“Eat,” Primo demanded, walking back toward the kitchen to plate dishes for his brothers. Who each slowly joined me at the table as I went ahead and ducked my head as I started to eat.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been antisocial. These men were, whether I liked it or not, related to me now. I would have to learn to interact with them or it was going to be a very tense life. But I just didn’t know what to say right then. Hell, there wasn’t even a voice in my head talking like it constantly did on a daily basis. I just felt blank.
Luckily, the men went on without me, discussing things from sports to something about organic turkey that I didn’t even begin to understand.
The food, though, God, the food was impeccable. I was actually a little jealous that Primo could cook that well. I suddenly felt like every dish I ever made was crap.
Terzo was the one to clear the table.
And then, suddenly, everyone was gone.
Including my husband.
I had no idea where they went. And I honestly didn’t care. I was too exhausted to be curious about their operation.
Alone, I made my way to the living room, turning on the TV because the quiet in the apartment was deafening, then curling up on the couch.
I was out cold before the show could go to its first commercial break.
I don’t know how long I was asleep, but I know what woke me.
Strong arms sliding under my back and knees, then lifting me up off the couch.
My entire body jolted hard. Disoriented, a little slow to take in the details, my immediate instinct was to get away.
“Sh,” a male voice said as I found myself pulled against a strong chest. With a newly familiar spicy cologne clinging to the fabric of his black shirt. “We’re going to bed,” he added as he started walking through the apartment toward the stairs.
“I want to sleep on the couch,” I insisted.
“No.”
That was it.
No.
And his tone brooked no argument.
Too bad for him that I was always up for one.
“Yes. I was comfortable,” I insisted even if I was wondering how to get the crick out of my neck.
“You won’t be sleeping on the couch.”
“Why not?” I asked as Primo’s arms held me tighter as he started up the stairs.
And it didn’t feel a little bit good.
I repeat: it did not feel good.
But if it did, it was only because it had been a long, long time since I’d felt a strong man’s arms around me.
“You are my wife. You will sleep in my bed.”
“Why? No one is here to see me sleeping on the couch.”
“My men come and go at all times when they need me.”
“So, you care about appearances?” I asked, rolling my eyes at him. “That’s pathetic.”
“In this life, Isabella,” he snapped, and I tried not to notice the unique way he said my name—Issa-bella instead of Is-abella, “appearances matter. It is why we dress well. It is why we have codes and rules. Anytime you stray from the appearances that outsiders come to expect from you, you open yourself up to speculation, you make yourself weaker. A man whose wife does not share his bed is weaker if other men find out. And this room is bullet-resistant,” he added as he lowered me onto what would be my side of the bed.
“Wait, no,” I said, sitting up on the bed, watching as he walked around the foot of the bed. “You don’t just toss around phrases like that and not expect follow-up questions.”
“What questions could you have, baby? How bulletproofing works?”
“I’m not an idiot. And Terzo explained the steel and kevlar thing.”
“Then what is the question?” he asked, taking off his watch while standing on his side of the bed. Next came the cufflinks. And I was pretending not to notice that it was a very intimate thing to see a man going about his nighttime routine.
“Why would I need to sleep behind a bulletproof wall?” I asked.
“Because, whether you like the situation or not, you are now a mafia wife. No, more than that. A boss’s wife. A mafia queen. You are a high-value target to anyone who wants to fuck with my Family.”
“Gee, that’s just what a girl wants to hear right before bed,” I said, shaking my head.
“You asked,” he reminded me, reaching for his belt.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked, removing the belt, then rolling it up in his hand and securing it before putting it in the dresser.
Then, ah, well then, he started to unbutton his shirt.
And I couldn’t seem to make myself look away as he slipped off the black fabric and exposed the strong back beneath.
The strong back criss-crossed with scars. Old scars, faded to nearly skin tone with age.