19. Marco
Marco
“A gift for the newlyweds. May your marriage continue to be a happy one. Best Wishes, Z.” I glance up from the letter. “And this was just waiting outside your bedroom door?” My wife nods, and I whistle. “Great. We’re fucked.”
Bianca snatches the envelope with the ballet tickets and rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”
Shit. I pace from one end of the living room to the other. “Why would they want us to go on a date?”
Sitting primly on the edge of the salmon-colored couch, Bianca crosses her legs and places her palms lightly atop her knees.
She’s back to the formal wear, tailored skirts and pants and blouses that give her a frigid and unapproachable appearance, but since no one seems to care about my opinions on fashion, I keep them to myself.
“Sounds like they’re worried we might be unhappy.” Bianca shrugs one slim shoulder, oblivious to my thoughts. “Which makes sense. We’ve hardly gone anywhere or done anything as a couple. Dinner at the Canary Club the other night was a disaster.”
I frown. “I recently took you to my favorite bar to meet my friends, remember? Doesn’t that count?”
“You paraded me around your drinking buddies in a filthy hole-in-the-wall and then snapped Gabriel’s neck.” She refuses to meet my gaze, and I wonder if she’s still upset about the escort. “Doesn’t exactly scream marital bliss, Argento. I’m sure the Council has eyes on us.”
Damn. She’s right. Time to step up our game if we plan to sell this marriage. Closing my eyes for a second, I inhale through my nose before exhaling in a rush. “Getting the Council off our backs is pretty much the only thing we agree on.”
Bianca considers me. She’s acting especially tense, and her dark eyes seem more haunted than usual.
She twists the tickets between her fingers.
“Then the ballet it is. I just wish I could go out for once without worrying about putting on a performance or who’s watching.
” For an instant, her shoulders sag, and vulnerability softens her features. “It’s exhausting.”
Not a sentiment I ever expected to hear coming out of my reserved little wife’s mouth. I recognized her growing stress, but I failed to predict just how much the pressure was wearing at her.
An idea sparks in my head. Probably a terrible one, but that’s a concern for future Marco. “What if I said I had a way for you to really relax and forget all your worries for one night?” Her eyes narrow, and I can see the wheels spinning behind them. “Not by getting drunk.”
“What, then?”
“Leave it to me. I’ll plan the perfect night out, where you can just be happy and live in the moment.
” Spending an evening watching dancers leap around on stage to dull music isn’t my idea of an exciting time, but it sure beats a Council meeting.
Plus, the outing I’m envisioning will offer me the chance to see a different side of Bianca.
Not broken…just unguarded for once. “Trust me. You’ll have the time of your life, and I’ll make sure you’re okay. ”
I have no idea why I’m even offering her a choice. After all, she drugged me on our wedding night, so turnaround is fair play. But some part of me craves her compliance. Needs her to surrender her control, if only for a night.
The debate rages on behind her eyes as she nibbles her lower lip. Disappointment balls in my stomach. She’s about to say no. She’s—
“Okay. But if you don’t keep your word, I promise you’ll regret it.”
Shock seizes my tongue at first. “You…okay. Good. And you have my word, for whatever little that probably means to you. I’ve done this before, so I know what to expect.”
The ballet tickets are for tonight’s show at the Theater of the Arts. Prodigy Isabel Abbati, daughter of the Abbati don, will be performing, and it’s a huge honor to see her live.
Bianca dresses in a strapless blood-red gown that trails down to her feet. The split in the side shows off her thighs, and I have to drag my eyes away from the flash of silky skin.
To complement her attire, I deck myself out in a black and ivory Dolce & Gabbana peony-motif button-down from the back of my closet, roll the sleeves to my elbows, and pair the shirt with black trousers.
When she accepts my arm so I can lead her to the waiting car, we look like we could rule the world.
Once inside, she eyeballs the tiny, colorful pill for so long that I’m sure she’s changed her mind. Then, she pops it in her mouth and gulps water from the bottle I hand her, scrunching her face. “That was disgusting.”
I swallow my own tablet and shrug. “In a little while, you aren’t going to care at all about how it tasted. You’re just going to enjoy yourself.”
The performance tonight brings out the crème de la crème of New York.
Valets hustle beneath the glittering marquee, opening the doors of blacked-out SUVs and idling sports cars to usher patrons onto the red carpet.
But high society only accounts for half the guest list. Those in our circle never miss a chance to forge dangerous new alliances under the cover of fashion and culture.
The flash of paparazzi cameras and desperate celebrity influencers temporarily blind us as I escort Bianca on my arm, weaving us through the throng and into the grand lobby.
Chatter buzzes off the gilded walls and ornate crown molding.
My wife appears regal under the low, warm lighting, like a queen gracing her subjects with her presence.
I can hardly rip my eyes off her as she smiles and nods to the Dursts and the Rudins, two New York City billionaire real-estate giants, before Lachlan Murdoch, son of media mogul Rupert Murdoch, kisses her knuckles.
Stifling a torrent of jealousy, I casually steer her away from the crowd toward the wide spiral staircase that will bring us up to our box and bend down to murmur against the top of her ear. “You’re certainly popular, aren’t you?”
She huffs. “Probably only until the rumor mill catches up with us. I told you how important it was to form connections, though, Argento. Watch and learn.”
People stop her several more times as we inch toward our seats. She’s deep in conversation with a short, dark-haired woman sporting massive black sunglasses when I spot Mikhail Belinsky.
He’s difficult to miss. Not because he’s the tallest guy here, though at a little over six feet, he towers over many of tonight’s attendees.
It’s his presence. Even from across the room.
He oozes lethality, and everyone gives him a generous berth.
His blue eyes cut through the crowd as he adjusts the tie at his throat.
The tattoos on his knuckles and along his neck grant the suit a costume-like appearance.
Everyone knows he wears violence like a second skin.
I’m not surprised to see him. Mikhail harbors a well-known obsession with Isabel. I turn away. Since he works with the Russians, he might be willing to help me break into the Council Library so that I can get more information about the gun used to kill Gio.
I can’t ask any of the families I know because they’re all affiliated with the Council in some way, and the ones who aren’t are always seeking a chance to curry favor. The Russians, however, mainly work off vibes and an ingrained need to wreak as much havoc as possible.
I’m fairly sure Mikhail would opt in simply for the love of the game. Or maybe front row tickets to Isabel’s next show would do the trick. Although, I should probably tread lightly. Given his obvious obsession, Mikhail may be a few performances away from earning himself a restraining order.
I’ll worry about it later.
Tonight is date night, and my focus resides on my lovely wife as I steer her to our mezzanine seats. Floating above the stage, we have the box all to ourselves.
I draw the curtains a little on each side, just enough for some privacy but not enough to block our view. “Do you want something to drink? For safety, I recommend no more than one alcoholic beverage tonight.”
Bianca narrows her eyes, probably wondering about my unusual attentiveness, so I sigh in exasperation.
“It’s a drink, Bianca. Not a marriage proposal.” I target her with an exaggerated wink. “We already did that, remember?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, fine. All right. White wine if they have it.”
I bow at the waist with a flourish, delighted by the concession. “I’ll be back soon.”
I wait for the halls to clear a little and then head to the bar on the first floor. They only have beer and wine, but that’ll do. I buy a Hefeweizen for myself and a chardonnay for Bianca. Back at our seats, I hand over her drink, and in an uncharacteristic act, she throws a few gulps.
“Whoa, easy there. You don’t want to shotgun the whole glass at once.”
She huffs. “No kidding, Marco. This is the ballet, not a dive bar.”
I snort and sip my beer at a more leisurely rate as she stares straight ahead until the lights dim. In the newly created shadows, the despondent strains of a violin launch us into the story of Coppélia as Isabel Abatti floats onto the stage, her arms arcing gracefully through the air.
Isabel and I went to the same high school before she was accepted into first Julliard and then the New York Ballet Company.
We entertained a light flirtation for about two years before I met Genevieve, and during that time, I learned more than I ever wanted to about the intricacies of flat-locked seams.
My attention wanders to Bianca.
As the time ticks by, I start to notice tiny hints of the drug kicking in for both of us.
She sways in her seat as the music plays, and her smile relaxes, becoming soft and dreamy.
When Isabel leaps across the stage, Bianca presses her weight against the balustrade, gripping the metal rail as if the performance is the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth.
She looks entirely unmasked, stripped down to pure, breathless awe.
Meanwhile, all I want to do is stroke her soft, soft skin.
In the stage lights, her eyes glow, and I reach for her, incapable of denying the familiar hunger low in my gut any longer.
She allows me to pull her into my lap without protest, and the connection between us fills me with joy.
I lick away the sheen of sweat on her neck, the salt of her on my tongue making my arm flex around her waist.
Her head falls back onto my shoulder, and she peers up at me.
“Feeling good?” My grin curls when she nods, and I bury my soft chuckle in her hair.
The buttery soft material of her dress on my skin feels amazing. I want to rub my cheeks all over it. Instead, Bianca snatches my hand and sneaks it between her legs. Accepting the invitation, my hand delves beneath her lace panties.
I sigh. So warm and tight and perfect.
“You see all those people, Bianca?” I part her folds, exposing her to the room as her back arches. “Any one of them could glance up at any second, but we don’t care, do we? We don’t care if you squirm while I fuck you with my fingers, because it feels so right.”
With pink cheeks, her gaze skitters to the crowd below before she shakes her head. “No. I want to be close to you.”
I want that too.
Even though it’s the MDMA talking, that desire for closeness feels incredibly real.
Shuddering, I tease her with a single finger before slipping inside. I add two more until she’s stretched wide.
She pants my name beneath her breath like she’s casting a spell as I pull my hand from between her legs. Two fingers go into her mouth, and her tongue dances across my calloused skin. The pleasure spearing my middle is so strong that Bianca might as well have sucked my dick down her throat.
I want to lift her dress and finally have her, to experience her tight walls strangle my cock, right here, where everyone can see. The urge to claim her, to prove that she belongs to me in both name and body, leaves me shaken.
I also want to cuddle up with her under a blanket and for us to tumble around like puppies.
Both desires are foreign. If I were smart, I’d let her go. Instead, I surrender to the drug and reclaim my fingers from her mouth so I can curl them inside her until they press that sensitive spot.
“Keep your legs open for me, principessa. Don’t hide such a pretty sight.” I nibble the tendon in her neck, and her knees fall farther apart, the action accompanied by a whimper that drives me crazy.
Normally, I only touch her in public like this to put her in her place, but tonight is different.
For a moment, I forget about domination and simply enjoy her plum-scented skin and the blissful sensation of her ass rolling back and forth across my bulging cock.
If she continues like this, we’ll end up with a very sticky situation on our hands. Or, well, in my pants.
Bianca tenses, and realizing she’s close, I withdraw my hand and fix her skirt.
She collapses against me, struggling to catch her breath. “Why?”
I kiss her temple. “It’ll be intermission soon.”
Truthfully, I want this version of her too much, and wanting her at all should go against everything I believe in.
Why can’t we have this all the time, without the ecstasy?
I stroke her hair. Maybe we can. Maybe I just need to give in.
The voice of reason intrudes.
She and I can never work, despite what my MDMA-clouded mind claims.
Because she’s a Conti, and no matter what, she always will be.