Chapter 4
Chapter four
Ginni
I’m practically floating back into the bedroom, my heart still fluttering from watching Carlo eat the second breakfast I’ve made for him. A Cornetto that I baked myself with my own little hands.
Every bite he took felt like a small victory, proof that we’re already settling into our new life together. The way he tried to hide how much he enjoyed it was absolutely adorable. My stubborn, prideful man.
Carlo is still exactly where I left him, and he looks so perfect against my white sheets. All that olive skin and dark hair, like a sculpture that’s been brought to life just for me. I could stare at him for hours and never get bored.
“So,” I say cheerfully, settling cross-legged on the bed beside him, “I’ve been thinking about our routine.”
His dark eyes narrow. “Our routine?”
“Well, yes. We’re going to be living together now, so we need to establish some structure.
I’ve noticed you function much better with a proper schedule.
” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, already excited about sharing my plans.
“I think coffee first thing in the morning, then breakfast at eight-thirty. You’re always grumpy without caffeine, and I want you to be comfortable. ”
“Ginni, this isn’t…”
“Then I thought we could have quiet time while I tidy up,” I continue, not letting him interrupt my vision.
“You could read, or we could talk. I have so many questions about your work that I’ve always wanted to ask.
And lunch around one, something light because you never eat much in the middle of the day. ”
Carlo stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.”
“No, I don’t think so. I think I’m simply romantically determined,” I correct, reaching over to smooth down a cowlick in his hair that’s been bothering me. “And I think we should redecorate. This space is lovely, but it’s very much mine. We need to make it ours.”
His hair is so soft between my fingers, just like I always imagined it would be. I could spend hours playing with it, styling it in different ways, seeing how it looks when he first wakes up versus after a shower.
“I was thinking maybe a bigger bed,” I continue dreamily. “Super King size or maybe even Emperor, so we have plenty of room to spread out. What’s your preference for thread count? I like at least 800, but I could go higher if you’re particular about these things.”
“I’m not discussing thread count with you while I’m chained to your bed,” Carlo grits out.
“But these are important decisions,” I insist. His resistance is so nonsensical. “We’re building a life together. These details matter. I want you to be happy here.”
I hop up and start moving around the room, straightening things that don’t really need straightening, but I think better when my hands are busy.
“Oh, and I threw away your clothes. The cut was completely wrong for your body type. Very off-the-rack, very uninspired. I’ve already ordered some new things that will suit you perfectly.”
The look on his face is priceless. Like he can’t quite process what I’m saying.
“You threw away my clothes?”
“Yes,” I say happily. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you wearing such pedestrian fabrics when you deserve to benefit from my exceptional taste.”
I pause by the window that isn’t there, looking at the blank wall and imagining what it would be like if we had a view. Maybe of a garden, with flowers I could cut fresh every morning for our breakfast table.
“And I’ve been thinking about our dynamic,” I continue, turning back to face him. “I know you’re used to being in charge, and that’s just fine by me. I want to be the kind of partner who never says no, who never gets headaches or makes excuses. Men have needs, and I respect that completely.”
Carlo’s eyes widen, and I can see his chest rising and falling a little faster. There’s something in his expression that looks almost... interested? But then he shakes his head violently.
“This is insane, Ginni. You can’t just decide we’re in a relationship.”
“But we are,” I say simply. “We always have been, really. You just needed some encouragement to see it.” I perch on the edge of the bed again, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
He glares at me. Eyes all molten with his frustration.
I give him a pat on his delightfully defined bicep. “I know you are a dangerous man, but you’re also the man who brings me gelato when I’m sick and remembers my birthday when my own family forgets.”
Carlo jerks. A physical recoil as if I’ve slapped him. But he stays silent and allows me to continue. It is either that, or he is lost for words.
“I’ll be such a good wife to you, Carlo. I’ll cook and clean and take care of all the domestic things so you can focus on your work. And I’ll never complain about anything, never make demands. I know how to make a man happy.”
The word ‘wife’ seems to hit him like a sucker punch. His whole body goes tense, and something flickers in his eyes that might be panic or might be something else entirely.
“You’re not my wife,” he says, but his voice is rougher than it was a moment ago.
“Not legally,” I agree. “Not yet. But in every way that matters, isn’t that what this is? I take care of you, you provide for me, we share a bed...” I trail off, letting my gaze drift down his body appreciatively. “We’ll share everything else soon enough.”
I can see him trying to process this, trying to find arguments against my perfectly reasonable logic. But what argument could there be? This is how relationships work. One person takes care of the other, and they build a life together.
“And think about the dinner parties we could have,” I continue excitedly, the ideas flowing now like water from a burst dam.
“We could host Dario and Molly, as well as Nicolo and Liam. Proper couple’s dinners, with real china and flowers from our garden.
Well, the garden we’ll have when we get a proper house. ”
Carlo’s expression shifts to something that might be horror. “Dinner parties?”
“Of course! We’ll be part of that social circle now, the established couples.
I’ve been watching how Molly manages Dario’s entertaining, and I could do so much better.
The menus alone need serious improvement.
” I bounce slightly on the bed, warming to my theme.
“I could do that amazing osso buco recipe my nonna taught me, and pair it with a proper wine selection. Not whatever swill Molly usually serves.”
I can see Carlo trying to picture it, his brain clearly struggling to process the image of domestic dinner parties while he’s currently chained to my bed. It’s adorable how his mind works, always trying to categorize and understand things that are perfectly simple.
“I’ve actually been thinking about children too,” I add casually, straightening his pillow even though it doesn’t need it. “Not immediately, of course. We should have at least a year to ourselves first, to really establish our rhythm. But eventually.”
The color drains from Carlo’s face. “Children?”
“Well, naturally. You’re thirty-four, I’m twenty-one. Perfect timing, really. You’re established enough to provide stability, but young enough to be an active father. And I’ve always wanted children, lots of them.” I smile at the thought. “We could adopt, or find a surrogate. I know people.”
Of course I know people. I’ve been planning this for years, thinking through every possible contingency. The Torrini family might have their faults, but they do have connections in every industry imaginable, including ones that help unconventional families grow.
“I was thinking maybe three or four children,” I say dreamily. “Close enough in age to be friends, but not so close that it’s overwhelming. The first one could have your eyes, they’re so beautiful. Dark and intense, just like you.”
Carlo looks like he might be having some kind of breakdown. His breathing has gotten shallow, and there’s a wild look in his eyes that’s absolutely fascinating. I love seeing him process new information, watching his careful control slip as he realizes how thoroughly I’ve thought this through.
“Ginni, you can’t seriously think this is going to happen?” he manages.
“Of course I’m serious. I don’t say things I don’t mean.” I trace a finger along his forearm, feeling the tension in his muscles. “I know it’s a lot to take in all at once, but you’ll adjust. You’re very adaptable when you want to be.”
I stand up again, too excited to stay still. “We could convert the spare room upstairs into a nursery. It gets lovely light in the afternoon, perfect for nap times. And there’s that little alcove that would be ideal for a reading corner once they’re older.”
The spare room that currently serves as storage for all the family’s unwanted furniture, shoved away like everything else they’d rather not acknowledge. But it could be beautiful with the right touches. Soft colors, quality furniture, everything a child could need to feel loved and wanted.
That’s if we stay living here of course. We might buy our own home and make it perfect.
“Your children would never be hidden away in basements,” I say softly, and something in my voice must change because Carlo’s expression shifts. “They’d never be treated like something shameful that needs to be kept secret. We’d make sure they know they’re loved exactly as they are.”
There’s a long silence, and I can see something working behind Carlo’s eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of why this matters so much to me.
“I could tell you were happy yesterday,” I say softly. “After dinner, you looked so content. So peaceful. You never look like that at family dinners or business meetings. Only here, with me, when you let yourself relax.”
“That’s not...” he starts, but I can see the uncertainty creeping into his expression.
“You like the picture I’m painting,” I observe with satisfaction. “You’re just scared because it’s different from what you planned for your life. But sometimes the best things are unexpected, don’t you think?”
I move to the dresser and start rearranging the bottles of cologne I’ve collected over the years. Some of them are ones Carlo has worn to family gatherings, scents I’ve memorized and treasured. Soon I won’t need to rely on memories and stolen moments.
“Picture Christmas morning,” I say, my voice taking on that sing-song quality it gets when I’m really lost in a vision.
“Our children running down the stairs in their matching pajamas, you making coffee while I start breakfast. The tree we picked out together, presents wrapped in paper I spent weeks choosing because every detail matters when you’re building traditions. ”
Carlo makes a strangled sound that might be protest or might be something else entirely.
“And New Year’s Eve,” I continue, completely carried away now. “Just the two of us after the children are asleep, dancing in our kitchen to music only we can hear. No more pretending we’re just family friends. No more careful distance. Just us, being exactly who we are together.”
I sigh happily. “Then you can bend me over the kitchen island and rail me until I scream and you have to put your hand over my mouth, so we don’t wake the children.”
I turn back to look at him, and his expression is so conflicted it makes my heart ache. He wants this, I can see it written all over his face, but he’s fighting it so hard. All those years of conditioning, all that internalized shame about what other people might think.
Carlo’s jaw works silently, like he’s fighting some internal battle. I love watching him think, love seeing all the emotions play across his features when he thinks no one is looking. He’s so much more expressive than people realize.
“And the best part,” I whisper, moving back to the bed and settling beside him again, “is that it’s all real. Not some fantasy or daydream, but actual possibility. I’m here, you’re here, and we have all the time in the world to figure out exactly how we want our life to look.”
“We are going to be so happy together,” I whisper, reaching out to trace a finger along his collarbone.
His skin is so warm, so perfectly smooth except for the small scars that tell the story of his dangerous life.
“No more pretending, no more keeping distance between us. Just us, here, building something beautiful.”
His breath hitches at my touch, and I smile because his body always tells the truth even when his mind is being stubborn.
“Just think about it,” I say, settling back to give him space to process. “Think about never having to perform in your marriage, never having to be the big bad mafia man with me. You can just come home and be taken care of. I can give you that, Carlo. I can give you everything.”
I can practically see the war happening behind his eyes, denial fighting against something that looks dangerously like longing. It’s exactly what I hoped for.
“Eventually, when you’re ready, we could even travel,” I add casually.
“Italy, obviously. I’d love to show you the village where my nonna grew up.
There’s this little church where she was married, with the most beautiful frescoes.
And France, maybe Scotland. Anywhere you want to go, as long as we’re together. ”
The mention of travel seems to hit him differently, maybe because it implies freedom rather than captivity. Choice rather than coercion. I can see him trying to reconcile the image of voluntary vacation with his current restrained state.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say gently. “You’re wondering how we get from here to there. But all the best relationships require some initial adjustment period, don’t they? Some time to really understand each other without outside interference.”
Soon, he’ll stop fighting and realize that this is exactly what he’s always wanted.
He just needs a little more time to accept it.