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ILARIA

Sal's commanding kiss sends shards of pleasure piercing through me.

The bedroom is the only place I will tolerate being bossed around, but I more than tolerate it.

I need it.

Sal figured that out on our wedding night when his naturally domineering nature in the bedroom sent a frightened virgin skyrocketing into the stratosphere with pleasure.

34 Years Ago

My heart beating way too fast and my breath coming in short gasps, I stare at the room I've been led to.

Salvatore's bedroom in the De Luca penthouse.

Apparently, it's De Luca family tradition that the men spend their wedding night in the family home, a penthouse that takes up two floors at the top of a an art deco building they've owned since it was built in the 1920s.

However, we won't be living here, like Enzo and Aria, my new husband's brother and sister-in-law.

My father has gifted us a building too. And the penthouse suite has been designed for us to live in.

We'll eventually inherit the house on Long Island I grew up in along with all my father's other assets.

And I do mean we . Sal will inherit right along with me, just as he will inherit my father's position of capo.

Unlike so many other things in my life, including the man I would marry, I was consulted on the colors and the furniture for my new home.

Tomorrow, we leave for our honeymoon in Sicily. Where my husband will be meeting with leaders in the Italian Cosa Nostra on behalf of his father, Don Matteo.

Some honeymoon, right?

"You look beautiful." Sal's deep voice washes over me, sending sparks of sensation along my nerve endings.

Or maybe that's just terror.

"Even Quasimodo would look good in this dress." I turn to face Sal with a swish of silk.

Made in Milan, like all the best wedding dresses, according to mamma, the yards and yards of white silk and lace encasing my body is the height of 80s couture.

Poofy sleeves of hand tatted Sicilian lace narrow to fit tightly around my forearms and brush the top of my hands. The crinoline underneath the skirt has so many layers, there are two feet between the tips of my toes and the hem of the overskirt.

The train is not quite as long as Princess Di's when she got married, much to my mom's chagrin. But I seriously don't know if the bustle created by the ruched up train, cleverly attached to the back of my dress would work if there was an inch more silk to contend with.

"I'm glad you didn't change out of the wedding dress for the reception." Sal's hot gaze sends those butterflies pinwheeling again.

"You can thank my mother for that." She could hardly brag about the handmade ten-thousand-dollar wedding gown to all the other capo's wives if I wasn't wearing it.

"I'd rather show my appreciation to you."

Did he really just say that?

My new husband.

How many times have we spoken? Ten, maybe fifteen, in all the years we have both been part of the Genovese Family.

Now, he's making sexual innuendos and looking at me like I'm a plate of spaghetti and he's a starving man.

Because I'm his wife and our lives are joined forever. It might be the 1980s in the rest of the world, but it's still the 16 th Century in the mafia when it comes to divorce.

It's not an option.

Just like la famiglia itself, the only way out of a mafia marriage is death.

King Henry VIII style.

An image of my own lifeless body, head severed and resting in a gory pool of blood, flashes into my brain.

I can't breathe and try to suck in air, only my corset's too tight. It was fine ten minutes ago, but now it squeezes my ribcage like a hungry boa constrictor.

"You sound like you're about to hyperventilate." Sal's gray gaze glints with humor.

I'm glad one of us finds this situation amusing.

"It's the corset." It's so not the corset.

I'm about to have sex for the first time. Not with the man I love. I'm not in love with anyone, least of all the stranger I just married for the sake of mafia business.

Said mafia being stuck in the 16 th Century in more ways than one, as a woman, I cannot inherit the capoship from my father. That means marrying someone who can.

That man is Salvatore Tomaso De Luca, second son of the don and fully made man.

He's got Al Pacino's dreamy looks with Arnold Schwarzenegger's muscles and six-foot-two-inch height. A total dreamboat, but still a stranger.

Only three years older than me, he exudes a worldly cynicism my nineteen-year-old self only aspires to.

He smirks. "The corset. Sure. We'll go with that."

We'll see if he's still laughing when I throw up from nerves.

"It's different for you," I accuse.

Of course, he's taking what's about to happen in stride. He was raised to be a mafia soldier. I was raised to be a mafia princess.

He's experienced. I've never been kissed.

If the rumors are true, he got made when he was sixteen, killing someone for the mafia and taking his vow to the Cosa Nostra.

I've never raised my hand to another person.

He just graduated college with a degree in business. It's the new mafia where the made men who want to be somebody get an education.

I wanted to go to college. I knew my parents expected me to marry someone to become my father's heir but that didn't mean my whole life had to be about that.

Only to them, it did.

Papa's not proud of my intelligence. Mamma is unimpressed by my ability to analyze and use critical thinking skills. But both are really happy my uterus is in working order.

Yes, they had it checked. For real.

But when it came time for mamma to give me a talk about the birds and the bees, suddenly she's too circumspect to talk details. She literally said Sal would know what to do and to go along with it.

Whatever it was.

Looking at him right now, I believe he knows his way around the bedroom. Doesn't make me any less nervous.

He shrugs. "Sure."

"You're as inspiring as mamma," I complain. "She told me not to worry. It's not that terrible."

Sal barks out a laugh. "That's not much of a recommendation for sex."

"That's what I thought." I didn't say that to mamma though.

Doing so would have gotten me a smack to the back of my head. Mamma is ladylike in public but behind closed doors, she rules with an iron fist, and I am the one she's been ruling for the past 19 years.

"I'm not your dad."

"That's a good thing because eww."

He smiles. "You're funnier than I expected."

"You mean I have a brain?" Anger at the pigeonhole my life has been forced into settles some of the butterflies dive bombing in my tummy. "I'm not just an arm accessory with a uterus."

"No, you are not." There's not a speck of humor in his tone or expression now.

I’m not feeling all that amused myself. "I could do with another glass of champagne."

Technically, I'm not supposed to be drinking at all. I'm not of age.

But this is the mafia.

I can drink champagne, but heaven forbid I kiss a boy before marriage. Bitter laughter chokes in my throat and I have to bite it back.

"What's funny?" Sal asks.

"Nothing," I say with all honesty.

Nothing about this is funny. Terrifying? Check. Embarrassing? Check. Funny? Not so much.

"Do you need help getting out of your dress?" It's a question, but from the look on his face, there's only one right answer.

"Yes. I'm trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in this thing." And like that sacrificial bird, I've got no hope of getting out of it.

"I'm surprised your mother didn't want to help you with this."

"Your family has its traditions," I say referring to us having our wedding night in his family home. "Mine has ours."

"Me helping you out of the dress is one of them?"

I nod.

Possessiveness and sexual desire gleam in his eyes just like they have ever since our engagement was announced. "I like this tradition."

"I'm glad somebody does," I mutter.

Even if I'd wanted to change into a nightgown, mamma made sure the design of my dress makes it impossible for me to remove myself.

There are thirty-two tiny silk covered buttons going from the top of my neckline all the way to my butt. They're hard enough to undo when you can see them, but I'd have to be a contortionist to get them undone on my own.

If the buttons aren't deterrent enough, my tightly laced corset is secured with a double knot. That's to encourage Salvatore to use his knife to cut the laces.

It's supposed to symbolize something, but I don't know what. I tuned my mom out right after she told me I wouldn't be able to undress myself on my wedding night.

Sal steps forward. "Turn around."

I don't move.

"I am not going to hurt you, cara ."

"If you do, I'll shoot you in your sleep. Just so you know." I am not one of those mafia women who will tolerate being beaten on by the man she's married to.

Instead of anger flashing in his gorgeous gray gaze, respect flashes in Sal's eyes. "The De Luca men do not hurt those they are meant to protect."

"Are you saying you won’t beat stoicism into our son?" An ember of hope for a different life than the ones my parents planned for me kindles in my heart.

"You do not teach strength by behaving with weakness."

It’s not the answer I expect, but it's everything I want to hear.

"Promise me, Sal," I fervently demand.

"I give you my vow as a made man. I will never beat our children."

Something loosens inside of me and that ember flickers into a flame. "Thank you."

"Now, turn around." There's no give in his tone.

That's a clear demand and his expression says he expects me to obey.

"What if I don’t want to?" I have to ask.

It's all well and good to make a promise. Every made man in la famiglia vows fidelity on his wedding day, but more have broken that promise than kept it.

My father included.

"Are you going to deny me on our wedding night?" he tosses back at me.

"I want to know if you'd let me."

"Yes." He doesn't hesitate to answer.