Page 21 of A Love Most Brutal (Morelli Family #2)

MARY

By the time Maxim pulls his massively expensive car into the underground parking garage and the private elevator deposits us into his— our home, it’s late and I am thoroughly exhausted.

I hated feeling the way I did today, hopeless and guilty, as if the baby was in the wrong position and a week early by my doing.

I do fear it was the wedding that sent her into labor, but as Willa explained multiple times, the baby really was all cooked up and ready to come into the world any day now.

I thought the wedding should be earlier, but they wanted more time to plan ( Two months is already an insane turnaround, and if we wait any longer, Vanessa will be the one indisposed ).

So it was decided: a wedding ten days before Willa’s due date.

I kick off my shoes and hold them by the backs as soon as we step inside, the floor looks spotless and shining. Our bags were already brought inside, so Maxim doesn’t carry anything as he holds back a few steps behind me while I look around.

My new house.

It’s so different to the home I grew up in, this modern penthouse atop a building.

It’s perfectly clean, and I would be shocked if Maxim had anything to do with the choices of the luxury furnishings and art pieces around each room.

The space isn’t devoid of him, though. Built-in bookshelves line two walls in the living room, not filled with leather-bound first editions and decorative encyclopedias, but instead with the colorful spines of novels, many well-worn.

Movement from the corner of my eye puts me on the defensive, but when I snap my gaze in that direction, I am more shocked to find a stretching, grey ball of fur on the loveseat.

“Is that a cat?” I ask, though it could be nothing else. It stretches into an arch before looking up at me and emitting the scratchiest, smallest meow I’ve ever heard.

I approach the cat slowly, and it does not scurry away, even as I kneel down in front of it. It’s got blue eyes, kind of like Maxim’s, but sea blue instead of the middle of a storm.

“Oh, yes. I should have asked, are you allergic?”

I hold out a hand to the cat who sniffs it for a moment before pressing the top of their head against my hand.

“I’m not,” I say. “Just surprised you have a pet. It’s friendly.”

“Her name is Greta. My sister Nadia left her with me as a kitten. I couldn’t get rid of her,” Maxim explains.

The cat jumps to the ground, opting to rub her fluffy body against Maxim’s legs until he picks her up.

She’s a tiny thing, made to look even smaller in his arms as he scratches under her neck.

“I thought you might have a pet snake,” I say, standing and facing him and the cat. I step closer to him to scratch her head.

“And why’s that?”

I look up at him and his eyes are already on my face. I swallow and grab his wrist, sliding his shirt sleeve down his forearm until his detailed tattoo is displayed. It’s a snake, beautiful and detailed, wrapped around his arm with flowers. Forget-me-nots, I think.

“You don’t have a Greta tattoo,” I say.

“Not one you’ve seen, at least.”

I think he’s making a joke, but I can never be certain with him—his humor is rare and subtle, delivered with as serious a tone as his normal conversation. Greta meows between us, squeaky still but louder, affronted that we stopped petting her, I think.

I didn’t realize I’d stepped so close to Maxim. I put some distance between us before he lets the cat down so she can rub against our ankles.

“Can I have a tour?” I ask. Now’s as good of a time as any, and I have to see our room one way or another.

“Of course.” Maxim clears his throat, then leads me through an efficient tour of the downstairs.

I’ve seen much of the public spaces, the entryway, the kitchen which looks on to the living room with the tall windows over the city, but there’s a hallway that leads to a gym.

It’s smaller than the one at home, but I suppose that’s to be expected, especially if he trains here alone.

He doesn’t have a horde of Morellis training together most days.

I feel an errant pang in my chest at the reminder that I won’t be training with them like I have for most of my life.

When Willa moved out, I missed her in our daily sessions, but she came back to train with us at least once a week, though after she was pregnant with the twins, that training turned to lounging in a reclining chair our dad brought down for her, reading or doing coursework on her laptop while she did.

Maxim opens the door across the hall and I peek inside.

“Guest room,” he says. It’s completely inoffensive. “Full bathroom there, and then another guest room.” He points to the final door.

“Do you often have guests?”

“Not often,” he says. “But my sisters, at times.”

I hum in acknowledgment. I didn’t get much time to talk to his three beautiful sisters, each tall and perfectly polished. Like Willa or Vanessa. His sister Sofia, at least, looked mean, which made me like her more.

Maxim leads us up the stairs next, and the first door is already open to his office. It’s nice, cozy. There’s a dark wood desk, a matching side table, a leather couch, and a loveseat. I suppose he entertains meetings here on occasion. Hopefully not too many.

I don’t love strangers skulking around the house, especially the upstairs. It’s egregious enough that the elevator opens directly into the home; there should be some sort of rule about guests not venturing upstairs.

The next room is large with an en-suite bathroom and a bed I’m sure is quite comfortable. It’s the least decorated of any room we’ve seen. When I peer into the closet, I see familiar luggage and bins.

My stuff.

“This is your room,” Maxim explains, and I lift my eyebrows.

“Why is it so empty?”

“I thought you may want to make it your own.” He puts his hands in his pockets, belying his nerves. He wants me to like it?

“And where is your stuff?”

Maxim looks surprised by the question and stands in a dumbfounded silence. Greta meows again before she leaves for the hall.

“My belongings are just in the room next door.”

I blink, processing this news, then cross my arms over my chest. I am mostly astounded that not once in the past two months had I considered that Maxim wouldn’t want to share a room with me.

Have I been stupid to believe even sham marriages have some requirements, shared rooms and sex being two on the list?

“Is the room. . .alright?” Maxim asks.

”What do I need my own room for if there’s a gym?”

“I thought you’d want your own space.”

“Do you? Want your own space?”

Maxim frowns, unsure of my line of questioning

“As in, do you not want to share your space with me? Your room.”

Maxim is rarely flustered, but at this moment, I swear he is.

“I would not mind sharing space with you, I only thought this would be more comfortable. For you.”

The concept feels something like a king and queen—separate quarters, what so he might have his own concubines? A separate space where he’ll visit me to make a baby and nothing more?

“Do you not want to sleep next to me? Are you a light sleeper?”

“I thought you’d want your own bedroom,” he repeats.

Is it my age? Does he not want to share a room with me because he thinks I’ll be messy? I admit I’m na?ve to many things regarding marriage, but does our arrangement require that I be relegated to a life-long roommate?

He looks at a loss, though, not frustrated like this is something I should understand.

Maybe he thought it would be a nice gesture, giving me my own room—a show that he doesn’t expect anything from me.

Well, aside from the baby. Or maybe he’d prefer not to share a bathroom, shower, closet, or any of the other intimacies that might come with a marriage I chose.

“Show me yours,” I demand. His mouth snaps shut and without a word, he does, backing out of the room and leading me next door to a room which is slightly smaller, though no less nice. Much cozier, little piles of books perched on floating shelves and surfaces.

I stalk barefoot around the perimeter of the room (the carpet is damn nice) and I survey his most personal items. If he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t show it, only leans against the wall with his arms crossed as I make my perusal.

His closet is huge, but not full. I have lots of clothes thanks to my sister’s shopping addiction, but they would all fit here.

I drop my shoes in a corner of the closet before I return to the room and prop my hands on my hips. I’m still wearing his sweatshirt over the pink dress I pulled out of my suitcase when we were about to leave Mexico. It’s cozy and I’ve already decided I will co-opt it for myself.

“I like this one better,” I determine. “I’ll stay in here with you.”

He rushes to assure me that I don’t have to feel beholden to this , but I cut him off. “I’m not a porcelain doll, Maxim. Don’t treat me like one. A wedding ceremony and a new house isn’t going to break me.”

I cross the wide room until I’m standing directly in front of him, I have to look up to meet his eyes, but I offer as hard of a glare as if I could sneer down my nose at him.

“Do you think I’m a weak woman?”

Maxim huffs, his collected veneer chipping and giving way to the frustration beneath. It lights me up inside, seeing his stony facade crack. It’s why I preferred him on our wedding night and then again in the bathtub.

“No, Marianna.”

“You didn’t seem to think I needed coddling when you fucked me?—”

“Christ, you’re difficult,” he breathes, and it takes everything in me not to grin.

“Born this way, I think.” I don’t know why needling him is so fun, but seeing this big, bad mafioso flustered brings me almost as much joy as meeting my new niece for the first time today.

His tone softens. “I was only trying to be mindful of you.”

I drop the glare and nod before speaking. “I think, if we are going to be married, make a baby, and raise a baby, we should at least know each other. And sleeping in different rooms and masturbating alone in the shower doesn’t seem very conducive to knowing each other.”

Maxim swallows, his Adam’s apple giving away his discomfort. He gives a jerk of his head in response. “You’re right.”

I’m surprised he gave in so quickly, acquiescing instead of fighting further. I think I would like to fight with him.

Between our feet, Greta meows, alerting us to her presence. I crouch and scratch her head for a second before I stand again.

“I’ll get settled and showered, then.”