Chapter 4
Besiana
Domenico and I are in the back seat of a white limousine, the picture-perfect newlyweds. I keep my eyes on the window, on the lights that whip past us and turn to shadows. Domenico is beside me, but I might as well be alone. He doesn’t touch me. We don’t speak. We barely even breathe.
The drive home is long enough for me to think about our upcoming wedding night, about how he’ll treat me. I already know the answer. And I know I’m in no position to refuse my husband, not unless I want to face my father’s wrath.
When we reach the Rosetti mansion, it’s a beast of glass and steel, with long windows like gunslit eyes.
Tall fences wrap around the house like chains.
Security cameras glint in the gray light.
A guardhouse sits by the entrance. More men, all in black.
Dom doesn’t glance at them as we glide up the curving driveway.
He gets out of the car and I wait a beat to see if he will open my door, but I don’t plan on staying in the limo all night, so I let myself out and follow him up the stairs to the grand entrance.
Domenico shows me inside but doesn’t say a word.
He just walks around the house, occasionally glancing at me, and I follow like an obedient puppy, taking it all in.
I feel like I’m back at the church. Cold marble floors, polished to a deadly sheen.
Room after room, cavernous and spare. Living room.
Dining room. Library. Each one as lifeless as the last. It’s beautiful in an expensive, impersonal way.
Art on the walls, all abstract and soulless.
I know I shouldn’t be surprised. He wouldn’t care about comfort.
If this is where we’re going to live, I’ll be nothing but a ghost here.
He answers three phone calls in the first hour. His voice is low and deliberate, echoing off every empty surface. It’s more words than I’ve heard him speak, and I focus on the tone, the timbre, the gravel.
I perch on an armchair in the living room. This wedding dress is too unwieldy to slouch or get comfortable, so I settle for sitting awkwardly while he takes his calls.
The longer I listen to him speaking on the phone, the more I see it: power comes from silence. From knowing you don’t need to speak. That’s what he’s doing, he’s waiting for me to speak first, and I do, before I know it’s happening.
“Where is the bedroom?”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, although I want nothing more than to snatch them out of the air and swallow them down before he hears them. What if he thinks I’m seducing him? Honestly, all I want is to change out of this stuffy gown and into a pair of sweatpants.
He locks his liquid green eyes onto me, and I feel a blush creep up my cheeks.
When he finally says my name, it’s louder than any word I’ve heard from him. I snap to attention, just like with my father. I don’t even realize I’ve done it until it’s too late.
He notices everything. “This way, Besiana.”
I follow. I don’t let myself be unsure.
He leads me up a flight of stairs and along a hall, then quietly opens a door. “Your room is here.”
I blink at what must be the master bedroom, stunned for a moment.
It’s enormous, like the rest of the house.
The bed is a monster, king-sized, with dark frames and stark white bedding.
Its sheets look crisp and unruffled, nothing like the tangle of blankets I’m used to.
Elegant furniture, all sleek angles and cold surfaces, lines the walls.
A giant mirror with an elaborate gold frame reflects the whole opulent scene.
It reminds me of something out of a magazine.
Impersonal and extravagant. Nothing about it is real. Nothing about it is me.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m only here for information. This is a transaction. He doesn’t need my soul, only my body.
“Change into something less cumbersome and meet me downstairs,” he commands, then he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.
I obey. I always do. I search everywhere for my suitcases, without success, but I finally find all my clothes unpacked into the enormous walk-in closet.
Less cumbersome, he said. Which is pretty much everything I own.
I figure it’s too early in our relationship for sweatpants, so I settle on a silk wrap dress in pale green that I’m told matches my eyes.
Meet me downstairs, he said, so I wander out into the corridor and retrace my steps to the main living areas. It’s hard to find my way because the mansion is a maze of identical doors and turns. The hallways are long and unending, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ll be trapped in them forever.
The front hall stretches out before me, cold marble under my feet as I make my way back. I perch on the armchair again while I wait for him, but I don’t have to wait long. He appears, as unreadable as ever, and keeps his distance.
He gives me a stiff nod, as if approving of my wardrobe change.
“Pour me a drink.”
It’s a command, not a request, perfectly in character. Of course it is. I get up and search for glasses. My movement is awkward and fevered, and my hands shake as I fill the glass with an expensive whiskey I’ve never heard of before and a little water from the tap.
“Here,” I say, passing it to him.
He takes it carefully, being sure not to brush my fingers with his own then tells me to follow him.
It’s the same as before, his tall figure moving ahead of me, his footsteps echoing off the walls.
In a way, it’s exactly what I need. A reminder.
I’m here to play the role of his wife while I gather what I need for Baba.
“All these windows make me feel exposed,” I say. Maybe it will get a reaction.
“Then close the fucking curtains,” he answers, barely looking back.
I do as he says, like a good, obedient bride, though it isn’t just for him. I tell myself it’s for me. That I want to keep him talking. That every word is information. That it’s my choice to close every curtain, that I have the power here. I’m the spy, not the wife.
It’s convincing. Almost.
He catches me yawning as I pull closed the last heavy drape. He stops walking and waits for me.
“You’re tired.”
Barking out orders as usual.
“Yes,” I say.
“Time for bed.”
Up the stairs again, a reluctant parade.
He leads, I follow. I reach for my doorknob once we’re back in the corridor, but his hand closes over my wrist before I touch it.
He doesn’t let go, and it’s, well, it’s the most contact we’ve had apart from that ghostly kiss at the wedding.
My skin tingles at how it feels. Spark and burn, a match ready to catch but not quite striking.
“Not in there,” he says.
Genuinely confused, my brows draw in as my mind scrambles for an answer. I might not want to obey his every stupid command, but I need to keep him happy while I gather information on Iride.
“But you said this is my bedroom.”
He lets go. Like he’s dropping something he shouldn’t have touched in the first place.
“That’s your room. You can do whatever you want in there. Keep your dresses, your makeup, whatever it is you do. But you don’t sleep in there.”
He expects me to follow, and I do. He opens the door next to mine, standing aside for me to enter first. The room is enormous, and I stop in surprise.
My room is big, but this—this is bigger than some entire houses.
The walls are painted a deep, moody blue with silver trim, and the ceiling is pale marble that matches the floor.
It’s so masculine and sharp, the kind of room I expected to see on a magazine cover, not in real life.
I stare. I can’t help it. This is where he sleeps?
There is a huge bed, as big as my own, but it doesn’t look quite as unruffled. My eyes linger on it. Is this where he expects me to sleep? It seems too intimate. Too soon.
There is a long dresser topped with expensive watches and a small stack of papers and books.
A low seating area sits against one wall.
Two armchairs, one dark leather and the other some kind of heavy wool, facing toward each other.
A table between, half-covered with a low clutter of half-empty glasses and more papers, some of them in a language I don’t know, Italian I guess.
The scene looks like it’s straight out of one of his business meetings.
And he wants me to sleep here?
I tear my eyes from the room and glance at him, confused.
Why is he giving me this much? Doesn’t he have better, more important things to do?
Doesn’t he have business meetings to run and papers to sign in blood?
The fact that he’s spending his time on me, that he’s including me in his own space, that he’s not taking another call and treating me like a member of his family rather than an outsider—
I shake my head. I can’t think like that. I can’t let myself be foolish and believe I’m anything to him other than a spy.
Stay strong, I remind myself. You have a job to do. Keep him happy. Keep him talking. Do what Baba wants.
“Is this marriage what you want?” he asks.
He stands close, looking at my face instead of my dress. It surprises me.
“I am my father’s daughter,” I tell him. It says more than I intend.
The corner of his mouth lifts. He doesn’t smile. But almost.
“Well, oldest children rarely get to choose their own partners.” He sounds wistful, and I can’t tell if he’s talking about me or about himself.
I’m just stubborn enough to take that as a challenge.
“Business is business,” I say.
“Our business is simple.” The same cold, sure voice. “I get you. Your father gets peace. No one gets love.”
It’s more than I thought he’d say, and I agree with every word. But I also get information, of course, although he never needs to know that.
“Is that all?” I ask.
He closes the space between us, an arm’s length that feels like a mile. I am not used to men taking my fear and turning it into desire, but here we are.
“No,” he says, and I hear the anger beneath his calm. “Not all.”
He puts a hand on my hip. His touch is fire. His attention is like lava. I hold my breath.
He’s watching me with a hunger that makes me lose my voice. And my courage. I find them both again, and I meet his eyes. I’ve learned that men like him, like my father, don’t give second chances. When they ask you to prove yourself, you prove it.
“Where do you want me?” I ask boldly. If we’re going to fuck, I want to at least feel a semblance of control. His heat is overwhelming, and part of me wants to see if I can handle it.
He’s surprised. He masks it quickly, a thin line that I catch just before it vanishes. His voice drops, and he rakes his eyes down my body, inch by inch, then swings them back up to meet mine.
“You’re not ready for that answer,” he says.
A small noise escapes me at his implication. I can barely believe he said it. My skin tingles hot where he touches me. When his fingers dig into my hip, I practically squeak, and the sound echoes between us.
“You’re my wife now, Besiana.”
He’s calm when he says it, too calm, and that’s the worst part. It tells me he’s dangerous enough to be patient.
“Do you know what that means?”
His belt hits the floor with a cold, final sound. I flinch as it lands.
“You share my house.”
His blood is the same poison as mine. He steps forward, between my thighs, and the movement feels practiced. Purposeful.
“You share my bed.”
He grips my chin and tilts it up.
“Not because I care for you.”
His lips ghost over mine. The barest touch of what he might really be capable of.
“Because you’re mine.”