Page 10 of The Mafioso’s Bride

“Especially then.” I hold her stare.

Her lips part. She looks down at the gown.

“Look at me, Giada.”

She fixes on my tie. She won’t look higher.

I point toward the bathroom. “Take a shower if you want one. There are clean towels inside. I’ll have someone bring you dinner, unless you’d rather eat downstairs.”

“What happens after dinner?”

“Whatever you choose. Sleep. Read. Unpack.”

She looks at the tiny suitcase near the dresser, and I move toward the door. “Lock it behind me if that makes you feel safer.”

I take one last long look at my new wife—the lace, the bare skin, the beautiful and perplexed face—and leave before my straining erection pushes a hole through my trousers.

The door closes between us. I cross the hall, enter my bedroom, and turn the lock.

I want to fuck my wife.

I want to peel away the lace, spread her across my bed, and teach her what pleasure can be. I want to learn every place on her lush, curvy body that makes her tremble. I want her to ask for more and leave me with no doubt she means it.

None of that is happening while she digs her fingernails into her palms and endures me. Not even if my cock is so hard it’s painful.

My hand closes around my belt.

For the near future, I’ll handle the problem myself.

Luca

Platters are arranged across the breakfast table—eggs, bacon, sliced fruit, pastries, toast, yogurt, smoked salmon. There’s also a pot of coffee and a pot of tea.

Giada checks each dish, one after another. Her attention returns to the eggs twice.

My housekeeper pours tea for her. Giada thanks her but doesn't lift the cup.

I unfold my napkin. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.” She remains motionless.

Perhaps she's nervous after yesterday. A church raid, a new groom, and a strange house would ruin anyone's appetite. Or she dislikes the food. My housekeeper asked me what my new wife preferred, and I had no answer. I suggested she make a variety.

When I’m halfway through my breakfast and Giada still hasn’t eaten anything, I take a croissant from the basket and place it on her plate. “Those are fresh.”

Giada smiles at me. She doesn't eat it.

The smile is polite. So is her posture. Her hands rest beside her plate, her fingertips pressed against the tablecloth. Maybe she’s dieting. She certainly doesn’t need to, but women raised in our world sometimes diet to extremes. I butter my toast and wait.

Giada looks toward the windows. Frost rims the garden stones beyond the glass. My knife scrapes across the plate.

I’ve stared across breakfast tables at women plenty of times. Most can fill every silence—talk through an entire meal without saying anything of interest. My wife has offered me two words.

“So,” I coax, “what’s on your mind this morning?”

She looks at my tie, then at my plate, then blurts out, “Tardigrades don't have lungs.”

I set down my knife. “No?”