Chapter 22 Carlo
Carlo
Father's Consigliere calls me back when I’m nearly home close to midnight. “Are you certain you want this known?” Russo asks.
My blood starts to boil. He’s been a pain in my ass since Father’s heart attack last year, and he’s been critical of my plan to marry Francesca.
His oldest daughter Margareta was killed in the Bratva attack at Alessio and Caterina’s wedding a couple of months ago, but he's got a second daughter who's old enough to be promised, and the Russos, while loyal, are nothing if not ambitious. If he wants to be my Consigliere in the future, he’d better mind his tongue.
“I’m officially a married man, Russo. I want the world to know.” Including her brother and father, I think to myself. “Tell our media contacts, and, in the future, I expect you to answer my calls right away, and, when I give you an order, I expect it to be followed without question, capisci?”
“Understood, Capo,” he replies, crisply. Fuck it, I’ll name my hot-headed brother my Consigliere when Father’s ready to announce his retirement at this rate.
With Russo set to his task, I enter the penthouse in a foul mood, surprised to hear the fading strains of music.
For six years, I’ve lived alone. Having her here all the time will be an adjustment but, when I find Francesca curled up in the deep brown leather armchair I prefer, I know it’s an adjustment I’ll gladly make.
No siren in a red dress tonight, her auburn curls are swept up in a messy bun without a smidgeon of makeup on her face.
She’s missing her broken silver hair tie which is tucked in one of my bureau drawers.
She’s dressed in blue jeans and a buttery yellow camisole.
One of the straps is slipping off her shoulder. My cock twitches at the sight.
I smile, seeing her wedding band. Come hell or high water, she’s mine until the end of my days. I hope she’s still not angry about the marriage. If she’d be sensible, she’d see it’s in her best interest.
“Good evening,” I say, noting the large portable keyboard in her lap. Where did she get that?
“Did you come home to make sure I hadn’t jumped off the balcony after you trapped me in a city that hates me?” she mutters while scribbling in a notebook resting on the arm of the chair.
Still angry then. “Do I need to install locks on the terrace doors?” I don’t think she's serious, but it’s a grim solution some wives in our world choose.
“No, that’s not necessary,” she admits.
“Good. I regret that business prevented us from spending the day together, but it couldn’t be set aside on such short notice simply because you adjusted the schedule for our nuptials last night.”
“I adjusted the schedule?” she snaps.
“I would’ve preferred to relish my triumph in bed with you all day.”
Her glare transforms into a nervous gulp. “I’m still very sore,” she says, flushing. “Are you going to… insist?”
All my protective instincts are stirred by her obvious distress at the thought.
“I already told you I won't force you… not in that way.” She gives me a strange look. She can be the devil to interpret at times, but I suppose that’s what makes her so much fun.
“Are you finding your way around the place?”
“All but the forbidden room down that hallway. Is it your office?”
“It is,” I reply, her curiosity putting me on guard. The office is where I do much of my work. I'm careful about what's in there, but I keep it locked for extra security purposes. “Why would you say my city hates you?”
“Faro took me to a restaurant where everyone obviously did. The owner’s husband and son went to prison because of Da.”
I know the place well. I decide Faro and I will be having a little chat in the morning about where he takes my wife. “They hate your father, not you."
“That’s what Faro said, but he also warned me that some will confuse the two. You really didn’t think this through when you decided to have me, did you?”
I don’t like the possibility that she may have a point. Russo’s attitude may be shared by others who won’t express it to my face but might with a knife to the back. “You are my wife. No one will harm you.”
“Yes, I’m your wife that you bedded and wedded and then left to spend her entire day with another man.”
A possessive fire burns through my veins at her suggestive tone. “He's here to protect you when I’m not, but Faro wouldn’t dare touch you even if he wasn't married.”
“But you’re allowed to touch whoever you want, right? And since we consummated our marriage a bit early, isn’t it technically our Seconda Notte? Shouldn’t you be out finding another woman to fuck?”
“The only woman I want to fuck sits in front of me.” She flinches at my sharp tone. “Francesca… Despite my behavior while I was engaged to your cousin, we are married now, and I swear I will be faithful to you.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, rolling her eyes.
Okay, not frightening her is one thing, but she rolls her eyes at me? I can’t even remember the last time someone other than my younger siblings dared to roll their eyes at me. I enjoy Francesca’s spark but, after the fucked-up day I’ve had, it irks me.
“What’s that?” I ask, grasping for another topic and nodding at the keyboard.
“I bought it when Faro took me on our shopping date earlier.” I despise the way she phrased that. “You don’t have a piano, and I don’t know if Uncle Enzo will send the old keyboard I practiced on in Reno to me after the whole thing with… you know,” she trails off, glancing away.
“I don’t have a piano,” I repeat, remembering the Baby Grand at her parents’ home in Boston, the one she was playing when she sang for Beppe. Her notebook is one for writing music, I realize. Her musical talent goes beyond simply being a songbird.
“Anyway, I found this one for two hundred dollars on sale. It’s top of the line for its size,” she says, setting it on the floor beside the chair. “We’ll call it your wedding gift to me after you tricked me last night.”
“A two-hundred-dollar gift?” Her eyes narrow at my incredulous tone as if I’ve personally insulted her and the instrument somehow. "Speaking of your spending today…"
"I spent a lot, didn't I? I'll bet you're angry about that."
Her triumphant tone almost makes me regret laughing in her face. "You can have anything you want."
"How about my freedom?"
Anything but that. My jaw clenches, and I take a deep breath. She's going to require more patience than I'm accustomed to giving.
“In all the chaos that followed, I never asked if you got into Juilliard after your audition.”
“I don’t know. As you said, a lot of chaos followed. My daydreams didn’t seem to matter anymore when I was threatened with torture, rape and murder for helping Sofia.”
The mere thought of her being hurt incites my rage.
I should be angry over her helping Sofia escape and trying to protect her brother, but I wound up getting the bride I actually wanted out of that disaster.
I don’t express any of that because I know I shouldn’t fully trust Francesca.
I’ll have to be careful with how I handle her.
“I’ll make a call tomorrow.” Her brows draw together in confusion. “A formal wedding reception is still necessary. Ours will be happening a month from now. My mother is taking care of the arrangements… unless you’d like to be involved.”
She huffs. “I didn’t want to be married to you in the first place, remember?”
My temper starts to boil again. “This will be the most important social event in our circle this year. I like your spirit, but I expect you to behave and show me the proper respect in public as my wife. Understood?”
The little minx smirks. “Are you going to spank me if I don’t?”
“Yes, I will, and I’ll fuck you so hard after that you won’t be able to sit or walk comfortably for a week. Is that what you want?” She gulps again, and I sigh, angry at myself for losing my temper. “Will you behave at our reception or not?”
“I behaved during our wedding after you threatened my cousin and dragged my mom and the priest here, didn’t I? I know when it’s in my best interest to comply,” she sniffs.
“Good. Faro will take you shopping tomorrow to choose a suitable dress for the reception.”
“I’ll look forward to spending another day with Faro. Anything else, my prince?” she asks, tartly.
Goddammit, how can I still want her so much even when she’s being an infuriating brat? “I’d like a kiss if you won't bite my tongue in two,” I mutter, shrugging off my suit jacket and gun holster.
I expect another glare, but she’s avidly watching me remove my things. I take my time undoing my tie and unbuttoning my shirt. I remove my knife holster next, and she bites down on her bottom lip. Try as she might to deny it, she reacts to my body at least.
I stroll toward the chair, leaning down to brace my hands on either side of her. She sucks in a quick breath. She smells fucking delicious as her eyes map my throat and chest. “Just one little kiss?” she asks, curiously.
“One kiss. I’m dying for another taste of that pert mouth of yours.”
I half expect a shove, but Francesca delights me by tilting her chin up and hurriedly licking her lips. “One kiss and nothing more tonight?”
Blood rushes to my cock in protest, but I nod. “One very special kiss,” I amend before capturing her wrists. I drag her out of the chair and then take her place in it before pulling her into my lap.
“Carlo!” she fumes, trying to push me away until my mouth crashes down on hers, hungrily claiming her lips and tongue as I did last night.
As hoped, she quickly gives up her feeble resistance, kissing me back with enthusiasm.
My hands roam her curves, holding her closely as I take my time tasting her.
She explores me in return, learning with my guidance.
Inexperienced, yes. But so fucking sweet.