Page 11 of Wicked Sinner

"I should introduce you to some of the others," she says eventually, glancing back toward the party. "It wouldn't be fair to monopolize your time."

“Fair enough.” Suddenly, I’m ready to put distance between myself and Catherine, no matter how pleasant she is.

We rejoin the party, and I spend the next hour making the rounds.

There's Maria Acosta, whose family controls a network of restaurants throughout Little Havana.

She's vivacious and warm, with an infectious laugh and a genuine interest in cooking that goes beyond mere social accomplishment.

When she talks about her family's recipes, passed down through generations, there's real passion in her voice. I can tell she knows nothing about what her family really does, that she believes she’s here because her father is a wealthy restaurateur, not because he also launders drug money through those same restaurants, or that he also has a pornography business that he uses for a similar reason.

"Food is about more than nutrition," she explains as we sample hors d’oeuvres from the buffet. "It's about culture, about bringing people together. My grandmother used to say that you can tell everything about a family by the way they share a meal."

"What would your grandmother say about this meal?" I ask, gesturing to the elaborate spread of gourmet appetizers.

"She'd say it's beautiful but cold," Maria replies without hesitation. "Too much presentation, not enough heart. She'd want to know who cooked it, whether they put love into it, whether the people eating it are truly enjoying each other's company."

"And are they?"

"Are they what?"

"Enjoying each other's company?"

She looks around the room, taking in the carefully orchestrated conversations, the calculated glances, the subtle positioning for advantage. "I think they're performing for each other," she says finally. "Which isn't the same thing."

Our conversation continues a little longer, but I already know she’s not my choice.

Too sweet, too genuine, too naive. The kind of woman who, under other circumstances, I might have wanted to spend more time with.

But I’m not about to drag her deeper into a life that I know would break her heart if she knew the truth of it, or spend my life lying to my wife.

I excuse myself from Maria and continue my rounds.

There's Elisa Romero, whose father does his business behind the guise of a large construction firm.

She's intelligent and aware, with an impressive knowledge of local politics and a network of connections that would be invaluable to any aspiring don.

When she talks about infrastructure projects and zoning laws, I can see the calculating mind that could be a powerful asset.

"The key is understanding leverage," she explains as we discuss a recent development deal. "Everyone wants something. The trick is figuring out what they want and how badly they want it."

"And what do you want?" I ask.

"Security," she says without hesitation. "Stability. A partner who understands that marriage is a partnership, not a dictatorship."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"Haven't you?" She tilts her head, studying me with those calculating eyes. "Or are you one of those men who thinks he can figure it out as he goes along?"

“I’ve only recently been told that this was necessary,” I tell her, amused. “I thought I’d get more say in the matter.”

Elisa snorts. “Welcome to my world.”

By the time I've spoken with all the major candidates, I'm exhausted.

They're all impressive in their own ways—intelligent, beautiful, well-connected.

Any one of them would make a perfectly acceptable wife, the kind of woman who could navigate the social and political complexities of being married to a don.

But not one of them has made me feel anything approaching desire.

Not one of them has made me want to pull her into a dark corner and lose myself in her body.

Not one of them has made me forget, even for a moment, about honey-blonde hair and hazel eyes and the way it felt to be completely, utterly consumed by want.

Even Catherine and Elisa, who impressed me with their potential to be smart, capable partners, made me feel nothing like that. Talking to them felt like considering a business contract—which is, I suppose, what this marriage will be—not like seduction.

It’s fucking depressing.

"Well?" Konstantin appears at my elbow as the evening begins to wind down. "Any impressions?"

"They're all remarkable women," I say diplomatically. "Very impressive."

"But you have preferences?"

I consider the question. Catherine is probably the most intellectually stimulating. Elisa would be the most politically advantageous. Isabella is certainly the most conventionally beautiful.

"I need more time to think," I say finally.

"Time is a luxury we don't have," he replies, his voice carrying a note of warning.

"The other families are getting restless. They need to see stability, commitment. Your father’s business deals, the money he moved, the contracts he had—all halted, for the most part.

They want to see the Genovese spoke of the wheel start to turn again, Caesar.

They need to see that you're serious about this. "

My jaw tightens. "I am serious."

"Then prove it. Choose a wife. Start building the alliances you'll need to succeed." He pauses, studying my face. "Unless you're having second thoughts about all of this?"

Of course I fucking am. But I can’t say it. Konstantin will see that weakness, and I’ll slide another rung down the ladder of his approval, not that I want to fucking care about it in the first place. If I’m having doubts, I need to keep them to myself.

"No," I say quickly. "No second thoughts. I just want to make the right choice."

"The right choice is the one that serves your interests and the interests of your future. Everything else is secondary."

In this world, by these rules, he’s right. But fuck, I left once because I didn’t want to play by the rules, and though I tried to come back and have come back now, I’m remembering why I left in the first place. Why this place felt like a fucking cell, with a clock ticking down to my execution.

The thought of Tristan O’Malley’s smug face as he absorbs everything my father built is all that keeps me from telling Konstantin to go fuck himself.

“Of course,” I manage smoothly. “I just need a little time to consider. You wouldn’t want a don in power who makes snap decisions, right?”

Konstantin doesn’t have a response to that. His cool blue eyes watch me as I leave, and I’ve gotten a little more of a reprieve—but not for long, I know.

The valet brings my Ferrari around, and I slide behind the wheel with a sense of relief.

Finally, I can drop the mask, stop pretending to be the perfect gentleman suitor.

But as I sit there in the driver's seat, key in hand, I realize I don't want to go home.

The thought of returning to my empty penthouse, of pouring myself a drink and staring out at the city lights while I try to convince myself that I can be happy with any of the women I met tonight, fills me with dread.

Instead, I find myself thinking about the one woman who isn't on Konstantin's approved list. The woman who looked at me like I was interrupting her night and made me prove why I deserved to be there.

The woman who challenged me, who made me convince her even when I was throwing money at her, who made me work for every kiss, every touch, every breathless moan.

Bridget.

For three weeks, I've been trying to forget her. Trying to focus on my future, my new responsibilities, the files of potential brides Konstantin has sent over, the accounts and contracts, and every other fucking thing that requires my attention. But every time I’ve stopped for even a second, her face has filled my mind.

Every time I’ve wrapped my hand around my cock in the shower or in bed, it’s the memory of her moans and the feeling of her mouth and pussy wrapped around me that’ve made me come.

I can’t stop fucking thinking about her, and it’s starting to make me feel a little insane.

Continuing to obsess over her is madness.

She's completely unsuitable for the life I'm trying to build.

She has no connections, no understanding of this world, and no ability to help me navigate the treacherous waters of mafia politics.

Trying to start a relationship with her would mean not marrying someone else, and marrying her would be political suicide.

But that doesn't mean I can't see her again.

The thought crystallizes as I sit there in the mansion's circular drive, watching the last guests disappear into the night.

An arranged marriage doesn't have to mean I only warm my wife’s bed.

It doesn't have to mean giving up everything I want for the sake of duty.

My father had mistresses. Most of the men in this life do.

It's understood, accepted, even expected in some circles.

I could marry Catherine or Isabella, or any of the others. Give Konstantin and the other families the political alliance they want. Play the part of the devoted husband in public while maintaining something real, something genuine, something that actually makes me feel alive.

The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.

I could set Bridget up in a nice apartment, take care of her financially, and visit her whenever I need to escape the suffocating world of mafia politics.

She'd probably be amenable to the arrangement—she needs money, that much was obvious from the state of her shop, from the way she looked at the cash I offered her.

I could take care of all her financial problems, give her more security than she's ever known. All she'd have to do is be available when I wanted her.

It's perfect. I’d get to have my cake and eat it too.

Duty and pleasure, politics and passion, all neatly compartmentalized.

For the first time in my life, the thought of having the same woman for more than one night excites me.

I can see a future with Bridget, one where we enjoy each other and she enjoys what I can offer her for as long as we both want it, and if one of us gets bored…

it’s easy enough to end. I’d make sure she was well taken care of, and we’d move on.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I put the Ferrari in gear and head for the highway that leads out of the city.

My heart is racing with anticipation, with the knowledge that in less than an hour, I'll see her again. I'll be able to touch her, taste her, lose myself in her body the way I've been dreaming about for three weeks. I’ll make her my offer—an offer I’ve never even considered making to anyone else—and she’ll be blown away that I want her so much.

That after one night, I’m willing to shower her with anything I can to have her whenever I please.

The streetlights whip by, turning into an empty road that I speed down, rehearsing what I’ll say in my head. This arrangement will be good for both of us. I won’t be demanding like I was before—I’ll be charming. Make her an offer she can’t refuse. I laugh inwardly at my own joke.

By the time I reach the more rural areas outside the city, I'm rock-hard with anticipation. Just the thought of seeing her again, of being near her, of breathing in her scent and hearing her voice, is enough to make me ache. I want her so badly it hurts, and I know we won’t make it to a bed tonight.

I’m going to fuck her over the Ferrari again, and then maybe later, I’ll find out what it’s like to have her in a bedroom.

Or maybe on a kitchen counter. My cock throbs as I imagine the possibilities.

Landmarks begin to appear as I get closer to her shop.

The old gas station that has been closed for years.

The roadside diner with its flickering neon sign.

A grocery store, a motel, a community pool.

I hardly noticed these things the first time I drove here, but now I see them all like markers on my way to what I want the most.

My hands are shaking as I grip the steering wheel.

This is insane. I'm acting like a teenager with his first crush instead of a grown man making a rational business proposition.

But I can't help it. The pleasure I felt with her was unmatched.

The way she made me feel was like a drug, and I need another hit.

I slow down as I approach her street, my heart hammering in my chest. The shop comes into view, the familiar building silhouetted against the star-filled sky.

There are lights on in the garage, which means she's home. Out there working on that Corvette that I saw, probably. At some point, when I’ve fucked her enough to want to talk, I’ll have to ask her about it.

I pull into the gravel lot and park instead of pulling into a bay.

For a moment, I just sit there, trying to calm my racing pulse.

This is it. This is my chance to have everything I want—duty and desire, obligation and passion, the life I’ve come back to claim and the woman who makes me feel truly alive.

All I have to do is walk to her door and ask for it.

I take a deep breath, check my appearance in the rearview mirror, and step out of the car.

The night air is warm and humid, filled with the chirp of cicadas and the distant sound of the ocean.

My footsteps crunch on the gravel as I make my way toward the garage, toward the woman who's been haunting my dreams and waking memories for the past three weeks.

It feels like she was meant to be mine.

All I need is for her to say yes.