Page 101 of Cara

That changes today.

When I walked into the convenience store for a bottle of wine and some plastic cups, Sophie was waiting in the car. She didn’t hear my call to Dario to post men outside the museum. Nor did she hear me call in this favor, insisting my soldatos are stationed in the security booth, the only ones with access to our route within the walls. The attendant doesn’t know he’ll be stalked on this brief break to ensure he doesn’t make any unnecessary calls or movements.

Although it’s impossible with the life I lead, I want her to believe for one more night, at least, that we’re alone—that we aren’t being followed or watched.

I slow my steps to observe her walk, noticing how the mini dress she wore at the beach this morning sways against the backs of her thighs, caressing her soft skin as intimately as I wish to. Transfixed, I'm certain there’s no masterpieceshowcased here that could possibly rival her; nothing of any significance that would make looking away from her worth it.

I can still taste her.

An entire day has passed, and I'm still dreaming of the insides of her thighs, her breasts heaving as she struggles for breath, her pouty mouth falling open for more.

Even the more subtle, refined movements I’ve memorized. The contours of her ribcage as I twisted her beneath me, the curve of her pale shoulder as I rocked into her from behind, appreciating the route my lips coursed to reach her mouth. The winded whimper that left her when my fingers dug into her chin, urging her head back to my waiting mouth, so damn eager to consume.

Cazzo. I’m stiff just thinking of it.

Casting my eyes from the cream fabric of her dress, I redirect my focus, suppressing those desires. As damn tricky as it is, that’s not what this is. That’s not why I brought her here.

“You kept your promise,” Sophie finally says from across the room, staring at an impressionist painting of a water lily pond—a Monet, by the looks of it.

“You remember?”

Her eyes are as still as that painting. “Everything.”

The Hellenistic floors starkly contrast the leather of my shoes as I stroll the gallery’s perimeter. There’s no music, no chatter, no other soul here but us. It’s precisely what I wanted.

“I'm a regular here lately,” I reveal.

There’sfinallya hint of a smile. “Is that so?”

“Mm. I'm a donor. That means you are, too.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

She’s grinning.It’s working.

If she looked close enough, she’d see my chest swell with pride to be able to do that for her still—after all I’ve made her suffer. “We can come whenever wewant.”

“I see what you’re doing.”

“What?”

“I know a bribe when I hear it.”

My teeth catch the inside of my cheek, stifling a million emotions all at once. “Is it working?”

Glued to the opposite boundary of the room, becoming as uninterested in the artwork as I am, each step she takes brings her a little closer. “You don’t need to bribe me on this. On us. Ever.”

Fucking hell.

Restraint is damn near impossible.

Years ago, something like that out of her mouth would’ve ignited a frenzy, an absolute riot within me that would’ve had her writhing on these pristine floors in seconds. That fire still rages just as bright now, but I must confine the blazes.

The hate I have for my father and for this organization has matured over the years, making the importance of revenge as vital as anything else. The price of the war I'm waging is that. That in moments like these, when I shouldn’t hesitate to take my wife and devote myself to her pleasure—to my own—I'm holding back, scared I’ll hurt her, concerned I’ll do something wrong, anxious she won’t love the man I’ve become when I'm not pretending.

“Your mask is down,” she says.