Chapter 5 Gabriella
The Romano suite looks like someone swallowed a wedding magazine and threw it up in here.
It’s over the top. Four-poster bed draped in cream silk.
Rose petals scattered like the scene of a botanical massacre.
Candles flicker from every surface, shadows dancing over marble floors and frescoed walls.
Champagne chills in an ice bucket; chocolate-covered strawberries sit in a heart-shaped arrangement that’s almost too perfect to eat.
The whole thing screams honeymoon, which is hilarious considering I've known my groom for approximately seven hours. Most of which were spent pretending I know how to smile like Sofia and not like someone planning a prison break.
I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do now. I have so many questions.
Do mafia marriages come with contractual obligations? Is there some ceremonial consummation to seal the alliance? Does he expect me to lie there while he stakes his claim like this is a feudal land exchange?
I take a deep breath and focus. I can do this.
I've talked my way out of worse situations. I've faced down drug dealers in S?o Paulo, a machete-wielding bartender in Guatemala, and a very persistent camel trader in Morocco. How hard can one gorgeous, dangerous mafia husband be?
"Get it together, Gabriella," I mutter, then immediately wince. I should stop using my real name, even in my own head.
I head to the bathroom to change and immediately regret every life choice that led me here.
The lingerie Sofia packed is white, obviously, because God forbid a mafia bride wear anything that suggests she's ever had an impure thought. It's all lace and ribbons that seem designed by someone who hates women.
The bra has enough underwire to construct a small building, and the matching panties are basically decorative string. There's a garter belt with ribbons that keep snapping against my thighs. I honestly can’t believe she bought a garter belt. Who wears these things?
Jesus Christ! What the hell have I gotten myself into this time?
I reach for the door knob and stop. The bathroom mirror is an evil, lying bastard. It shows a wide-eyed bride in virginal white lace like she’s wandered in straight out of some mobster’s fantasy catalogue. I’ve never looked more ridiculous in my life.
I drag the silk robe off the hook and pull it around me, tying the sash like armor. Take another deep breath. Tonight, I’m Sofia. Quiet. Shy. Untouched. Not Gabriella, the wild one who could probably write a guidebook called Fifty Questionable Decisions Abroad.
I practice in the mirror. Soft eyes, timid smile, maybe a demure head tilt. I look like I’m auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “I look like a virgin who also might faint at the sight of a paper cut. Nailed it.”
It’s showtime, baby.
One last breath and I open the door, ready to walk into battle.
Luca is standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands in his pockets, looking out at the gardens like he owns not only them but every inch of land beyond.
Jacket gone, shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms. His dark hair is slightly mussed, and his posture says relaxed while every inch of him hums with potential violence.
He turns at the sound of the door.
Those eyes sweep over me in one long, deliberate pass. My robe might as well be sheer.
I should say something sweet or shy.
“I think the champagne gave me a migraine,” I blurt out. “Or maybe the shrimp risotto. Could be stress. Or my body’s just shutting down because this is completely insane.”
One brow lifts, but he doesn’t speak.
Oh, shit!
I drop my gaze like a proper Sofia, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
His footsteps are slow, steady.
Oh damn…what’s happening now. This is freaking me out.
When he’s in front of me, the heat from his body touches mine. His hand lifts, knuckles grazing my cheek. “You look tired,” he says.
“I am,” I say softly. Which is technically true. After all, I rode an overnight train to Rome with a bunch of rowdy party boys.
His fingers find the tie of my robe. He pauses. “May I?”
Fuck no, I want to yell, but I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I give the smallest nod though I can’t help wondering what would happen if I refused.
The belt loosens. The robe slips from my shoulders, pooling at my feet in a whisper of silk. Cool air kisses bare skin, and his gaze follows, slow and unhurried, lingering on every inch the lace doesn’t cover.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
Careful, Sofia. Don’t screw up.
He leans in and kisses me. Soft at first, tasting, testing. My hands hang awkwardly at my sides, because virginal Sofia wouldn’t know where to put them.
He notices. Of course he notices.
“Here,” he says quietly, taking my wrists and placing my palms against his chest. The heat of him soaks through his shirt. Solid muscle under my fingers.
Nice. Not bad.
I curl my fingers slightly, testing. He exhales, low and quiet, and I feel it in places I shouldn’t admit out loud.
The kiss deepens, his tongue coaxing mine into a slow rhythm that makes my knees weak. One hand cups the back of my neck; the other drifts down my arm, over my waist, until his thumb strokes the top of my thigh.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker. “Lie down.”
I sink into the bed, silk cool under my skin, rose petals scattering onto the floor. He follows, bracing over me, heat radiating from his body.
His mouth finds my collarbone, unhurried, tasting. His hands work at the lace, slipping straps down my arms, exposing me inch by inch. He takes his time, and I remember to breathe like I’m unsure, like this is new territory.
Which it is, sort of. I’ve never had a man like this. I’ve also never pretended to be a virgin. The one time when I was a virgin, I pretended like I was experienced, so there’s that.
I shift uncertainly, because that’s what Sofia would do. Inside, my pulse is hammering and it has nothing to do with nerves.
His mouth closes around my breast, warm and wet, tongue flicking over the nipple. My gasp is real. His low hum of approval vibrates through me.
“Touch me,” he murmurs.
My hands hover awkwardly, then land tentatively on his shoulders. He catches one and drags it lower, guiding me over the hard plane of his stomach, down to the waistband of his trousers, then lower.
“Oh,” I gasp, because damn he’s fucking huge.
His hand slides between my thighs, parting them. Fingers find the damp lace, stroke slowly, deliberately. My hips twitch despite my act.
“You’re warm,” he says, almost to himself.
I nod shyly as good virgin cover, but my hips betray me, tilting toward his hand.
He pushes the lace aside, fingers working my now soaking wet pussy lightly until my head tips back against the pillow. I bite my lip, trying to keep the sounds in, but a small, helpless noise escapes.
“Open your eyes,” he says.
I drag my eyes to his. He watches me like he’s reading me, learning my body.
His fingers work me until my breathing is shallow and my grip on him turns desperate. Suddenly he slows and withdraws.
Quickly he strips off his clothes, grabs a condom from the bedside stand and dons it over his hard cock. Seconds later, he’s back between my thighs.
He pauses at my entrance. “Breathe.”
The first press of him is thick, stretching, stealing my breath. I widen my eyes, a perfect virginal move, but the moan that slips out is entirely mine.
He seats himself fully, stilling, one hand brushing hair from my face. “Okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
He starts moving. Slow at first, each thrust precise, filling. My hands clutch his arms like I’m holding on for dear life, which I am. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this.
“Here,” he murmurs, sliding my hands to his ass. “Hold on.”
I obey, gripping his muscular ass and the shift lets him drive deeper. My breath hitches; his rhythm stays steady, controlled.
And with every movement, it’s harder to remember I’m playing Sofia. My breath quickens, my hips shift to meet him, and when the heat crests, the sound that tears from my throat is anything but virginal.
His rhythm doesn’t falter until I’m trembling, clutching at him, the silk sheets twisted in my fists. Only then does he let himself go, his breath rough against my neck, his body heavy and solid over mine.
When it’s done, he stays over me, breathing slow, steady. His hand cups my face, thumb stroking once. No words. Just that quiet, unshakable control.
And somewhere in the haze, I think to myself.
This is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.
And it’s not because of the gun under his pillow.