Page 24

“Of course.” I lean back in my chair and reach for my glass. “But you do know that, in time, you’ll need to learn to just accept what happened. We’re married. That’s not going to change.

No divorce will free you—unless, of course, you put a bullet in the middle of my head. But if you do that, then your family goes right back to square one.”

I hear the grinding of her teeth, but she says nothing. Music fills the silence between us, and we sit watching the wedding unfold from the table we’ve been placed at—to be adored by all the guests.

I’m not foolish enough to think these people are happy about this union. Her marrying my son was going to be a seismic shift in mafia society. But now that she’s my wife, I’m sure the whispers have already made it to the East Coast. Which means this game is only going to get bloodier.

“Excuse me.” My bride gets up from her seat beside me and heads—likely—to her mother. She doesn’t look back, and I’m fairly certain that’ll be the last I see of her until we’re forced to leave for the manor.

Two hours later, and after many forced, fake goodbyes, we finally make it back to the Faravelli manor. Marcello and Marta left an hour earlier, leaving us to mingle with all their cokehead relatives.

The walk into the manor is silent—as expected. The woman hates me. She loathes everything I represent in her life. And who can blame her? She was meant to wear the Davacalli namebeside my son—not wrapped around the man who forged it in blood and power.

Her heels click against the marble floors, the train of her dress trailing behind her like a cape. I want to offer to help, but she’d likely chew my head off. And I’m in no mood to deal with my ever-pleasant wife tonight.

She leads the way to her room. I follow closely behind her. I have no intention of sleeping. The last woman I fucked was my wife, and ever since then, I’ve had only my own hands for company—and it’s been enough. I haven’t needed to bury my cock anywhere—for now.

“You don’t need to follow me, Mr. Davacalli.” Her back is still turned to me as she leads us up the stairs.

“Are you forgetting it’s our wedding night, Mrs. Davacalli?” The words sound foreign on my lips. She is my wife—the realization hits me like a two-ton truck. I don’t want to accept it. “Besides, I need to walk you to your room.”

Her steps falter at the top of the stairs, but she doesn’t turn back. She continues with determined strides and makes her way to her room. She opens the door, and I follow her inside. I close the door behind us and stride in with a confidence that probably shouldn’t be allowed.

I place myself on the edge of her bed and take it all in. In the corner of the room sits an easel with a few strokes painted onto a white canvas. A painter—I never would’ve pegged her as the type. I imagined her room being far more… vibrant. But this… It’s rather dull and beige.

“So this is your room? It’s less colorful than I would’ve thought. Beige is rather dull for a woman like you.” I make the most obvious observation. Just by looking at her, she screams polished perfection. Rich, spoiled, a Mafia princess with access to more resources than the average girl. “You’re not what I imagined you to be, I must say.”

My bride stands in the middle of the room with her arms crossed over her chest, looking uneasy.

“It’s been a long day, Mr. Davacalli, and I?—”

“Matteo,” I correct her. “We’re married now. There’s no need to be formal. You’re my wife, and it would be strange if people ever heard you call me ‘Mr. Davacalli.’”

“Right.” She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Like I was saying, it’s been a long day and I just want my bed, so it would be great if you could leave my room. I want to shower and wash this whole day off.”

I stifle a laugh. “Odd thing to say about one’s wedding day.”

“Go, please.” She shudders and hugs herself, trying to find some comfort. “I understand that I’ll have to give you a baby one day—but tonight is not that night. Leave. Please.”

I hold up my arms to show her I’m not a threat. “I won’t ever force myself on you, Maria. When the time comes for a child, there are plenty of ways to get there without me having to find myself between your legs.”

In the corner of the room, I see three suitcases lined up against the edge. I guess she’s all ready for tomorrow.

“Do you have to be so crass?”

“It’s the truth. Never in my life have I had to force a woman to fuck me—and you won’t be the first. If and when you want to fuck me, all you need to do is ask.” I watch the heat tint her cheeks, even through the layer of makeup she wears.

She scrunches her nose in disgust, but it doesn’t make my words any less true. I never wanted another wife. I’m a widower. My love died the day I lost Beatrice. I have nothing left inside me to give.

“You can leave now, since we’ve cleared that up,” she bites out. “There are plenty of guest rooms—take your pick. I’ll be staying here for my last night.”

I lift myself from the edge of the bed and stand to my full height. I want to cross the distance between us and offer some solace, some comfort—but nothing I say will ease any of this. I’m struggling with her. I have no idea where my son is, and now I’m left with a wife I never intended to have. I am as pleased as a pig in a slaughterhouse.

“Goodnight, Maria. We take off tomorrow morning. We should be in New York by 9 a.m. I have a lot of business to attend to.”

Mainly finding my son and making sure he doesn’t make a mockery of himself—or our name.

My wife says nothing. She just hugs her body tightly. Her eyes stay locked on the front wall, and she looks like she’s seconds from falling apart. In this moment, I’ll give her the freedom to break in peace.