Page 6 of Italian Mafia Boss's Virgin Lover

Mine.The word is alien. I’m in an Italian castle in the remote, frozen mountains. I am the possession of an Italian gangster, a man whose blood runs back to Roman times.

I feel every thread of my old life catching and tearing away. I’m not allowed a phone or Internet, but those things wouldn’t bring me much comfort anyway. I know only one thing that will.

I shower and dress, tiptoeing downstairs though it’s not early by any standard. I can’t find Sabine, but I don’t know that I want to. The sharp, severe woman seems as likely to help me as snipe at me, and I’m feeling fragile as the frost on the windows. A maid helps me with my request, however, leading me to a parlor on what might be the third floor of the castle.

“This is the drawing room,signorina,” she tells me warmly in Italian, slow enough I can catch each word, though it’s painstaking. “You are welcome to it.”

“Am I…” I hesitate. Should I ask the maid, or wait for Sabine? Or should I only ask Santo what I’m permitted to do? “Can I go anywhere in the castle?”

“Oh, no,signorina.” The maid gives a grave shake of her head. “There are boundaries for us all, but especially for the lady of the house.”

Lady of the house.I’ve never been the lady of anything. But I only smile politely. “Where are the boundaries?”

“You are forbidden to visit the west wing of the second floor,” she informs me. “It is closed off. You are also not permitted to enter the servants’ quarters, which are beneath your station. And the master’s chambers, the north wing of the fourth floor. It is forbidden, unless you are otherwise…instructed.”

Heat seeps up the back of my neck. I think suddenly of kings and queens, of consummations observed through gilded screens, of the ceremony of royal sex.

It’s inevitable. My main purpose for marrying Santo is to bear him children, as he has no other living relatives, and the Amata empire would be lost without an heir.

Iknowthis. So why does it terrify me?

“You will find supplies here,signorina,” says the maid, showing me. “And breakfast is served at your leisure, unless the master summons you.”

“Will he?” I ask, jarred, as the girl dismisses herself. “Summon me?”

“It is impossible to say.”

I nod, hardly comforted, and with a smile and bow, the maid leaves me.

Chapter 4

Santo

She’s in modern clothing, a long canvas skirt and flowing white blouse. Her pale hair is a loose tangle down her back, and in the white morning light she looks deified, romantic as a Renaissance oil of an angel.

I came up only to warn her of her limitations in the house while I’m away, but I can’t seem to make myself cross the threshold. She’s suspended in a sacred sort of concentration, brow furrowed and lips parted, hands moving charcoal across the page almost as though frustrated, impatient to communicate idea to reality.

I’m there for maybe an eternity, not quite sure why I can’t look away from this plain girl who spoke to me so brazenly in the firelight last night. In my own home. I should crack the whip. Bring down my fury on her. But something about her vigor pleases me. I don’t care much for weakness, in women as much as in men. Hers is a quiet, reserved strength. It reminds me that she came to save her father’s life—she’s in possession of some great courage, even if she endeavors to conceal it.

“Santo,” she says suddenly, standing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

She’s barefoot, I see, despite the weather. The castle is certainly kept warm enough, even in the winter. But it’s an odd sight, and vulnerable. In brushing hair from her face, she’s left a dark streak of charcoal stark against her freckled, porcelain skin.

“You’re drawing,” I say, stepping into the room at last. “I’m not sure this room has been used to its purpose in a century or two.”

“Oh.” She flushes, the rose of her cheeks lusher in daylight. It gives her a real look of life. Vitality. “I’m sorry. When I’m agitated, or upset, it helps. To draw, I mean.”

“Are you? Agitated, or upset?” I slowly pace to her side, halting to gaze down at the page. It’s a drawing of the castle, though she’s only glimpsed it from the outside once. She’s captured its glory and menace. It looks itself: from another age entirely. “This is good.”

“Thank you. And no. I’m not agitated. I mean, I’m a little tired.” There’s a sound of a confession in her voice.

“Did you not sleep well?”

“Well enough.”

I study her, and her flush deepens. She’s indeed upset, but won’t speak of it. The daughter of a Mafia boss must have learned long ago to school her emotions, if only to protect herself. That glimpse of wine-touched anger last night, then, was a lapse. One I probably won’t see again.

Interesting.