As I watch her go, something unrecognizable twisting in my chest. I’ve been with plenty of women. Beautiful ones. Wild ones. But none of them ever looked back at me the way she just did—like she sees something worth waiting for.
As the water beats down on my shoulders, I brace my hands against the wall and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
I should be careful with her. She’s not like the women I used to find at the clubs, the ones who knew how to play the game, who wanted the same rough edges I embody. Evi’s built of softness, of patience and kindness, things I don’t understand how to hold without breaking.
But she’s mine. And now that I have her, I don’t want to let her go. When I finally turn off the water, the room goes quiet. Steam curls in the air, thick and ghostly. I grab a towel and dry off, the ache in my chest sharper than the sting of my stitched wound.
Whatever this thing is between us, it’s changing me.
16
EVI
As I sit at the edge of our bed, hands clasped in my lap, the quiet starts to pulse. I can feel it in the air, in the tremor of my heartbeat as it echoes too loudly inside my chest, in the faint ticking of the old clock down the hall. Every sound seems sharper, magnified by my nerves.
I can’t keep still. I’ve changed into my black silk slip, the one that feels like liquid against my skin. I haven’t had the courage to wear it yet. It was meant to be beautiful, delicate, seductive. Tonight, it feels almost symbolic—something dark and bold, ready to transform me into someone more daring.
Sandro said he wants to teach me something about trust. His voice was low, his tone unreadable, and it’s been circling through my mind ever since. The memory of it makes me tingle with nervous anticipation. I want to please Sandro, and I’m curious about what he likes—what he thinks I might like—but I’ve never heard of men punishing their wives for pleasure before.
I’ve heard enough whispers over the years to know that many men in our world use their strength as a weapon. I’m not so naive as to be unaware that many mafia wives often end up in abusive situations, their husbands treating them more like possessions or punching bags than people. Some take their wives apart just to prove they can.
Still, he promised I’d never have a reason to fear him, and I believe him—mostly. But belief doesn’t quiet the ache of anxiety that stirs in my stomach. Because, while I don’t think Sandro is like that, I can’t deny that something dark and dangerous surrounds him. There’s an unspoken acknowledgment that no one messes with him. Even my older brothers seem mildly scared of Sandro when they talk about him.
He is not tender, not soft, not tame—but from his first touch, Sandro has only ever been gentle with me. I think I’m safe with him. I just hope I’m not making a mistake.
My palms are damp when I press them to my racing heart, but no matter how many deep breaths I take, it won’t calm.
And I tense when Sandro’s silhouette fills the archway of the bathroom. He looks as devastatingly handsome as ever, wearing nothing but low-slung joggers, his broad shoulders on full display, a fresh bandage covering his wound. His damp hair is pushed back from his face, a few shadows of fatigue smudging the edges of his eyes. He’s cleaned up from the fight, but the faint scent of violence still clings to him.
He’s carrying something in his hands—lengths of rope, strips of dark cloth—and my pulse launches into a full-on sprint.
“Sandro,” I whisper, my voice catching halfway.
His gaze slides to me, steady, unreadable. “You’re nervous.”
I swallow hard. “A little.”
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. He walks toward me—slow, deliberate steps that make the air in the room feel smaller—then leans in to set the rope and cloth on the bed beside me. When he comes to stand in front of me, I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. There’s heat there, yes, but not cruelty. He studies me like he’s searching for something deeper—something beyond the surface.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
It’s not the kind of question I should answer lightly, and I pause, really considering the implications. Then I nod, my voice coming out a whisper. “Yes.”
He lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles along my jaw. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”
My breath catches as he reaches for the rope, his fingers sure and practiced. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine, but not from fear. It’s something else—something raw and alive that I don’t have a name for.
“Give me your wrists.” The command is soft but brooks no argument as he extends his hand, palm up.
He doesn’t grab me. Doesn’t force me. Instead, he waits. The silence between us becomes its own kind of communication, and when I lift my wrists, offering them, he exhales softly—as though he hadn’t been sure I would.
The first brush of rope around my skin is gentle. He loops it slowly, deliberately, his calloused fingers grazing my skin in a rhythm that feels more like reverence than restraint. Each knot he ties feels like a statement.
The air hums between us.
He steps back, his gaze tracing over me, and says quietly, “Good.”
I can feel the heat in my face, the way my pulse thrums at the base of my throat. When he picks up one of the cloth strips, my breath stutters again.
