Page 48 of Wicked Sinner

“I didn’t think so.” Isabella smiles coldly at me.

“Caesar Genovese isn’t some romantic anti-hero, Bridget.

He’s not some sophisticated mafia boss, either.

He’s a runaway who did god knows what over in Europe for years, before trying to convince Don Genovese to let him back into the fold.

He would have been lucky to be allowed to marry me.

So what I can’t figure out—” She trails her gaze down my body and back up again.

“Well, maybe I can figure part of it out. He couldn’t help himself and fucked you, and you got pregnant.

So now he thinks he can make a princess out of a peasant.

But you’ll never get the smell of grease off, and he’ll eventually regret losing out on what he could have had. ” She smiles. “Me.”

I want to slap the expression off of her face. “If he’s such a fuck-up,” I say mildly, “what does it say about you that you wanted to marry him?”

Isabella laughs. “You’re so naive. Caesar is at the bottom of the food chain right now, when it comes to the big dogs of this city.

Konstantin and Tristan rule. And my father, who never could quite rise above the names like Genovese and Russo, could make Caesar do whatever he wanted, with me as his wife.

Anything, since Caesar would owe him his position.

And Caesar is so fucking rich.” She smirks.

“Filthy rich. He’d have to give me anything I wanted for my whole life so my father wouldn’t abandon him.

And all I’d have to give him is a couple of brats.

Not that difficult. I mean—look at him. He has that going for him.

I’d have fucked him already if he didn’t have some weird loyalty to you. ”

I blow out a breath through my nose. “That’s my husband you’re talking about—”

“And I should have been his wife.” That cold smile is back on her lips. “That’s a mistake that's going to get him killed."

Despite myself, my heart skips. "What do you mean?"

"Do you think the other families are just going to accept this insult? Do you think they're going to stand by while Caesar thumbs his nose at decades of tradition by marrying some nobody who can't offer him anything but a bastard child?"

“He said—”

“Forget what he said. He’s a rebellious child trying to make a stand by marrying his whore.

” Isabella stands up, and I catch a waft of her expensive perfume as she walks toward me, a contemptuous expression on her face.

"What do you bring to this marriage, Bridget?

What connections? What power? What protection can you offer him when the Cubans decide he's more trouble than he's worth?

When the lesser families refuse to give him his due?

When Konstantin himself decides that Caesar has become a liability? "

I stiffen, not knowing what to say. She has the upper hand, and she knows it. I don’t know enough about this world to argue any of her points, and my head is still spinning with what she’s told me about Caesar. I can’t defend him because, for all I know, everything she’s saying is true.

All I have is what he’s told me. That I need to be here, married to him, to keep myself and our child safe until he’s dealt with the threats to us.

But according to Isabella, he’s weak. At a disadvantage.

And I’ve made it worse by saying yes, by enabling him to rebel against what the more powerful bosses want him to do.

I swallow hard. "I didn't ask for any of this.”

"No, but you're here anyway. And your presence is making Caesar weak.

" Isabella stops directly in front of me.

"He's so focused on protecting you, on proving that he made the right choice, that he's not seeing the threats closing in around him.

Every day he stays married to you is another day his enemies grow bolder. "

"That's not my fault."

"Isn't it?" She narrows a sharp look at me, her lips pressed together. "You could leave. Divorce him, disappear, give him the chance to fix this mess before it destroys him. Let me clean it up for you. I’ll be right there to comfort him when he realizes his new wife has abandoned him."

"I can't just—"

"Why? Because you love him?" Isabella laughs, the sound sharp and mocking. "Please. You've known him for what, a few weeks? You think that's love? That's just good sex and Stockholm syndrome."

Heat floods my cheeks. "I’m not in love with him.” Why do I sound so defensive? I’m telling the truth. I don’t love Caesar. I don’t—

“So, what? You want his money? His influence? Because he won’t have influence, married to you, and that money will only go so far when—” Her eyes widen. “Wait. Are you hoping he dies, so you get all of it? I might actually respect you then—”

“Get the fuck out.” I stride toward the door, flinging it open.

“I don’t have to listen to this. This isn’t your house, it’s mine and Caesar’s, and he’s my husband, not yours.

I might not know anything about your world, and I might not be the best mafia wife, but I trust that he knows what he’s doing. Now fucking get out.”

I realize, as I say that last part, that I believe it. I do trust Caesar, despite everything—at least when it comes to wanting to keep me and the baby safe.

Or at least, I did before Isabella revealed just how little I knew about him.

"I'm trying to help you," Isabella says, her voice taking on a fake sweetness. "I'm trying to save you from the heartbreak that's coming when Caesar realizes he needs to make a choice between you and his empire."

"I said, get out!"

"Fine." Isabella moves toward the door, then pauses to look back at me.

"But think about what I've said. Think about whether you really want to be the reason Caesar Genovese loses everything his family built.

Think about whether that baby you're carrying deserves to grow up in a world where their father's enemies will always be hunting them. "

She's almost to the door when Caesar steps into the doorway, stopping cold at the scene in front of him. His sharp blue gaze takes in what’s happening—Isabella in his living room, me standing there looking shaken—and his expression turns absolutely murderous.

"Isabella." His voice is deadly quiet. "What the fuck are you doing in my home?”

"Caesar!" Isabella's entire demeanor changes, the cold calculation replaced by breathless femininity. "I was just—"

"Getting out." He steps aside, holding the door open. "Now."

"I came to talk to you," Isabella protests, moving closer to him. "About my family's concerns regarding your recent… choices."

"My choices are none of your family's business." Caesar's voice could cut glass, his expression deadly as he looks at Isabella. I’m actually afraid—not for myself, but for her. "And they're certainly none of yours."

"But they are my business," Isabella insists, reaching out to touch his arm. "We had an understanding, Caesar. An agreement between our families—"

"We had nothing." He jerks away from her touch, his gaze flicking toward me. "And we never will. You need to leave. Now."

"This is a mistake," Isabella says, her composed mask finally cracking. "She can't give you what you need. She doesn't understand our world, our rules. She's going to get you killed."

"The only person who's going to get hurt is you if you don't get out of my home in the next ten seconds." Caesar takes a step toward Isabella, and even I can feel the menace radiating from him. "Nine. Eight. Seven."

Isabella looks back and forth between Caesar and me, and I can see the exact moment she realizes she lost. Her perfect composure crumbles, revealing something desperate and ugly underneath.

"Fine," she snaps. "But don't come crying to me when this all falls apart. Don't expect my father to help you when the other families decide you're more trouble than you're worth.”

"I wouldn't dream of it," Caesar snaps coldly. “Trust me, I consider myself lucky that I don’t have to suffer you in my bed.”

Isabella’s cheeks pinken as if he hit her. Her head snaps toward me, her eyes narrowed. "Good luck," she purrs, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You're going to need it."

The door slams behind her with enough force to rattle the glassware in the cabinets.

For a moment, Caesar and I just stare at each other in the sudden silence. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there's still murder in his dark eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asks finally. "Did she hurt you?"

I don’t think he means physically. Honestly, I think I could have taken her in a fight, and I’m pretty sure he does, too. And, strangely, I’m touched that he’s worried. That he’s concerned about what Isabella’s visit might have done to my emotional well-being. But I’m something else, too.

I’m jealous. For all that Caesar showed me that he has no interest in Isabella, I know she was right about a few things.

She knows my husband better than I do. She knows his world better than I ever will. And from a purely pragmatic standpoint…

Caesar should have married her.

She’s even prettier than I am.

“I’m fine,” I manage. “She just wanted to talk. It’s not like she was going to try anything more than that.”

"About what?"

I hesitate. I don’t know if I want to confront Caesar about his past right now, about the things Isabella told me that I didn’t know—and probably would never have found out. A part of me, one that I don’t want to examine too closely, wants to know if Caesar would ever have told me himself.

If he’d ever open up to me enough to let me see the man I really married—because it’s clear that he’s been showing me one person, when there’s so much more that I don’t know.

“She said you shouldn’t have married me. That it’s going to get you killed. She wanted me to leave you so you could pick the better option. Her, of course.” The words come out rote, almost robotic, but I can see Caesar’s expression darkening by the second.

His jaw tightens. "And what did you tell her?"

"To get out of my home."

Something shifts in his expression at my choice of words. "Your home?"

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize what I said. "I meant… this place. The penthouse. Your penthouse."

"No." He steps closer, and his gaze is just as intense as before, but it looks different now. Focused on me, instead of his anger over Isabella. "You said your home."

I let out a sharp breath. "Caesar—we don’t need to discuss semantics. I misspoke—"

"You were defending this place. Defending me." Another step closer. "You were jealous."

“I was not—” I swallow hard as he looks down at me.

“I’m not jealous.” My voice sounds far too weak as I say it.

Because I am. I’m jealous of how well-suited she is for him, how beautiful she is, how perfect.

And I don’t know why, because I don’t even want Caesar.

Not for good. Not for anything more than another night.

I don’t want this—his life, his world, or this marriage.

I don’t. I don’t.

“You were.” He stops close enough to touch, his hand lifting to brush against my cheekbone. A shiver runs down my spine, and I struggle not to lean into the touch, not to let myself think of what else I said to her.

He said I made him come harder than any other woman has.

The truth that I know, absolutely, is that he did that for me.

I’ve never felt anything like what he did to me with another man.

Never knew it was possible. And now, with the memory so close after that argument and with him standing just as near, his fingers brushing my cheek, it takes everything in me not to give in to what we both want.

"She's beautiful," I admit reluctantly. “She’s perfect for you.” The words feel like they burn my tongue as I say them.

"She's nothing." He's close enough now that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. "She's everything I never wanted in a wife. She’s cold and calculating, and entirely concerned with appearances.”

“She would be better at this than I am.” It feels like someone is squeezing my heart in their fist as I say it, despite all my insistence that I want nothing to do with any of this.

I don’t understand why, but I feel my chest ache, feel my pulse race as I say things that taste bitter as they come out. “She’d be a better wife. A real wife—”

“I don’t give a fuck about Isabella Torrino. I—” Caesar’s gaze searches mine, wild and hot, and before I can breathe, before I can think of something to say, his palm curls around my face and his mouth comes down onto mine.

He devours me, his kiss hot and hungry and everything I’ve been missing since that night in my garage, and I know I’m lost.

I can’t fight him when he’s kissing me like this.

And maybe I don’t want to.