Page 6
Story: Mafia Maiden
But I don’t feel polite. I feel like I’m unraveling, and that at any moment the thread I am hanging on by is going to snap.
It’s been three days since my wedding.
Three days since he touched me—tasted me—claimed me.
Three days since I stopped pretending I didn’t want him to do it again.
I should be ashamed of that. Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just too spun out to know what’s shame and what’s survival anymore.
The silk slip I wear clings to my skin like liquid. It’s pale rose, almost see-through in the fading light, the hem brushing just under my ass, exposing me with every step I take. I told myself Iput it on for comfort. But comfort doesn’t usually come with lace trim or matching panties I never used to own.
The garden terrace is still warm from the boiling hot day. The stone beneath my bare feet feels sun-kissed and smooth.
I walk further away, closer to the danger I crave more than I should.
I trail my fingertips along the balustrade, passing rose bushes in bloom, their petals bruised from the heat. The air is heavy with the scent of jasmine and citrus. Cicadas hum in the olive trees. The whole scene could be something from a dream—too perfect, too beautiful.
Too still.
I feel it. That subtle shift in the air. That electric tension that zaps up my spine like someone just breathed my name without saying it out loud.
I don’t have to turn around. I already know. He’s behind me.
Luca.
I feel his presence like gravity. Like heat. Like the inevitable pull of something I’ve been pretending I could resist.
“You’re barefoot again,” he says softly.
His voice is like smoke. Smooth. Dangerous. Seductive.
“I didn’t hear you come out,” I say, not turning around.
“I didn’t announce myself.”
I swallow hard. My skin prickles beneath the silk. The air between us thickens, heady and heavy. It is not the humidity, it’s him.
“You didn’t come to breakfast,” he adds, stepping closer. “I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
“I needed some air.”
“You could’ve asked me to walk with you.”
I finally turn, and instantly regret it.
He’s dressed in black again. No tie. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms that look carved from stone. His hairis mussed like he’s been dragging his hands through it. And his eyes—those cold, calculating green eyes—are locked on me like I’m his next confession or his next sin.
“I didn’t think you were the type for strolls in the garden,” I murmur.
“I’m not,” he says, his mouth tilting in the barest hint of a smile. “But for you?—”
He steps closer. Close enough that I feel the heat of his body. Close enough that my breath catches and my nipples pebble beneath the thin silk of my slip.
“I can’t breathe when you look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Then stop looking like a fucking fantasy and I won’t.”
He reaches out slowly, brushing his fingers along my arm. A featherlight touch that sets fire to my skin. He trails upward, over my shoulder, then runs his thumb over my bottom lip.
It’s been three days since my wedding.
Three days since he touched me—tasted me—claimed me.
Three days since I stopped pretending I didn’t want him to do it again.
I should be ashamed of that. Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just too spun out to know what’s shame and what’s survival anymore.
The silk slip I wear clings to my skin like liquid. It’s pale rose, almost see-through in the fading light, the hem brushing just under my ass, exposing me with every step I take. I told myself Iput it on for comfort. But comfort doesn’t usually come with lace trim or matching panties I never used to own.
The garden terrace is still warm from the boiling hot day. The stone beneath my bare feet feels sun-kissed and smooth.
I walk further away, closer to the danger I crave more than I should.
I trail my fingertips along the balustrade, passing rose bushes in bloom, their petals bruised from the heat. The air is heavy with the scent of jasmine and citrus. Cicadas hum in the olive trees. The whole scene could be something from a dream—too perfect, too beautiful.
Too still.
I feel it. That subtle shift in the air. That electric tension that zaps up my spine like someone just breathed my name without saying it out loud.
I don’t have to turn around. I already know. He’s behind me.
Luca.
I feel his presence like gravity. Like heat. Like the inevitable pull of something I’ve been pretending I could resist.
“You’re barefoot again,” he says softly.
His voice is like smoke. Smooth. Dangerous. Seductive.
“I didn’t hear you come out,” I say, not turning around.
“I didn’t announce myself.”
I swallow hard. My skin prickles beneath the silk. The air between us thickens, heady and heavy. It is not the humidity, it’s him.
“You didn’t come to breakfast,” he adds, stepping closer. “I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
“I needed some air.”
“You could’ve asked me to walk with you.”
I finally turn, and instantly regret it.
He’s dressed in black again. No tie. Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms that look carved from stone. His hairis mussed like he’s been dragging his hands through it. And his eyes—those cold, calculating green eyes—are locked on me like I’m his next confession or his next sin.
“I didn’t think you were the type for strolls in the garden,” I murmur.
“I’m not,” he says, his mouth tilting in the barest hint of a smile. “But for you?—”
He steps closer. Close enough that I feel the heat of his body. Close enough that my breath catches and my nipples pebble beneath the thin silk of my slip.
“I can’t breathe when you look at me like that,” I whisper.
“Then stop looking like a fucking fantasy and I won’t.”
He reaches out slowly, brushing his fingers along my arm. A featherlight touch that sets fire to my skin. He trails upward, over my shoulder, then runs his thumb over my bottom lip.