Page 8 of The Mafioso’s Bride

I repeat more comforting facts about tardigrades as I follow my new husband farther down the hall. The runner beneath my shoes is gray and flat, with no raised pattern to catch my heels. Doors line one side. Windows line the other, facing bare trees and a frozen garden. There are guards out there too.

“Security men will remain outside and throughout this wing,” Luca says. “After what happened today, they’re a necessity.”

I press my thumbnail against the side of my finger, then stop when I remember Mama’s order about my hands.

Luca doesn’t look at them. His attention stays on me anyway. He checks my face, my dress, the hall ahead, then my face again. I don’t know what he’s looking for. Perhaps he’s disappointed in me. I’ve been very quiet. I think of Giuseppe’s comment about taping my mouth shut and I press my thumbnail against the side of my finger again.

He turns toward the final door. A bedroom.

A husband takes his wife to bed after the wedding to consummate the marriage. That is what comes next.

Clips of the porn videos I watched to prepare run through my mind. Women with tied wrists. I won’t like that. One woman cried, although the man continued. In some, the women were assertive and asked for what they wanted, but I don’t have enough experience to give useful instructions. I try to remember some of the words and phrases they used, but I’m so nervous and rattled from earlier that nothing comes to mind.

My husband will touch me. Touch my naked body. The memory of Giuseppe touching me, of his fingers pinching me, makes my skin feel like insects are crawling all over me.

But Luca’s hands are different. His fingers are long and strong with clean nails. I picture his hands on my bare breasts, and between my legs. I might like that.

Heat gathers under my skin. My nipples tighten against the itchy lace of my bra, and I feel an urge to press my thighs together beneath the skirt. I’m afraid of him, but I think I’d rather Luca be the father of my children than Giuseppe. I think.

He opens the door and waits for me to enter ahead of him. The room is large. White walls surround a wide bed covered in dark blue. Lamps stand on both sides, and another door opens into a bathroom. He drops my small suitcase near a dresser. I hadn’t even noticed he was carrying it.

The door closes behind us.

Consummation. This is the next item on the schedule. It may hurt, especially the first time. It may be unpleasant. I must submit. I must endure it. Luca DiCenzo is my husband now.

Interestingly, the thought of his naked body does not disgust me. I don’t know how he’ll feel about mine, but I must get naked.

Tardigrades are usually less than one millimeter long.

I need to shed this monstrosity of a dress. The zipper begins at the base of my neck, too high for me to reach. I turn my back to him.

“Please unzip me.”

Luca

Giada turns to face away from me. The zipper runs from the base of her neck to the bottom of her spine.

“Hold still.”

My knuckles brush her skin as I catch the small tab. She stiffens melodramatically, so I slow my hand and pull the zipper down without touching her again.

“There.” I release the zipper.

I step away. The dress falls. White silk and lace slide over her hips and collapse around her feet until she’s standing in front of me wearing nothing but a white lace bra, matching panties, stockings, and the shoes she wore down the aisle.

Fuck.

The lingerie clings to the soft curves the dress hid—full breasts, a narrow waist, rounded hips, and smooth, pale thighs above the stockings.

My cock goes hard so fast it hurts.

She turns to face me. Her arms remain straight at her sides. Her fingers curl against her palms, and she fixes her eyes on the second button of my shirt.

She is beautiful, nearly naked, and my wife. Each fact makes leaving this room harder.

I’ve had women strip for me before. Sophisticated women skilled in the art of seduction. They made their intentions plain. When a beautiful, willing woman offers herself to me, I’m not fool enough to say no. But…

This seems different. Something is off.