Chapter 6 Chiara
Chiara
It’s been a week, and I haven’t seen Angelo once. Either he’s avoiding me or he’s very careful to stay locked away in his office or bedroom suite.
I’ve spent a lot of time exploring the house.
There is a formal living room that doesn’t appear to be used, a family room with a large, comfortable sectional sofa and TV, and many other rooms, some of which remain locked.
In the basement, I discovered a gym and a laundry area, plus more locked doors.
The gardens are expansive, but so far, I haven’t ventured beyond the terrace.
The outdoor pool steams when the air cools at night. I’d go for a swim, but there isn’t a bikini in the closet, and I have a feeling Angelo would lose his shit if I swam naked.
Tempting, but I’m behaving for now. Lulling him into a false sense of security while I bide my time and come up with a plan.
Sadly, the servants are not sympathetic to my cause. They either ignore me or act like robots. At least Angelo treats them well. Unlike Vivian, who once threw a cup of scalding coffee over a maid for forgetting to turn down her bed.
It’s late, and I can’t sleep.
Again.
I’ve never been a good sleeper. Even as a child I struggled to fall asleep and stay asleep. When I was small, my father would read me a story, check my closet for monsters, and then stay in a chair until I fell asleep.
Once he remarried, Vivian stole all his attention, and he palmed me off on a succession of maids, none of whom cared about me. Some even tried to drug me so they could avoid being disturbed by my night terrors, but I soon got wise to that.
Now, I won’t touch sleeping pills. The thought of being incapacitated leaves me terrified. I’d rather be awake all night than in a drugged stupor.
The book I’m reading falls to the floor as I crawl out of bed. It’s a police procedural thriller I found in the living room. I assume it’s Angelo’s book, but I could be mistaken.
Perhaps he’s brushing up on ways to avoid detection while running a criminal empire. The book’s entertaining, if gruesome. Not enough to capture my attention this evening, however.
I’m bored out of my mind, not used to sitting around with nothing to do. Before my dear husband’s pet enforcer found me, I spent most evenings working behind the bar or fixing Mack’s bookkeeping messes. And if he gave me a night off, I caught up on laundry and other shit.
In this house, there are servants who take care of the laundry. There is literally nothing for me to do, and I hate it. I’ve almost reached the point where I might just cave and agree to push out a baby purely for something to occupy my time.
I pull on a loose cami tee and a pair of shorts before padding out of my room. The house is silent as a morgue.
None of the servants speak unless I ask a direct question. Food appears at set times, and if I don’t show up, I invariably find a covered plate in the refrigerator. A maid makes my bed in the morning, and my laundry disappears at intervals, reappearing clean and ironed.
It’s like living in a luxury hotel for free.
A hotel with armed guards and a sophisticated security system designed to keep me in.
There are cameras everywhere except in my bedroom. Not so far as I can tell anyway. I genuinely wouldn’t put it past Angelo and his fucking asshole enforcer to spy on me.
My lip curls up when I remember how satisfying it felt to break the prick’s nose.
There are a few lights still on downstairs. A lamp in the hallway, another in the living room. I briefly consider watching a movie but decide to hit the kitchen instead. There is some chamomile tea in the pantry, which might help me sleep.
When I open the kitchen door, I’m surprised to find all the lights on and a shirtless dude with his head in the refrigerator. It’s not Angelo, although when he pops up and grins at me, I can see the family resemblance.
The guy shamelessly checks me out while I do the same. Holy fuck. He’s gorgeous. Younger than Angelo by a few years. More my age, in fact.
Dark curls brush the tops of his bare shoulders.
A broad, defined chest, tight abs, and thick thighs suggest a keen athlete, and dimples tell me this guy’s a born flirt. He’s pure catnip to my libido, and I lick my lips at the thought of how much fun he’d be if…if I wasn’t married to his fucking brother.
I’ve seen enough photos of Angelo’s younger half brother to know this is Luka Di Rossi, the product of an affair.
“Need a cab?”
“Cab?”
He smirks. “Yeah. I assume my selfish fuck of a brother kicked you out of bed without making sure you got home safe.”
“Does he do that a lot?” My nails dig into my palms at the suggestion my fucking husband has a conveyor belt of women parading in and out of his bedroom. Then I give myself a reality check. We’re married in name only, after all.
A husky laugh makes my core clench. “My brother is an asshole. You should have picked me, cutie.”
“But this is the first time we’ve met.”
He smiles, and it’s like the sun just came out for the first time after weeks of rain. “Better late than never.”
I tilt my head to one side, curious despite myself. “Why should I choose you over him?” Not that I’m choosing that asshole over anyone. Ever. Not in a million years. Hell will freeze over first.
Angelo’s brother leans back and rests on his arms, showing off his muscled chest and abs. Am I drooling? Hopefully not.
“I’m better looking, way less selfish in bed, and a much nicer guy.” He pauses while smirking. “And I love kittens.”
I snort. “You should probably add modest to that list.”
The asshole grins at me before standing up straighter and hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts, drawing my attention to the way his Adonis belt dips low.
“Oh, I forgot,” he adds with a wink. “My dick is bigger.”
My gaze drops to his impressive bulge. Yeah. He’s not lying about his dick.
The temperature in the room rises as a hot flush works its way up from my toes to my scalp.
Overly confident guys usually leave me cold.
The men in my stepmother’s circle are narcissists wearing designer suits.
Handsome but self-involved. She loves to preen around them, but I’d rather read a good book.
The jury’s out on whether Luka Di Rossi is a raging narcissist trying to love bomb me into his bed.
I sigh. It’s time I explained who I am before he gets into trouble.
“I’m not your brother’s paid whore for the evening. As far as I can tell, he’s not here.”
Luka’s brows shoot up in surprise. “Then why are you here?”
“I’m Chiara. Angelo’s wife.” My words bleed venom. Every time I have to call myself his fucking wife, I want to stab the bastard with a sharp pointy object.
Luka nearly chokes. “The wife who left him a year ago?”
“Yeah. That’s me.” I throw jazz hands and grin, but it’s fake as fuck.
The surprise on his face says he wasn’t told Angelo had found me. Or rather, his enforcer did. I owe that fucker a dick punch. I still haven’t forgiven him for taking me down in a parking lot and forcing me to leave all my worldly goods behind. Not that I had much, but I do miss my books.
Luka rallies fast. “Since you’re not rushing to escape this fine establishment, fancy some snacks?” He pulls some cheese from the refrigerator and drops it on the counter. “I’m starving.”
“Pretty sure there’s some stew left over from dinner,” I point out, but he shakes his head.
“Nah. Too much effort.” I watch as he slices some cheese and adds olives and chunks of homemade bread to his plate. My stomach grumbles in appreciation. It’s been at least five hours since I ate, and I’m still reversing the calorie deficit of my year on the run.
“Make enough for me,” I say. He smirks and adds more of everything to the plate before grabbing two beers. “Let’s go sit by the pool and you can tell me what it was that first attracted you to my obscenely rich, obnoxiously handsome older brother.”
I chuckle despite myself.
Thank god this brother has a sense of humor.
Luka drops onto a recliner, and after a moment of hesitation, I choose the one beside him.
Warm air caresses my skin. I’ve not spent much time in the garden, mostly because the sight of heavily armed men is not conducive to relaxation, but they’re out of sight this evening, and I can appreciate the soft glowing lights and immaculate landscaping.
Luka hands me a chilled beer. Other than the glass of wine I chugged down the first night, I’ve not touched any alcohol since arriving at this cursed mansion. A cold beer hits the mark nicely.
We sit in silence for a while, sharing the plate of snacks and drinking our beer. When the food is all gone, Luka pulls out a joint and lights it with a Zippo. The sweet scent of weed fills the air. He closes his eyes, giving me a chance to admire his perfectly sculpted body.
The guy’s pretty as hell. Whereas Angelo is undeniably handsome, his features have a hard edge to them. He’s all sharp cheekbones with a square, masculine jaw.
Luka is a softer, more carefree version of Angelo, a man unburdened by the demands of a criminal empire. Thick eyelashes frame come-to-bed eyes and laughter lines tell me he smiles way more often than his brother. I guess he takes after his mother rather than their brute of a father.
“Not seeing your girlfriend this evening?” I ask when the silence grows thick. My phone is likely still in the desk drawer at Mack’s bar, but the last time I looked up the Di Rossis on social media, Luka had been dating some influencer chick.
He snorts. “Jealous, cutie?”
“Not in the slightest.” I take the joint he offers me and suck in a lungful of smoke. It hits me hard, and for a moment, everything seems brighter. The turquoise pool glows as the lingering tension in my body fades away.
Damn. I needed this. Luka lets me take a few more drags before he snatches the joint back.
“I dumped her,” he says finally. “She bored the shit out of me.”
“Not cerebral enough for you?” I giggle, finding it hilarious that a player like him would want more than a superficial relationship. I probably should have said no to the joint. If I’m not careful, I’ll fall asleep on this very comfortable lounger and wake up at noon tomorrow with sunburn.
Luka throws me a lazy grin. “She talked too much. Mostly about stuff like makeup tutorials and fashion.”
“Yeah, that sounds terrible,” I agree. I can’t imagine anything more mind-numbing than discussing makeup trends and fashion. The few friends I made at school were more into gaming and anime.
My idea of fun back then was learning to code or doing math puzzles, not reading gossip sites. Much to my stepmother’s disgust.
“Men don’t like women with brains, Chiara,” she’d tell me while simultaneously stealing my textbooks. Lucky for me, they were all available as e-books, or I’d have flunked out of my online college classes.
Luka takes one last drag of the joint and then tosses it into the pool. I laugh at the thought of Angelo swallowing it when he does a few laps, which soon turns into a slightly hysterical belly laugh, and after a few moments, Luka joins in until we’re both crying.
My the time my hilarity dies, I realize this is the first time I’ve truly laughed in years.
“I like you,” I tell Angelo’s brother with a sappy smile, my tongue loosened from the weed and beer. I know I’ll regret this unguarded moment tomorrow since Luka is probably here to spy on me. Report back to his brother.
But I’m not thinking about my fucking husband.