Rafaele doesn’t come back that night, and in the morning, I get a message from him saying he needs to go to Syracuse for some meetings.
I wonder if it’s hard for him to be away from me after what happened, the way it is for me. All morning, I amble around the house and pretend to be a functioning human being instead of a needy, lust-filled mess. A movie of what happened in my husband’s office won’t stop playing on repeat inside my head. I imagine what it looked like for him, to see me splayed on his desk with my pussy presented to him like it was dinner.
He ate me like a gourmet meal.
An insistent heat pulsates in the pit of my belly. I have to swap my underwear once or twice. I even consider texting Rafaele that to torture him a bit the way he’s torturing me, but something holds me back.
Something.
As if I don’t know exactly what it is. The bitter taste of my father’s offer is right there, lodged beneath my tongue.
If Rafaele hadn’t left right after he made me come, I would have let him take it all the way. I would have slept with the man my father wants to kill. The man my father wants me to help kill.
After lunch, I step out onto the terrace and brace my palms on the stone railing. A cool breeze brushes over my skin. At the edge of the property, tall pines sway in the wind and whisper secrets. I suck in a lungful of fresh air, expanding my chest until it’s full, and then slowly breathe it out.
It does nothing to calm my anxiety or my racing pulse.
This can’t go on. I can’t keep going to Loretta’s and doing inventory, spending my evenings buried in spreadsheets and ignoring this thing hanging over my head.
My mother asked me to come see her yesterday. I knew what it meant, and because I’m a coward, I didn’t go to my old home. Papà wants an answer. And I want…
I think I want Rafaele.
My eyes fall shut. I told myself I’d never surrender to him, but that was when surrender meant defeat.
It doesn’t now. The truth is, I don’t hate my husband anymore. There’s far more to him than meets the eye. He’s more than a don, more than a killer, more than my prison warden.
Rafaele works a lot. Unlike Papà, he doesn’t just sit in his office and expect his capos to bring him their reports. He goes to their territories, helps them with their problems, and he seems to genuinely give a shit about taking care of them.
My father always thought that was beneath him. All he knows how to do is yell and threaten, but I’ve overheard how Rafaele talks to his men, and he doesn’t need to raise his voice to get them to do something. He’s a natural leader, and he has their respect.
And then there’s the way he treats me. The way he makes me feel. Like I’m more than just a fuckup. Like I’ve got something good to give.
I’ve been written off by everyone in my life, one way or another. Everyone but him.
I cover my face with my palms and finally come to terms with it.
I can’t betray him.
Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe I’m allowing myself to be driven by feelings Rafaele may never reciprocate. Maybe. But I’ve never been one to worry about consequences, have I?
I drop my palms and gaze at the clear blue sky.
I will never be Rafaele’s possession.
I will never belong to him.
But I think I belong with him.
A few more days pass with Rafaele gone. He returns on Friday, the same evening we’re scheduled for our dinner with the Ferraros. Everyone knows who they are, but I’ve never met any members of the family. I’m not sure which family is more powerful, the Ferraros or the Messeros, but they’re equally feared in New York.
I’m trying to pick what to wear when my husband strolls into the closet and meets my gaze in the mirror. His is pure hunger. He prowls over to me, wraps his arm around my waist, and presses his lips to the side of my throat. A low buzz appears beneath my skin.
“How was your trip?”
“Too long,” he growls against my skin.
“Missed me?” I try to sound casual, but the second it takes him to respond makes my heart stutter.
“You have no idea.” His eyes meet mine again. “This dinner couldn’t have come at a worse time, tesoro. I don’t want to share you with anyone tonight.”
My body burns under his gaze. He knows. He knows I’m done for. If he pushed me down to the floor right here in the closet and said he wanted to fuck me like an animal, I’d let him. There isn’t much I wouldn’t let him do to me right now. I missed him too. More than I thought was possible.
He glances around the closet. “Picking your outfit?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“The Ferraros won’t agree to wearing blindfolds willingly,” he says in a low voice, his lips close to my ear. “Don’t make me force them.”
My laugh is breathless. “Don’t worry. I’ve got something at stake tonight too, remember?”
Maybe he doesn’t. Loretta’s supplier contract is hardly the most important thing he has on his mind.
“I remember.” He turns me in his arms so that I face him. “I prepared the revised contract with updated payment terms. All Gino will have to do is get his cousin to sign it.”
My stomach flutters. “When did you have the time to do that?”
His hand slides down my back, and there’s a subtle smile playing on his lips. “I always make time for things that are important.”
My chest constricts. I can’t wait any longer. I have to tell him about what Papà asked of me. I’ve decided I won’t help him. Now, I just have to warn Rafaele.
But before I can tell him, he cuts me off with a kiss. The kind that scrambles thoughts and makes nerve endings fire. His tongue brushes against mine, and I forget all about my father. I lean into Rafaele’s strong body, dragging my hands over his muscled shoulders, and imagine what it will feel like to have this body moving over me.
Heat stirs between my legs.
Too soon, he breaks the kiss and steps away from me. There’s something distinctly unrestrained in his expression, but he manages to blink it away. “We should leave in fifteen.” His voice is hoarse. “Will you be ready?”
Tell him.
No, I can’t tell him now. Not when I have the convenient excuse of being in a hurry.
I force a smile. “Yes.”
I choose a shimmery white dress off the rack and disappear into the bathroom to change.
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the car with Sandro. He drives us to Manhattan, straight to a building in Billionaires’ Row.
When the private elevator opens, Rafaele and I step inside a palatial lobby with a glittering chandelier and an intricate mosaic floor that depicts swirling fish. Straight across from the elevator is a magnificent water feature—a large slab of stone with water cascading down its surface.
A man in a butler’s uniform greets us and takes our jackets before leading us behind the water feature and into the living area.
My eyes widen. The home spans two entire floors. My father’s condo a few streets over, which I’ve always thought of as the height of luxury, suddenly feels incredibly small.
The design of the space has an obvious Asian influence. It’s serene and sophisticated, with clean lines, natural colors, and dark furniture.
I catch a glimpse of what might be the best view in the city before my attention is drawn to the man walking over to greet us.
Gino Ferraro, the don of the family. He doesn’t look like one of the most dangerous men in New York. With his handsome grin and thick silver hair, he’d fit right in at Bloomingdale’s on Christmas, dressed in a red Santa suit, sans the gut. But he’s not the first monster I’ve met in our world who hides his monstrous nature beneath layers of deception.
“Rafaele,” he says in a rumbling voice. “Welcome.”
He and Rafaele shake hands. “Thank you for inviting us into your home.”
“It’s my pleasure. And this must be your lovely new wife.” He pins his perceptive gaze on me. When I offer him my hand, he lifts it to his lips, and the coarse hairs of his white beard brush against my skin.
“I’m glad we could make this happen. Let me introduce you to my boys.”
His sons are standing in the corner by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Central Park like three dark sentinels, their black suits in stark contrast against the beige crane-patterned wallpaper.
Whatever serenity the decor of this place managed to create is immediately erased. I don’t think there’s anyone who’d ever feel at peace in the presence of these men.
One after the other, they turn toward us. Each one deadly. Each one undeniably handsome. Beautiful monsters. This world is filled with them.
Gino leads Rafaele and me toward his sons, and the collective force of their attention makes my throat go dry.
“This is my eldest, Cosimo,” Gino says, gesturing at the tallest man in the group.
Cosimo Ferraro could have been a movie star if he wasn’t a mobster. Not that he had much of a choice, which makes it even more of a tragedy. Men who look like him, with flowing hazel hair and piercing blue eyes that rival those of my husband’s, don’t belong amongst us mere mortals. They’re meant to be idolized by the fawning masses.
He sizes up Rafaele, his eyes lingering on the exact spots where my husband is hiding his weapons beneath his suit. The fact that no one asked Rafaele to disarm when we first walked in likely means they’re all carrying.
A nervous shiver runs down my spine. This is a friendly dinner. Let’s hope it doesn’t end the way our dinner at Il Caminetto did.
Cosimo coolly greets Rafaele and barely spares me a look before Gino steers us to the next man. “This is Alessio.”
The Ferraro’s famed enforcer. His long hair is tied back, showing off the scar that runs across his temple. A smaller one cuts through his left brow. Tattoos cover his hands and his neck, and when he shakes my hand after Rafaele’s, I make out the letters on his knuckles. MORE. My gaze drops to his other hand. It completes the phrase. MORE PAIN.
My blood cools. Jesus. Is that what he promises the men he tortures if they don’t give up their secrets?
“And this is my youngest son. Romolo.”
I tear my gaze away from those tattooed letters and turn to the last brother.
He’s the only one who smiles at me, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Call me Rom.” By the time he turns to Rafaele, the smile is gone. “Messero,” he says, a bite to his tone. “I have to admit, I didn’t think we’d ever see you walk through these doors.”
Everyone knows about Rom Ferraro.
A long time ago, when I was scheming how to ensure I would be eliminated from the marriage circuit, I considered arranging a meeting with Rom. His reputation as a womanizer is unmatched by anyone in our circles. Just being seen in the same room as him while unsupervised used to be enough to start a scandal.
Rumor is he’s grown up in the past few years, but tales of his conquests still filter through the mouths of my father’s men.
Rafaele gives Rom his signature icy stare. “Likewise. But times change.”
Rom’s lips tighten. “Yeah, they sure fucking do.”
“Language! You know better than to speak like that when you’re in this house, Rom.”
Everyone turns in the direction of the voice. It belongs to a statuesque, silver-haired woman who must be their mom. She walks over, her perfectly straight locks swishing back and forth with each step, and she gives me a smile that wraps around me like a warm, cozy blanket.
Some tension in my shoulders disappears. Somehow, I just know this woman will make sure no blood is spilled tonight. She hugs me, pulling me tightly against her chest, as I catch a whiff of her refined perfume.
“Cleo Messero.” Her eyes sparkle with warmth. “I’m Vita. How are you, my dear? I hope they didn’t bore you with their manhood-measuring contest. That’s how these boys always are. What are you drinking? Wine? Whiskey? A strong martini? Alcohol is always the answer on nights like these.” She places a hand on my back and steers me toward the bar.
Gino clears his throat. “Vita.”
She glances back at him. “Yes, my love?”
“There’s one more guest,” Gino says, giving his wife an indulgent smile.
She tsks. “Ah, that’s right.”
“Hello, daughter.”
Ice pours into my veins. Slowly, I turn toward my father.
“What are you doing here?”
“I invited him,” Gino says, coming to stand by Papà’s side. He’s wearing an is-there-a-problem-here smile as he gives Rafaele a pointed look. “After all, you’ve joined your families, so I thought it would be best if we all sit down at the table.”
“Good to see you, Garzolo,” Rafaele says, seeming unfazed by this turn of events, but I can’t say the same for myself. Is Papà seeking an ally in Ferraro to take down Rafaele? I doubt Ferraro would work with someone whose word clearly means nothing, but what do I know?
My father stops before me and leans down to press a kiss to my cheek. “We need to talk,” he whispers in my ear.
I know what he wants to talk about, and he won’t like what he hears.
We sit down at the oval dining table, and Rafaele brings up the issue with the contract before we’ve even finished the first course.
Gino waves his hand dismissively. “Done. My cousin Ricardo has always been a stickler on issues like this, but I’ll take care of it.”
“I appreciate it,” I say automatically. Rafaele squeezes my hand under the table, but I’m too tense to feel relieved.
The dinner proceeds without a hiccup, and the conversation flows easily with the help of Vita’s friendly presence.
The Ferraro matriarch is very different from my mother. She seems so kind and lovely, and there’s no mistaking the adoration in Gino’s eyes whenever he looks at her. She tells us the story of how she and Gino met. She was a fashion model, and he sat in the front row for one of the shows she walked. He asked her manager for her number and proposed a week later.
“It was a whirlwind romance,” she exclaims. “Took a while for his family to warm up to me, given that I’m not Italian.
“But she eventually won them over,” Gino says. “Very few can resist my wife’s charms.”
God, they’re cute together. And here I thought all mafia marriages were miserable. The way they’re looking at each other, I get the sense they still fuck like bunnies.
“Rafaele, I’d like to have a word in private,” Gino says once we finish our dessert. “Why don’t you join me for a drink on the terrace?”
Rafaele nods before turning to me and lowering his voice. “You okay on your own for a while?”
“Of course.” I nudge his thigh. “Go.”
Rafaele and Gino leave. Vita offers to show me some of their Japanese artwork, and we look at the paintings for a while before I have to excuse myself to use the bathroom.
“It’s just down that hall,” Vita explains.
I do my business, wash my hands, and dab some cold water on my neck. Anxiety crawls over my skin. And it’s justified, because my father corners me as soon as I come out.
He backs me against a wall. “Have you thought about my offer?”
I wince. His breath reeks even worse than his desperation.
“Give me some space,” I say, pushing at his chest.
He backs away slightly, his beady eyes narrowed and his forehead shiny. Nervous? He’s right to be worried. He won’t find an ally in me, or anyone else who possesses an ounce of sense.
“We don’t have a lot of time, Cleo,” he growls. “I’m waiting on your answer.”
My fists clench. “I won’t help you.”
His reaction is immediate. A hiss comes out of his mouth, and then his forearm is against my neck, and my back is being slammed against the wall.
I gasp from the sudden pain, my veins blazing with shock. I expected him to be angry, but I didn’t think he’d turn aggressive.
“Did you tell him I asked, you stupid slut?”
I claw at his arm. I can’t get enough air. Just when dark spots start to appear in front of my eyes, he lets go of me.
“Did you?”
I back away from him, rubbing my throat. My brain struggles to catch up with what just happened. He’s dangerous.
“Don’t ever do that again,” I say, unable to keep my voice from shaking. “No, I didn’t tell him. But I won’t help you. I don’t want anything to do with you.”
He snarls. “I should kill you right here so that you won’t run your mouth to him.”
I straighten my back and force myself to stay calm. “I’d like to see you try. If I’m dead, Rafaele will make sure you’re carried out of here in pieces.”
I brush past him, but he seizes my forearm and jerks me back. “Whatever he told you to turn to his side is a lie. You’ll be miserable with him. He’s not a good man.”
“And you are?”
His hold on me tightens until he’s practically crushing my bones.
“Ow, stop!”
“You’ll regret this decision.”
“Let go of me.”
“You’ve always been such a fucking disappointment,” he hisses.
“Want to know what I find disappointing?” a cool voice drawls. “Your utter lack of manners, Garzolo.”
Papà releases me at once. I whirl around to see Cosimo standing at the end of the hallway studying us. His appearance somehow feels a lot more menacing than all of Papà’s threats.
He crosses his arms over his chest and props a shoulder against a wall. “Save the domestic dispute for when you’re in your own home.”
“My daughter and I were just catching up,” my father says, a tense smile on his face.
“We’re all caught up,” I mutter.
That earns me a sharp glare, but at least Papà keeps his mouth shut. He hurries past Cosimo and disappears around the corner.
Cosimo studies me as I walk toward him. “He’s a real piece of work,” he says when we’re shoulder to shoulder. His gaze drops to my arm. “Something tells me your husband won’t be thrilled about that.”
I pull down my sleeve. “I’m fine. Please don’t say anything to Rafaele.” He’d lose it.
Cosimo stares at me for a long moment and then nods. “Not my business.”
I brush past him, knowing there’s no way to undo the decision I made.
Tonight, I will have to come clean to my husband.
