Chapter Nine
CHAPTER NINE
LUCIANO
She flinched.
I lifted my hand to draw her gaze back to my own, and Viviana thought I was going to strike her.
Newfound rage boils under my skin as I recall the look of resignation that crossed her features. When she gave up her fight and submitted to me. When she lost the fire in her eyes and became the subservient wife I thought I wanted.
The wife I want, I correct myself, taking one long pull of whiskey and letting it sit on my tongue, savoring the burn. I’m sitting in the drawing room and waiting for Viviana to come downstairs for dinner with my parents.
I didn’t know what to expect when I walked up my front steps this morning. I knew I wouldn’t receive a warm welcome from my bride, although I’d hoped that the flowers and notes might’ve softened her hatred. But I never expected to find her showing off a set of lingerie to my chef and guard.
I can’t explain the immediate urge I felt to punish the two men who undoubtedly imagined Viviana’s little body wrapped up in the sinful, sexy black lace. To remove their eyes and their cocks and—
I take a deep breath, gripping my whiskey glass hard enough to shatter it.
I shove the memory away for the umpteenth time this evening. My shoulders ache from the tension lining my back, and I’ve spent at least an hour fantasizing about hunting down whoever lifted a hand against my wife in the past.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and ignore the overbearing sense of protectiveness I feel for Viviana. She infuriates me. She’s a blight in my life, and yet…
“I don’t know why I have to wear this.”
Her voice breaks through my jumbled thoughts. She stands in the drawing room doorway, a form-fitting black dress hugging her subtle curves all the way to her slender calves. She has pulled her chocolate waves into a sleek ponytail, accentuating her neck and collarbone.
“We’re going to your parents’ house for supper, not a night at the freakin’ opera,” she complains, tugging at one of the thin straps on her shoulder.
We’re already late, which I assume has something to do with the fact that I told Mrs. Ajello to select a suitable dress from the boxes Viviana’s mother sent. Since Viviana had been determined to return every box, I can only imagine the fight she put up when my housekeeper arrived to help her get dressed.
“My parents are very traditional,” I explain, setting my half-empty whiskey glass aside and standing to meet her. “Formal.”
“Really?” She deadpans. “I thought we were going over for a cookout. Burgers on the grill, beer in the cooler. Bruce Springsteen on the speakers.”
Her sarcasm is thick, but it lacks bite. She’s teasing. I take that as a good sign. I reach her side and place a hand on the small of her back, redirecting her to the front door. The warmth of her skin seeps through the thin fabric of her dress.
“You like Bruce Springsteen?”
She shrugs but doesn’t try to step away from my touch. Another good sign. “Who doesn’t like Born in the U.S.A.?”
“I’ve always been partial to Dancing in the Dark,” I muse as we step outside.
“Typical,” she hums, but her attention is already elsewhere. She eyes the empty driveway. “Where’s the car? Aren’t we already late?”
“I thought we would walk. It’s not far, and it’ll give us a chance to talk.”
Her previously easy demeanor shifts in an instant, and I can physically see the walls forming amongst the shards of green and yellow in her eyes. She wraps her arms around her waist, a gesture she uses when nervous.
“O-kay…” She draws out the word, staring at her feet as we walk.
I frown, pressing my fingers more firmly into the dimples at the base of her spine. I want her eyes but haven’t earned them yet.
Our relationship—our marriage —began broken, but my time away helped me realize that the next year will be far easier if we don’t hate one another. If we can have a normal conversation without hurting—or wanting to hurt—the other. That begins with an apology.
“I want to apologize, Viviana.” I lead her down the driveway, following the well-worn path that winds toward the lake at the center of the estate. The water glimmers orange and red with the dying sun. “For what I said that first night.”
Our pitiful wedding night.
She keeps her eyes forward, squinting against the sunset’s glow. “I got your flowers. You don’t have to apologize again.”
I press my lips into a thin line and let my hand fall from her back. We’re walking at a comfortable pace now—unhurried.
“I also want to explain myself.” Here comes the hard part. “I’d grown accustomed to the rules I established with Elenora. I didn’t consider how you might see them differently. Particularly our arrangements regarding… conception .” The word tastes sour on my tongue.
Viviana wobbles on her heels, but I reach a hand for her elbow to steady her. For the first time since we started our walk, she risks a glance in my direction—wary and distrustful. I can’t blame her.
I clear my throat and force myself to continue. To use the same word that she did. “I would never force myself on you. Never rape you, or any other woman for that matter. I won’t touch you like that until you ask me to.”
She narrows her eyes and deliberates for one long moment. “And if I never ask you to?”
“There are other ways to have a child,” I respond without missing a beat.
During my spare time in the city, I researched various methods. Artificial insemination is a viable option, albeit less efficient and more expensive than the natural process. Elenora and I were all about efficiency—completing our duty as quickly as possible. We’d enjoy ourselves in the moment, sure, but it began and ended there.
With Viviana, things are different. If I have to come in a cup, I will.
She studies me for a long time, as if gauging whether she can trust me. Finally, she dips her chin in the smallest nod. “Thank you.”
An invisible weight lifts from my shoulders. She shouldn’t thank me for simple human decency, but I don’t say that. I simply enjoy the newfound lightness in my chest.
“Mind telling me what I should expect at dinner tonight?” Viviana ventures, mercifully switching the subject. She clasps her hands in front of her, our feet falling into an easy rhythm.
Her faint scent of orange blossoms and a summer morning drifts over me, carried by the wind. We’ve reached the shoreline of the estate’s lake, and the soft earth gives a centimeter beneath our feet. I wonder how she’s managing in those heels.
“It is strictly a family dinner,” I explain. “My father, mother, and younger brother, Gio, will be there.”
Apparently, my mother forced Gio to travel back home for the sole purpose of the dinner. He’d been in Chicago, keeping a low profile and investigating the Fiorentino dealings prior to my first meeting with the Outfit’s leader.
Her brow lifts. “I didn’t know you had any siblings.”
“Just the one.”
“How old is he?”
“He’ll be twenty-six in a few months.” I’m not convinced my parents wanted to have another child after me, but, for the security of succession, they tried for another son shortly after my fifth birthday.
“He’s Elenora’s age.” A corner of her lips quirks upward, a smirk that I’ve learned precludes an insult or retort. “He would’ve been a more suitable match for her . ”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, except for the fact that your sister wanted to marry the head of the Cosa Nostra. Not one of its arms. You underestimate just how much Elenora liked power.”
Viviana hugs her arms to her chest and shrugs. “You’d know her better than I do. Did. ”
A note of sadness hangs in the air between us. It’s one of the brief glimpses of proof that she did, in fact, love her sister.
Rather than satisfy my growing curiosity about their estranged relationship, I chuckle and forge ahead. “Gio has a certain… zest for life. Particularly parties and games. He’d much rather discuss his latest trip to Monaco than matters of business. Elenora would have committed mariticide within a week.”
The smile that quirks on Viviana’s face seems genuine. “Come to think of it, Gio might’ve been a more suitable match for me. Who knows, if things were different, maybe we would’ve hit it off at you and Elenora’s wedding.”
She’s joking. I know that. Still, a kernel of annoyance quivers inside of me at the thought of Gio with my bride. I tamper it down, even as my fingers flex and curl into a fist at my side.
We continue on until my parent’s home rises behind the sloping, immaculately maintained lawn. Whereas my own house favors an English manor style, theirs boasts a sprawling, Mediterranean feat of architecture that overshadows every dwelling in a fifty mile radius. With a bright clay terracotta roof and formal port-cochère, it looks more like a luxury resort than any reasonable person’s residence. Then again, my mother’s tastes could hardly be described as reasonable.
Viviana must think the same thing. Her steps falter as soon as the mansion comes into view. I look back and find her staring, open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the monstrosity. She doesn’t seem impressed or awe-struck, but… ill.
“Viviana?” I prompt.
She puffs out her cheeks before marching forward again, muttering something along the lines of ‘ you didn’t tell me they live in a freakin’ castle,’ under her breath.
Despite myself, I smile and follow after her.
The smile lingers, just the smallest curve of my lips, as my parents’ butler lets us into the entrance hall. He’s new. My mother has a talent for chasing off even the most dedicated house staff.
Viviana blinks in her surroundings, hovering close to my side as her eyes snag on the ten-foot landscape painting on the nearest wall. This time, when the whites of her eyes expand, something like wonder pools in their depths.
“Luc! Viviana!” My father’s voice booms, echoing through the tall foyer.
I turn toward the grand staircase, where he descends a flight of polished marble with arms outstretched, welcoming. Here, he is more father than don . With crows’ feet lining his pleasant eyes and a grin revealing straight, wine-stained teeth, no one would guess that this man used to rule New York’s underworld.
I wonder if, one day, when I’ve handed the Cosa Nostra to my own heir, I will ever appear so happy.
My father reaches the bottom of the steps, still grinning like a damned hyena, andViviana tucks ever so slightly closer to my side. She peers at him from halfway behind my shoulder. Satisfaction curls deep in my stomach.
My father and I greet each other with a handshake, and I expect to see my mother arriving on the landing at any moment, but she never comes. My brow furrows. “Where is Mother?”
“Oh, she must still be getting ready. She and Gio will be down soon enough,” he answers, though his attention has already shifted toward the young woman practically hiding behind me. “Daughter,” he purrs, smile never faltering. “You look beautiful.”
I feel Viviana tense, and I wonder if it’s because of his compliment or his use of the word daughter.
“ Don Venturi.” She steps forward, her shoulder brushing against mine. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Amicable. Polite. Good girl.
“Ah, please,” he waves his hand, dismissing her formality by pulling her into a hug. She squeaks as he squeezes her around the shoulders. “Call me Girardo. Or father!” He adds the last part with a laugh.
Viviana forces her own laugh, the sound stiff and short. “Okay… It’s good to see you, Girardo. ”
I pinch my lips to hold in my own barked laughter and place my index and middle fingers on the back of my wife’s elbow, drawing her back to me with a single touch. She returns to my side in a heartbeat, and I’m surprised by the easiness of our interactions. We move in tandem. When I shift, she mirrors the movement. When she draws back, I step closer. It’s… pleasant.
Deciding to spare Viviana from more of my father’s attention, I turn to matters of business. “When did Gio get back? Any news from Chicago?”
Viviana turns her head to look up at me, undoubtedly curious as to why the son of the Cosa Nostra don would be in Outfit territory—in her extended family’s territory. I avoid her questioning eyes.
For the first time, Father’s smile fades. He shakes his head, nostrils flaring.“Nothing that we do not already know, though—”
“And nothing that cannot wait to be discussed until after supper.” My mother’s voice comes as a disembodied echo, cool and clear, before she appears at the top of the stairs.
Fucking hell.
Somehow, I manage to avoid muttering those words out loud.
She’s wearing a floor-length evening gown. The satin cinches at one shoulder, and a diamond necklace catches the light from the crystal chandelier above. She looks like she’s attending a gala or ball. By and far, she has out-dressed every other person in the room.
My family’s private dinners are formal, yes. But never this formal.
There’s only one explanation, and she has just shrunk even closer to my body. Viviana.
My mother has made no effort to hide her dislike for Viviana. Though, when we spoke on the phone last night to set up this dinner, she promised to behave amicably toward my young wife. I realize now that I should have been more specific in my demands.
Mother glides down the staircase, shrewd eyes never leaving Viviana. “Goodness, dear, I almost did not recognize you in proper clothing.”
Fucksake.
Viviana recoils, her head tilting back just an inch, only noticeable to me because I’m standing beside her. A muscle in her jaw twitches, then that signature too-sweet smile curls on her pink lips. I ready myself for the poison set to spill from her mouth, but it never comes.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Mrs. Venturi.”
A breath of relief swoops from my lungs.
Viviana’s words come out pinched and laced with aversion, but civil, nonetheless. My palm finds the center of her back, sliding up and down once until it settles at the base of her spine. I allow the touch to convey my praise.
My fingertips flirt with the beginnings of the slope of her backside. Her heat radiates through the thin fabric, and I’m faintly aware of the fact that I feel no lines or ridges where her panties should be.
“Shall we move through to the dining room?” Mother prompts when she has attached herself to my father’s hip, wasting no time with pleasantries or greetings. They don’t wait for a reply and lead the way from the entrance hall, speaking softly between themselves.
I begin to follow, urging Viviana along beside me, but she stops us.
Her hand lands on my chest, clutching at the fabric of my button-down with a vice-like grip. Hazel eyes flare with a dangerous cocktail of annoyance and dread and nerves. “She won’t poison me, will she?”
I recoil. “What are you talking about? Poison ?”
Viviana doesn’t answer. She just tips her head back and groans. “Never mind. Let’s just get this over with.”
I should’ve known then to abandon our supper plans. To recognize the dangers of placing my fiery hellion of a wife at a dining table with my volatile crone of a mother.
Instead, I followed Viviana into the lion’s den.