Chapter 10 Leonardo
Leonardo
Eleanor has moved some of her suitcases out of my room.
It doesn’t take me long to find them, in a room at the end of the hallway on the same floor, and she is with them.
She has changed into jeans and a sweater, but somehow makes the casual ensemble look elegant.
She dresses like she’s meeting a friend for lunch, not fighting with her husband on our wedding night.
I stare at her and then the luggage. A fucking game. I grip the handles, my fingers like vices. She watches as I move them back into my room. The air between us is sharp as I set the bags down with a thud.
Without a word, I lock every door on this floor except our own.
She watches me in silence. If she wants another room, she’ll have to rip through a damn lock to get to it.
Her silence presses against me, but I shove back with my own.
Her gaze is ice and stone. She’s waiting for me to break, but she’s got a long wait.
She trails after me, silent, while I twist keys and tighten my grip. I slam one door shut, then the next. Her bare feet pad against the floor, a rhythm that matches my pulse. Eleanor stands in the hall like she owns it.
“You follow my rules.” I lean against the wall, smirk on my lips, keys jingling in my hand.
She looks at me, no words. I can almost hear her thinking.
“We can do this all night,” I say.
Her chin lifts a fraction. She turns, her shoulder brushing past mine like I’m not even there.
I follow her downstairs, every step of hers matched by mine. The living room is cavernous without my family in it. A wide couch sits near the fireplace. She drapes herself on it, reaching for a book from the shelf. Each movement is elegant, precise. She ignores me like it’s an Olympic sport.
I let her have the quiet for a while. Let the minutes crawl over us. My breath is steady, even as my insides coil tight. She turns a page.
I kick back in an armchair, make myself at home. Her eyes flicker toward me then back to the book. I stifle a laugh. This is almost too easy.
The fire snaps and spits. The room’s washed in flickering light, shadows dancing over us. Her back is rigid, but I see it start to loosen.
I stretch, lean forward. “How long do you think you’ll last?”
Her eyes don’t leave the page. “You’re welcome to sleep, Leonardo.” She slips her wedding ring off her finger, sets it on the table. “But not in the same room as me.”
My name in her mouth—it’s a challenge and a curse. I stand, walk over. Close the book with a snap. Her expression doesn’t change, but I catch the tiniest twitch in her jaw.
She doesn’t flinch. Just reaches for another.
The rug in front of the fire is thick, woven with reds and golds. I settle on it, stretch out. It’s softer than the couch. A hell of a lot softer than her.
Time passes. Hours maybe. She acts unfazed. Cool as glass. I watch her from the floor, eyes half shut, every muscle alert. I wonder if she can hear my heart. If she knows that this strange game turns me on.
The fire shrinks, but I feed it logs, watch them splinter into heat and ash.
Her body leans into the couch now, relaxing.
She shifts, her legs pulling under her. Another hour slips away.
She checks the time on her phone, bites her lip.
She can feel it too. The way we’re circling each other, two animals, neither willing to strike first. She refuses to sleep in our bedroom. I refuse to let her sleep without me.
I stifle a yawn, let her see me do it.
She shuts her eyes, one second too long to call it a blink. I smirk, stretch my arms behind my head. “Comfortable?” I ask.
The corners of her lips curve in the shadow of a smile. “Perfectly.”
She puts the book down. Her body sags against the cushions, a tiny sigh escaping her lips.
It should make me mad, the way she holds out. But it doesn’t. It makes me want her more.
My voice is a low rumble. “Come on, princess.” I crack my knuckles, feel the tension spread and loosen. “I can keep this up all night.”
The fire gutters, grows dim. We’re fading with it. A tiredness thick as water pulls us under. My eyes droop. Her head dips. I jolt awake. She shifts on the couch.
I blink, clearing the fog. Her breathing is steady, almost peaceful. I’ve worn her down, but I want her awake when she gives in. I want her to feel it.
The floor’s cool against my bare feet. I walk over, look down at her. She’s curled in on herself, hair slipping from its pins. I could pick her up, take her to bed. Lock us in, make her see. But I said I would make her beg for that.
Instead, I slide my hands under her. Eleanor stirs, barely awake. Her voice is the smallest murmur. “Leonardo... no...”
She’s weightless. I lower her to the rug. Her body curls against the warmth like a cat. I smile at her.
A blanket. A pillow. She gets both. I’m not that much of a bastard. Then I stretch out beside her and the heat of her skin pulls me close. My hand finds the narrow of her waist, tugs her to me.
She’s too far gone to protest.
My mouth finds her ear. The words come easy. “Where you sleep, I sleep.”
She breathes deep, even. Her head nestles into the pillow. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s mine.
Time gutted the house of most of its heat by morning.
It cools fast here. Eleanor sleeps, snuggled against my chest on the plush rug by the dying fire.
Her breaths are deep and slow, and her arms are folded together against my chest, her head nuzzling in my neck.
She is peaceful like this, no mask, no poise, just her.
She shifts, and I expect her to wake, to resume our standoff. But she doesn’t, and I smile, brushing a strand of hair off her face. She is a stunning woman.
In the quiet, a dull clamor of voices grows sharp and louder.
I’d know them anywhere, even when I’m half asleep.
My family is back. Irritation crawls up my spine.
I wanted to stay like this, curled around my wife, but instead I have to wake her.
I won’t leave her on the rug to be gawked at by anyone.
I stand, scooping her into my arms, and head to the stairs. She wakes and, for a moment, her gaze is soft, until she remembers where she is, and who I am. She struggles to get free, and I put her down, pleased to finally see a wrinkle in her clothing.
“Morning, princess,” I say.
Her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t give me the satisfaction of seeing her startled.
“Time to move upstairs.” I lift my chin toward the gardens, where the noise of my family arriving grows louder every moment. “The honeymoon’s over.”
She shoves her hair back, fixing me with those cold eyes. “Good.”
She drifts upstairs. I hear the shower in the bathroom off our bedroom.
Eleanor thinks she can wash last night off, but she can’t.
Not when I’m just outside the door, listening, imagining her in the water.
I take my time before dressing, and when she emerges from the steaming bathroom, I grin.
Her towel is wrapped around her body, and her arm is still red where she was laying on it. Her expression almost looks human.
I sprawl onto the bed, stretching my legs out in front of me, shoes still on. “Careful. You’re giving me the idea you didn’t sleep like a baby.”
Eleanor looks up. Blank face, brittle voice. “And you’re giving me the idea you think I care what you think.”
I laugh. Her voice might be stone, but I hear the cracks now. “They’ll expect us to have breakfast with them. Put on a good act.”
She gives a thin smile, the kind I can tell is meant to cut. “Watch me.”
I plan to.
I follow her to the kitchen. My family is a tangle of loud and blunt, black suits and bellowing voices.
They’re drinking coffee, and Carmela is putting eggs on the stove.
We gave the staff the night off, and they aren’t back yet, so we are fending for ourselves this morning.
I take a moment to look over the lot of them, then I clear my throat, getting their attention.
“Newlyweds!” my sister says, looking up from her cup.
“Thought you’d still be—” Matteo’s voice is slick, teasing, but Raffaele shoves him before he can finish. “Fighting.”
Eleanor has pulled on a dress that wouldn’t be out of place in a boardroom. Her eyes flash at me. I shrug, unbothered.
Domenico stands, gives me a nod, and walks over to greet us. “Your timing is perfect, little brother. Breakfast is almost ready.”
“And your timing’s shit.” I yank a chair out for Eleanor, scrape it against the floor so she can’t pretend not to notice.
Eleanor sits. She’s flawless, even as she’s surrounded. She answers everyone’s questions, keeps her chin held high, and pretends not to care that I’m sitting next to her.
My sister pours her a cup of coffee and leans in close. “You must be exhausted, hon. Leonardo can be so... demanding.”
Eleanor catches me staring, but she doesn’t flinch. “I’m doing my best to keep up.”
My brothers won’t let up. “I give him a month,” Matteo says, coin flashing through his fingers. “She’ll have him in the palm of her hand.”
“A week,” Raffaele says, dry as the Sahara.
It gets under my skin, the way they act like Eleanor’s the one I should be afraid of.
Like I can’t handle one woman. I crack my knuckles.
Their voices are loud, but I see Eleanor pull away.
She’s too perfect, too poised. Suddenly, I realize she needs rescuing from all the noise, all the mayhem of my family.
I stand up, leaving my food untouched, and pull out Eleanor’s chair.
Mama’s voice cuts above the rest, sweet and serious. “Where are you taking her?”
I take Eleanor’s hand, pull her up. “Out.”
“Not afraid we’ll talk her into leaving you?” Carmela chimes in.
“I’m doing you a favor, taking her out of here,” I say, eyeing my sister. “I wouldn’t want her to find out you’re all full of bullshit.” Carmela snorts a laugh.
Eleanor is a statue of grace, but there’s a gleam in her eye. She thinks I'm exerting control, doesn’t realize I’m saving her.
I nudge her toward the door. “Come on, wife.”
In the car, she doesn’t talk. It’s a game to see who’ll break the silence first. Her eyes are on me. I pretend I don’t notice. “Where are you taking me?”
The bridge looms overhead, cables laced against the sky. “Thought you’d want some decent food. Place like this,” I say, pulling up. “Your father could only dream about getting a reservation. He has all the money in the world, but none of the connections.”
She glances at the sign. There’s the smallest catch in her voice. “Il Paradiso?”
My grin is full of teeth.
I watch her at our table. She keeps her eyes on me, never looking at the view or the menu.
I make her uncomfortable, and it’s the best damn feeling.
Our silence is thick, but it’s not the same as before.
I almost think she’ll speak first. She doesn’t, but her fingers twist that ring on her hand.
Not the wedding band, the other one. I order two glasses of champagne and orange juice.
“Do you want anything else?” I ask.
Her eyes cut into me, and I know she wants a lot of things. None of them are on the menu.
I order for both of us, watch as she nibbles on her caviar toast, puts tiny forkfuls of egg into that pretty mouth. I drink more black coffee, eat like a dog.
A voice comes from the table next to us, cutting through the silence. “Nice piece of ass,” it says, loud and brash.
The words hang in the air, daring me to do something about it.
I don’t remember standing, but I’m already on my feet, heart pounding, blood rushing in my ears.
Eleanor looks at me, eyes wide, just as I start to move.
The punk who said it isn’t much older than me, not much bigger either.
He's got his sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging loose. Smug bastard doesn’t know what’s coming.
I’m halfway to him when his friends start to laugh, and then I’m at his table, ready to shut him up for good.
He turns, surprise flaring across his face, but it’s too damn late.
I swing before he can even blink. My fist connects with his jaw, a satisfying crunch that fills the entire restaurant.
A plate clatters to the floor. His glass shatters. People are staring now, horrified, frozen, like they’ve never seen a fight before. Like this isn’t New York City.
The guy I hit stumbles back, shock on his face, hand to his mouth, blood between his teeth. The rest of his buddies are up now too, but they don’t want any part of me. They’re grabbing their coats, their wallets, their broken friend.
My voice rings out, echoing in the sudden hush. “Nobody looks at my wife’s ass but me.” There’s pride in the words, possession. And it’s the damn truth.
The manager rushes over. He’s pale, worried about his fancy customers, about the disruptions I’m causing. I glare at him and point to the door. I’ve made enough of a scene. “It’s fine, we’re leaving.” He nods, relief washing over his face. He knows who I am, and he doesn’t argue.
Eleanor’s eyes are wide. She looks shocked, but also pleased. Like she’s just figured something out about me. I’m a split-second from pinning her against the wall and kissing her until she can’t breathe. Instead, I stay cool. Collected. I wait.
She’s getting under my skin the way ink does, seeping in deep.
We leave the mess behind us. Out on the street, I keep my grip on her wrist tight. I can feel her pulse. Or maybe it’s mine. On the ride home, I drive without thinking.
I have to know. “Are you enjoying this?” I sound pissed. I am pissed. I’m letting her see too much of me.
“Your raging jealousy?” she asks, and I hear the edge of a smile. “Should I be?”
“Never met anyone so fucking—” I can’t finish. I don’t want her to know the end of that sentence. So fucking captivating.