Chapter Eight
Vincenzo
I’VE ORGANISED FOR Maria to serve us dinner out on the terrace that overlooks the sea, and she’s done a fine job.
The table is set with a white tablecloth, the finest crystal champagne flutes, heavy silver cutlery and a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket.
Candles in elegant glass holders flicker in the slight sea-breeze, and the bougainvillea that cascades from the terrace above in a riot of pink, hangs picturesquely over the scene.
And as I stand there surveying the scene, a part of me is wondering why the hell I’m fussing around with place settings and candles for my new forced bride, when I could be in bed screwing Annika.
It’s a complete fucking mystery.
Everything about my behaviour since I kidnapped Caterina Salvatore seems to be a complete fucking mystery, and I hate mysteries.
I always know what I’m doing and everything is in service to my goal of cleaning the tarnish from the Argenti family’s honour.
Deciding to cancel my evening with Annika in favour of dinner with my new wife is not cleaning any tarnish from the Argenti family’s honour.
It’s got nothing to do with anyone’s honour at all, so I don’t know why I did it.
She said I had to bear the consequences of marrying her, that I owe her the respect of at least not screwing another woman on our wedding night, and I…had to admit to myself that she was right.
It was a simple thing she’d asked of me. Nothing to do with giving her freedom or sparing her father’s life, only a little respect for one night. Then, of course, without waiting for a response, she gave up her only weapon to me. As if she’d made her point and didn’t need it anymore.
Ridiculous creature. In that moment, with her untidy ponytail and her sweatshirt half falling off her shoulder and her loose black trousers, she looked young, vulnerable and fragile.
Defenceless. The perfect prey for the predator.
And I was the predator. I was the villain.
Yet she gave up her weapon without even waiting for an answer, and that made something in me catch and pull, like a fish hook catching on a rock.
A wife in the families is a host, a mediator, she runs the household and takes care of the children. She is guarded and protected, staying out of the business side of things, because that is a job for men.
My mother, Elena, was different, at least at the start.
She was fiery, opinionated, fiercely protective and loyal.
Yet, over the years, my father slowly ground all those things out of her.
He would not tolerate any exceptions to the norm and he would not tolerate those who wouldn’t do what he said.
His word was law. My mother didn’t fit into the box he put her in, so he made her fit by cutting away the pieces of her he didn’t like.
I assumed that any wife I eventually had would be exactly like all the rest. A good cosa nostra wife who supports her husband, but I knew upstairs in that bedroom, that Caterina Salvatore would not be a wife like all the rest.
She’s like my mother, full of fire and spark, and the way she challenged me with the gun and with her wit…
My father didn’t respect my mother, not at all. He had mistresses scattered from one end of Italy to the other, and he visited them all while she remained here at the estate, dependent on the drugs the doctors fed her.
I’m supposed to be different. I’m supposed to be better. A more honourable man than he ever was, and so how could I do anything but give her what she wanted?
I suspect there’s more to it than that, especially because I didn’t feel even the slightest bit of disappointment about cancelling Annika. But I don’t want to think about what more there is. Not now. Not when I’m still waiting for Giovanni Salvatore’s sworn loyalty.
I can even admit to some…anticipation at the thought of having dinner with my strangely fascinating new wife. She certainly won’t be boring, at least.
Turning from my survey of the table, I’m about to find Maria to tell her to summon my wife, when a woman walks through the French doors and out onto the terrace as if she owns it.
She’s tall and built like a dancer, long legs, slim hips, small, rounded breasts, each and every curve followed lovingly by the fabric of her green sequinned dress.
Her black hair is loose down her back, falling almost to her waist, and her incredible eyes are highlighted with sparkles of gold and green on her lids.
She wears high-heeled golden sandals that make her legs even longer, and the basest part of me imagines having those long legs wrapped around my waist as I fuck her.
Or maybe flung over my shoulders, the long spike of her heel digging into my back as I make her come.
The woman is unfamiliar at first and I have the passing thought that maybe she’s one of my other lovers and if so, what is she doing here? Then, like a blurred scene through a camera lens suddenly springing into focus, I realise who the woman is.
She’s my wife. Caterina.
She is cool and self-contained as she stands a moment, studying the terrace, the table, and then me. And when her gaze meets mine I feel the impact, all glittering, sharp-edged challenge.
The wolf in me shifts, hungry, predatory, knowing exactly what it wants to eat now and it’s not the food Maria will be serving us. Before in sweatshirt and pants, she looked vulnerable and fragile, and the wolf wanted to protect her.
But right here, right now, in her green sequins and war paint, the wolf wants to fuck her. And so do I.
‘I’m early, sorry,’ she says, not sounding sorry in the least. ‘I didn’t want to wait for Maria.’
I move instantly, rounding the table to pull out her chair for her. ‘Nor should you. Please. Sit.’
She stalks over to the chair, eyeing me warily, perhaps expecting me to stand back to let her sit down. But I don’t. There’s a reason she’s all dressed up with looks to kill, and there’s a reason her make-up is war paint.
She’s on a mission, this little gattina, that’s obvious, and I’m fascinated to discover what kind of mission she’s on.
Is it to prove she can be the perfect wife like all the others?
Or is it to show me exactly what kind of woman I married?
Or is it that she knows I want her and is going to use that to get what she wants out of me?
Intriguing woman. The dress and the make-up are pure cosa nostra wife, but that look of stubborn determination in her eyes… I’ve seen that same look in the eyes of my paternal grandmother before she died. All steel, no mercy. The woman who made my father what he was. The look of a warrior.
I hold the sides of her chair as she sits down, and I catch her scent, warm jasmine and musk, and the wolf in me growls, hungry and getting hungrier.
I glance down at the top of her glossy black head, noticing that despite her confident entry, her shoulders are tense and there’s a stiffness to her movements.
So, this is all an act to hide her nerves. Yet, seeing through her bravado doesn’t disappoint me. It only makes me respect her even more. She came to this mission ready, despite being afraid, and she came down to face me. And I am not an easy man to face.
I let go of her chair and walk over to the ice bucket where the bottle of Dom is sitting atop a mound of ice. ‘A little of this excellent champagne to celebrate,’ I say, opening the foil then popping the cork.
‘To celebrate what?’ Her voice is sharp. ‘My kidnapping?’
‘Of course.’ I ignore her tone, pouring us out two glasses and then handing one to her. ‘And our marriage.’
She takes it, watching me as I sit opposite her. ‘To my new wife.’ I lift my glass in a toast.
Her eyes glitter in the candlelight, green as the sequins on her dress. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t drink to my own imprisonment.’
‘A little dramatic, gattina,’ I chide, mostly for my own amusement. ‘You’re hardly a prisoner.’
‘Aren’t I?’ She puts her glass down, untouched. ‘There are guards on basically every square meter of this entire property.’
‘Of course there are guards.’ I take a sip of the champagne and it is, indeed, excellent. ‘I’m the head of the Argenti family and I have enemies. They’re there to keep people out, not in.’
‘So, if I wanted to, say, take a helicopter tomorrow and get out of here, I could?’
Oh, she’s sharp as the points of her little heels isn’t she?
My pulse accelerates as I smile and settle back into my chair, enjoying the challenge she’s just thrown at me, and anticipating more. ‘Naturally you could. Providing you have adequate security.’
Her gaze narrows. ‘And if I didn’t want security?’
‘Come now, gattina. You know how this works. I’m sure your father didn’t let you go anywhere without a bodyguard or three, so why would you expect that to change now you’re my wife? You’re still a target, I’m afraid.’
It’s no less than the truth, but it’s clear she doesn’t like that one bit.
‘I’ve been a prisoner in my father’s house all my life,’ she says flatly. ‘And I refuse to be one here. So if what you said about respecting me is true, then you need to respect my need to feel like I live here, not like I’m trapped here.’
She’s so very emphatic, her gaze never wavering from mine, the force of her will measuring itself against my own.
It makes my pulse beat even faster. I like it.
I like her challenge and her spirit. I like her courage and her ferocity.
She’s gutsy, this woman, to come downstairs dressed like that, ready to cross swords with me, knowing who and what I am.
But she’s right. She is trapped here. Just like your mother was.
Something tightens in my chest, but I ignore the feeling. This is an entirely different situation. Caterina is not trapped here. She can leave at any time, as long as she has some security.