Chapter 14
fourteen
Valentina
Sore.
Blissfully sore.
That’s how I feel. I smile into my pillow, the cotton soft against my cheek as I inhale the spicy scent with a hint of leather and recall the events of last night.
I never had any expectations of what it would be like having sex for the first time, not after I wanted so much to get it over with to the point of faking it the night I first met Gabriel.
I pretended to have experience, when the only experience I had was my hand.
But the fucking fest from tonight was not on my list.
Nothing that happened tonight was on my list.
I move and wince. If I didn’t have to pee, I would have stayed in bed. I look beside me, but I already know Gabriel isn't in bed. Part of me feels disappointed, but the other part is telling me that he must have had a reason not to be in bed the morning after our wedding.
I sit up, and relief washes over me when I see a glass of water with a white pill, probably a painkiller, and a note lying beside it.
Didn’t want to wake you; you need a good rest. Take a long, hot bath when you get up; it will help with the soreness. I’ll be back after my training.
I smile at the gesture, still not getting why I would need pills. I realize after I stand and walk a few steps.
The soreness between my legs transforms into pain, and there is a pressure in my stomach demanding release. I wince when I sit to relieve myself and wince again when my skin burns from peeing. Now I know why I need that pill and a warm bath.
Footsteps wake me from my daze, and I peek one eye open. Gray sweatpants and a black shirt fit Gabriel perfectly. My core tingles, and I close my eyes again. I can’t. No, I need a break; I need to think about an ugly, bearded old man with a beer belly and yellow teeth.
“How are you feeling?” Gabriel’s voice sends shivers through my body, and no amount of hot water can cover that.
“Fine,” I say with my eyes still closed.
“Just fine?”
I open my eyes, not sure what he expects me to say. “Yes. Sore, but I’m listening to your advice and taking a long hot bath.”
He hovers over me with his hands in his pockets. “That’s good. Take some painkillers and eat something. I need to go and take care of some business.”
I sit in the tub and lean against the edge of it.
“Shouldn’t we be on our honeymoon?” We don’t have a real honeymoon booked; we agreed on that for the sake of the current situation.
It's just the time when we should get to know each other and spend time together, even from the comfort of our penthouse.
He narrows his eyes. “I thought we agreed to stay in New York. You know as well as I do we’re at war.
Things may look calm now, but that means nothing.
” His voice lowers, steady and controlled, almost detached.
“Nico is cleaning his house, and ours is nearly done. Exterminating the rats took time and effort, and it’ll take even longer to restore things to the way they should be. ”
“But we literally just got married, and we should use this time to get to know each other.”
“Yes, we will, but there is an issue I need to take care of. You, of all people, should understand that.”
I exhale. He has a point. Still, there is something in his expression.
He doesn’t look like the man who fucked me all night long.
Demanding, dominating, and out of control.
No, this man wears his control like armor, a calm surface that hides the danger simmering underneath.
“I know, but I don’t have to be happy with it. ”
“Use this time to settle in. Feel free to do whatever you want around the house. Buy a new couch, pillows, I don’t know. Also, there’s a ladies’ brunch every Monday, where the wives gather and chat or whatever. You’re invited.”
He turns and leaves. I sink back into the water and take a deep breath before I dive completely under. I open my eyes and scream under the water.
My head’s a hurricane, thoughts tearing through like knives I can’t control.
So, now I’m a ‘real’ mob wife, supposed to sit pretty and nice at home.
I gave up my place at my brother’s side for this?
For this marriage? I’ll be damned if I turn into one of those wives, with a fat bank account to splurge on whatever catches my eye.
One who spends her days gossiping and learning new things about her husband, not that I need to.
I already know most of it. The only thing I don’t know?
His goddamn feelings. And instead of digging into that, I’m supposed to prance around, trash-talking with the rest of the mob wives like some socialite automaton. Screw that.
This marriage is going to give me a headache.
In the week that followed, I ordered new furniture and rearranged my closet, keeping myself busy so I’d forget the long windows taunting me.
I also got my bike delivered from Chicago and tried and failed to make something edible that ended up in the garbage.
Grace was helpful in cleaning up the mess after me the next day; my embarrassment disappeared when I saw a hidden smile on her face.
She then gave me the phone number of a restaurant I could order food from.
If Gabriel showed up, it was always in the early morning, a fleeting presence that would disappear before I opened my eyes, avoiding me like I had the plague.
I even went to the brunch, where I looked out of place between all the Stepford mafia-looking wives.
The women were nice, but I didn’t feel a connection with anyone.
Well, there was this girl, Clara. I think she was the only one close to my age.
Clara was always on the move, making sure everyone had what they wanted, even if she didn’t work there.
She made sure I was comfortable, and that I had everything I needed.
She also gave me her phone number in case I needed anything and said I can contact her anytime.
I need a hobby since I talked myself out of stalking my husband. After I figured out the passcode of his phone, I installed an app while he was sleeping to track his movements.
I learned he isn't on the move that much; he spends most of his time at the Lotus Hotel. Sometimes, he’s at the club, but not long enough for me to be suspicious.
I need a ride. I change into something more comfortable before I head to the underground garage and get on my bike.
I don’t know where my destination is, but I surrender to the wind and the road. I let the adrenaline spike in my blood and my thoughts run a thousand miles, skipping from one to another.
I end up in Central Park, and instead of being calm, I’m anything but. As if watching the couple in front of me is going to make things better. It’s not like I care for all those cute moments, like when he brushes the hair on her forehead before kissing her.
I’m angry. No, I’m jealous, and I want all those things.
I want to have someone take care of me like that and not ignore me.
I may have acted on a whim like always and offered myself for this union, but I’m not just a pawn.
I refuse to be one. If he doesn’t want to talk, I will make him.
I will make him take me and this marriage seriously, though.
The only thing I like so far in this marriage is the fact that I don’t have a bodyguard.
It makes it easier for me to stalk my own husband.
I know I said I wouldn’t, but I also thought he would be present.
I guess I need to remind him that this was a mutual agreement, and avoiding me isn’t an option.
I’m now in front of the Twenty-Seven Club for the first time.
The place is luxurious than the club back home.
Of course it is. It’s owned by Salvatore Catalano, and it’s fancy, not because of Cosa Nostra, but because of its clientele.
I watch the entrance until I see the person I’m supposed to meet.
Clara. When I called her and asked her if she would join me, I was surprised she agreed, but here we are.
“Hey!” She smiles and stops in front of me, tiny even against my 5’5” frame.
“You came!”
“Well, I told you I would!” She looks around. “There are even more people than usual. Have you talked to Mr. Savastano about your entry privileges?”
I tilt my head to the side and furrow my eyebrows. “What privileges?”
Her eyes widen. “You don’t just enter. Don’t you see the line? You only get inside if you’re a guest, have a special invitation, or you wait to be picked.”
“How do we get picked?”
“Why would you want to be picked? You're Gabriel Savastano’s wife; you can get inside with just one word from your husband.”
“No! He can’t know I’m here.”
She shifts her weight on her feet and exhales. “I don’t want to know.” She looks back at the entrance. “I can get us in.”
A smile spreads across my face. “Perfect!”
She looks me up and down. Her eyes widen when they stop at my boots.
“So, this…” She motions with her finger from my fishnet stocking and my leather short skirt to my lace bodysuit under my leather jacket.
“Can work. Your shoes are more problematic. Lucky for you, I have some spare in my car. I just hope they will fit you. Come on, my car is just across the street.” I follow Clara, my eyes on her small feet.
I hide a smirk, because how will I fit in her shoes?
When we reach her car, she opens her trunk that’s filled with clothes.
My eyes widen. Bags, clothes, shoes, and accessories.
“Why do you have a whole store in your car?” I ask.
Her face flushes. “It’s not a store. It’s just a few items for me to have as a reserve when I need them.” She shrugs. There is something in her voice, and I know she’s not telling me the truth, but I ignore it. Mostly because I don’t know her well enough to ask those kinds of questions.
“Why would you need this many clothes?”
“Because of my job, silly.” Her lips spread into a lie-covered smile.