Viviana is so tense next to me, I am afraid she will break apart any moment now.
I follow my instinct and place my palm on her thigh, causing her to gasp. She reaches for her glass of water, swallowing a long gulp. Looking me straight in the eyes, she dips the glass my way, drenching my groin.
It takes everything in me to hide my amusement.
Her mother screeches. “Oh my god, Viviana. What did you do?”
My fiancée watches me with fake doe eyes as if she’s beside herself for her clumsiness. Then she snatches a linen napkin and slams her hand down on my cock hard enough for me to grunt, hurting me on purpose for the second time. I really screwed up.
“I’m so sorry. It must be the nerves,” she says, boasting a smug expression that betrays her insincerity.
“Sure,” I groan, mad more at myself, and snatch the napkin from her. “Thank you for your concern. No need.”
I dab at my wet pants and crumple the napkin, placing it back on the table.
Everyone relaxes with my lack of reaction. Especially her sister, who watches me with rapt attention, exhaling a breath of relief.
I would never hurt her. Physically, at least. I abhor violence against women. I don’t condone that shit, and I’ve killed my own men only if I heard that.
“You take my breath away,” I lean into her.
She strangles the cutlery. “I might for good next time we meet.”
Sighing, I return to my plate, but my appetite is fucking gone.
Once dinner finishes, I stand up, tapping my knife on the champagne glass to get everyone’s attention, even though I’ve never felt this watched in my entire life.
I can’t wait for this circus to end.
“Viviana,” I say her name with a hint of inflection and offer her my hand.
She stares at it for long seconds, letting me stew in agony while around the table, people hold their breaths, nerves present like an invisible guest, before she takes it.
Nothing like the woman you love going from gazing at you with complete trust to glaring at you with sheer contempt. The contrast is striking.
Plucking the velvet box from my suit pocket, I kneel while distant murmurs reach my ears. No one expected this. For her, I won’t only go down on my knee, I’d willingly stay there.
For a nanosecond, her eyes soften, a smile teasing her lips, but then she remembers. The indifferent look slashes at my skin and reaches my bones, back in place.
“Viviana, will you marry me?”
It’s not personal, the question doesn’t follow a love declaration, but it’s a question.
In the Mafia, women don’t get asked, women accept.
Sliding the ring on her finger would have sufficed, yet I am on my knees, begging with my eyes for her to see me, the man she fell in love with, not the man who deceived her.
I yearn for her to understand I wish things to be different between us. No imbalance, no struggle for power.
She nods, offering a meek, “Yes.”
Her mother claps so loud, squeals even louder; it fucking pisses me off. What kind of fucked up are these people not to realize she’s playing a role?
I slide the rare emerald-cut, seven-carat, bespoke engagement ring onto her finger and kiss the ring and then the inside of her palm in a promise of loyalty.
A tear slides down her cheek, and she wipes her face, brushing it away.
I purse my lips, not knowing what to say, how to do things right by her. I’ve carried the weight of guilt, but near her, it stomps on my lungs, I can’t fucking breathe.
