial panties off his wife. I have seen countless married women drop to their knees for my best friend, but I know Fiero won’t take it further than flirting with the wife of any made man.
We might be rogues, but we do have some standards.
It's ironic that if I’d known Catarina was married to a don I never would have fucked her at the airport.
Fate works in mysterious ways.
I coax Mama out onto the dance floor, spinning her around the middle of the crowded space as the band we hired really gets into the swing of things. All the small kids have retired to bed, and the party is finally getting started. Mama laughs as we dance to a few songs, and I love seeing her looking happy and carefree for a change.
I had planned on introducing Catarina to Mama in the run-up to the wedding, but we were both too busy. They only had the chance to say a brief hello earlier, so I plan to take my bride home to meet my mother properly sometime this week.
“She’s very beautiful,” Mama says as the music slows down, and we adjust our pace. It seems I’m not the only one keeping tabs on my bride as she dances with a succession of powerful men. “But cold and closed off,” she adds, somewhat apologetically.
“Why do you say that?” I gently pull her into my arms. “Catarina has been smiling and affectionate all day.” Albeit forced, but I didn’t think many would notice.
“It’s fake. I have been watching her.”
“Mama.” I tilt her chin up so I’m looking into her face. “Can you really blame her? You were in an arranged marriage. Surely you were guarded at first too?”
Venom dances in her eyes. “With good reason! I was eighteen. Completely innocent and utterly terrified. Your father did not make allowances.”
A full-body shudder works its way through her, and pain splinters my heart. I am not privy to all the facts, but I know their marriage was not a happy one. I saw enough of it myself to know.
“You are not your father! You are a decent man, Massimo. You are nothing like that monster!” Tears prick her eyes as she audibly gulps. “That woman has no clue how lucky she is! A lot of made men are cruel, unfaithful bastards, but not you. You will treat her well, and she shames you acting as she does. She has no right!”
Heads turn in our direction, and I slowly maneuver us over toward the side of the dance floor. I don’t know how much alcohol Mama drank today, but it’s possible it was too much. She is not normally this vocal. Especially in public where the full extent of her social anxiety is usually on display. She grips my cheeks in her small, almost childlike hands. “You and Gabriele escaped the curse. You are good boys. That’s why you are both still standing and the others are rotting in early graves.”
“Papa did us a favor by ignoring us and focusing on Carlo and Primo instead,” I quietly admit even though I did not think that at the time.
“He did, but he was stupid. You are the best of all my sons. My Gabe. I love him, but he doesn’t have the heart or the stamina for this world. But you.” She squeezes my cheeks. “You do. You have always been the true Greco heir. I saw it when your father was blindsided. You will be a strong, fair leader. You will not tolerate injustice or foolishness.” Her eyes blaze with determination, and this is the most animated I have seen my mother in years. “Don’t let love blind you, my son. If she isn’t with you, she’s against you. Don’t let her derail your future when you have fought so hard for it.”
ChapterThirteen
Catarina
“I’m not fucking you,” I say, emerging from the bedroom into the main living area of the plush honeymoon suite my husband reserved for our wedding night. It’s on the top floor of the hotel with stunning views over the city and every luxury we could want.
He levels me with a smirk as he gets up and walks to the well-stocked bar. “If you say so,” he says, dipping behind the counter.
“I do.” Dropping down on the couch, I rub my sore ankles, grateful to be out of my killer heels and my dress. It’s been a long day, and I am ready to call it a night.
“I told you I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He strides toward me carrying a wooden box and two crystal tumblers filled with ice. “But you want to dome.” He flashes me a smug grin, and his arrogance knows no bounds. “You just won’t admit it to yourself.”
My eyes pop wide in surprise when he sits down beside me and opens the box to reveal what’s hidden inside. The Macallan Rare Cask is a limited special edition whisky that is expensive and hard to come by. “Where did you get this?” I ask, reverently trailing my fingers along the front of the bottle.
“Scotland,” he deadpans, removing it from the box, as I roll my eyes. He sets the tumblers on the glass coffee table and proceeds to pour two generous measures. Saliva pools in my mouth as familiar aromas scent the air. “Call it a wedding gift,” Massimo says, handing a glass to me. “I know you’re a big fan, and I went to considerable trouble procuring this bottle.”
Raising the glass to my nose, I close my eyes and inhale the intense notes of sweet raisin that give way to vanilla and dark chocolate undertones and layers of light citrus zest. “Thank you,” I say as I open my eyes. “It’s a thoughtful gift, and I’m impressed.” I take a sip of the rich velvety scotch, savoring the smooth liquid as it coats my tongue and glides down my throat. “But you’re still not getting laid.”
“You know you won’t be able to resist for long.” Leaning his back against the arm of the couch, he swings his bare feet up right beside my thighs. “Neither will I if you insist on wearing sexy lingerie to bed,” he adds, his gaze growing more heated as his gaze skims over my white silk nightie. It has a lace trim at the bust and the hem, and it hits me mid-thigh, exposing a lot of flesh. I purposely wore it to tease him because he’s been riling me up all day, and it’s time for some payback.
Scooting back, I mirror his position on the opposite side of the couch, bringing my legs up and letting my feet rest alongside his. “I usually sleep nude,” I lie, lifting my glass to my lips. “This is a concession for you.” I take another mouthful of whisky as my husband’s gaze darkens further with lust.
