6. Arabella
Chapter 6
Arabella
I follow Dante outside, still unsure of what just happened, but the ghostly shade that washed over his face when he looked at his father’s portrait makes me think it had something to do with that.
I find him leaning over the railing on the large porch, purging the contents of his stomach in the garden below.
“Dante,” I say, moving behind him and softly placing my hand on his back. That has him jerking around to face me. I don’t miss the terror that flashes through his eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it appears.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. It’s clear to me that this man carries demons, and after everything I’ve witnessed in my short life, I know damaged when I see it.
As soon as I spot his driver and two guards standing by the car, gawking, I can’t help myself. “What are you looking at?” I snap, quickly stepping to my husband’s side to shield him from their prying eyes. As the Don of the Famiglia , my father would never allow any of his men to see him at his weakest, so I can only presume Dante would feel the same. “Don’t you three have work to do?”
“Our job is to guard you both,” one of them answers .
The driver adds, “I’m unloading your luggage, Mrs Mancini.”
“Well, turn around,” I growl, my voice low with warning. “Show some respect to your leader.”
Once those words are out of my mouth, Dante turns towards me and does something unexpected: he smiles. It’s a wide, stunning smile full of warmth and appreciation. It sends a flutter through my stomach.
Without thinking, I find myself reciprocating that gesture. I may not fully understand his world, but I get this side of him—the quiet, vulnerable part—the side we hide from the rest of the world … a part of us that others rarely see.
Maybe we have more in common than I initially thought.
Dante is sitting on the edge of the mattress when I exit the bathroom. He’s on the phone, but his eyes follow me across the room. I’m dressed in pyjamas and ready for bed. It’s been a long day, and I’m emotionally drained.
I can only hear his side of the call, but his tone is steady, betraying none of the tension that was so evident when we first arrived.
“Tell the guys I want them here first thing tomorrow,” he says, his voice firm. “Big changes are coming. If they’re not on board, they can stay home. Yeah, fine. I’ll see you at nine.”
He ends the call as I wheel one of my suitcases towards the bed. Standing, he takes it from me and lifts it onto the mattress. “I’ll make some room for you in my closet in the morning.”
“Okay,” I reply, reaching for the zipper.
I’m still uncomfortable sharing a room with him, especially when there are so many other vacant bedrooms in this house, but I’m too drained to argue. I pull what I need from the suitcase as he enters the walk-in closet.
When he returns with a blanket, he holds it out towards me. “What’s that for?” I ask, confused.
He reaches over, plucks one of the pillows from the bed, and places it on top of the blanket. “They’re for you,” he says, his voice casual. “You mentioned on the flight that you’d rather sleep on the hard floor than next to me.” He shrugs with a smirk. “You’ll need these.”
My face rears back in shock. “You’re making me sleep on the floor when there are a thousand other empty beds in this house?”
“A thousand is a bit of an exaggeration, Bellezza . It’s a ten-bedroom home.”
“You are missing my point … there’s more than one bed.”
When he reaches up to bop the tip of my nose, I slap his hand away. “I’m just catering to your wishes. What’s that saying? Happy wife, happy life?”
I narrow my eyes and snatch the pillow from his hand, muttering, “ Stronzo ,” under my breath.
He chuckles, a low, amused sound, before turning and heading towards the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
It took forever for me to fall asleep on the damn floor. After Dante showered and changed, he left the bedroom and didn’t come back. Not while I was still awake anyway. I have no clue where he went.
Part of me was tempted to climb into the comfortable bed to spite him, but I knew he was probably waiting for me to relent. And there was no way I was going to give him that satisfaction .
Sometime during the night, though, he returned because when I opened my eyes this morning, I was beside him on the mattress and wrapped in his arms … just like the flight home.
It’s unsettling to think that he’s carrying me around while I’m asleep, and I’m completely unaware. I’ve always been a light sleeper. It was a necessity growing up under the same roof as my father. The house might have been heavily guarded, but when you live with a career criminal—a madman—especially one as hated and powerful as Stefano Rossi, you learn not to trust anything, not even the quiet of the night.
Dante’s heavy arm is draped over my waist, and although there’s something oddly safe and comforting about being held by him, which I’d never admit out loud, I desperately need to pee.
I carefully lift his arm and slide out from underneath it, slipping off the side of the bed like a thief in the night.
As I stand, I turn and pause, glancing down at my sleeping husband. He looks so youthful and peaceful—a stark contrast to the man I saw last night when we arrived here. My heart clenches at the thought. I feel torn between the dangerous man he is and the vulnerability he exudes.
I want to despise him for everything he is, but I’m still waiting to see the monster lurking within. Apart from making me sleep on the hard floor for the first half of the night, which, to be fair, I had asked for, he’s shown me more humility than I’ve extended to him, and for that, I feel ashamed. I need to do better.
Though this marriage may not be traditional, there’s no harm in us being cordial. It might make our cohabitation a bit more bearable.
After brushing my hair and pulling it into a high ponytail, I clean my teeth and wash my hands. Once I’ve slipped into my silk robe, I quietly pad down the hallway towards the grand staircase.
Dante gave me a tour of his place last night, but I noticed he purposely avoided the back of the house. Is that where his secret Mafia business is hidden? Or does that part of the house remind him too much of his father? It took me a long time to find the courage to enter my mother’s bedroom or even hold her things after we lost her. The pain was too raw.
When I step into the kitchen, I check the fridge and then move to the pantry, gathering what I need as I go. Dante mentioned he had one of his men drop off the basics yesterday, but offered to have someone take me to do a full shop later today.
The fridge is sparse—just eggs, milk, butter, and some orange juice—but the pantry is a different story. It’s like a treasure trove. Whoever cooked before I arrived undoubtedly knew what they were doing.
I line up all my ingredients on the countertop, preparing everything to cook. A glance at the clock on the wall shows it’s only 5:30 am. I’ve got plenty of time before Dante’s men arrive to prepare their feast.
From what I’ve seen in the movies, bacon and eggs seem to be a staple for Westerners in the morning. However, having a sweet breakfast accompanied by good coffee is more traditional in Italy.
Things like cornetti—similar to filled croissants—are standard. Other pastries include sfogliatelle, maritozzi, and biscotti. I’ve made all of the above for Dante and his men.
I learned the basics from my mother while she was still alive, but after her passing, my father brought in a renowned Italian chef to teach me how to cook. When my sister was old enough to help in the kitchen, I taught her.
Papa always held a grudge against my mother for giving him only daughters. Since he didn’t see either Lucia or me as worthy heirs to his empire, he chose instead to mould us into ideal wives, hoping that one day we would provide him with what our mother couldn’t.
As I pull the last tray from the oven and place it with the others that now line the countertop, I hear, “What the fuck happened in here?”
My head snaps towards the archway, where I see Dante. He’s wearing only a pair of grey boxer briefs. I will need to talk with him about wearing more clothes when he’s in my vicinity.
My eyes peruse their way down his body of their own accord, and just like the white underwear he wore on our wedding night, these leave little to the imagination.
The outline of his thick, long penis is prominently on display, and the sight has that pulsing need between my legs returning. My body’s shameless reaction to him has my cheeks heating, so I return to the task at hand, hoping he didn’t notice.
I’m surprised I find his ripped body and those tattoos so appealing. It’s not something I ever thought I’d be attracted to.
“I’m cooking breakfast,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. His ego is big enough already. He needs no encouragement.
He walks up behind me, and his closeness causes a shiver to course down my spine. “You made all this?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
My eyes flicker up to the clock. “I started a few hours ago.”
“Why?”
“I wanted the food ready for when your men arrive.”
“You got up early to do this for me and my men?”
“I’m not going to eat it all myself.”
“Where did you get the ingredients? Dario said he bought a few essentials like milk and eggs. ”
“He did. I got most of what I needed from the pantry.”
“Fuck … you made cornetti,” he says, glancing over my shoulder. “I love them.”
“I made them with two different fillings. These are chocolate … those are fruit,” I reply, pointing to the different batches.
“You found fruit in the pantry?”
“No, I found some frozen berries in the freezer.”
“Chocolate is my favourite.”
“Mine too.”
“Seriously, Bellezza . I’m impressed. My mouth is salivating right now. I could smell these from our room.”
Our room.
His words spread warmth throughout my body. I’m not used to being praised.
I reach over, take a chocolate cornetti from the tray, and turn to face him, only to realise my mistake the moment I do. We’re now mere inches apart.
Given our height difference, my eyes are level with his sternum, and I catch my first close-up look at the tattoo on his chest. It’s an intricate pair of praying hands holding rosary beads. It’s so well done that it almost seems lifelike. Beneath it, the word “Mamma” is etched in delicate script.
The sight causes a lump to form in my throat. It’s such a beautiful tribute. I should get something like that for my mother, God rest her beautiful soul. My father would kill me if I permanently marked my skin with her memory, but maybe my husband wouldn’t mind.
I crane my neck slightly, and my eyes flicker to his face. “Would you mind if I got a tattoo?” I ask as I pass him the chocolate cornetti in my hand.
He cocks an eyebrow. “You want to get inked?”
I nod as I point to his chest. “I want something like that.”
“There is no way I’m letting another man touch your tit, Arabella. ”
I scrunch up my nose. “Do you have to be so crude?”
The corners of his lips tug into a grin. “Sorry, I forgot I was married to a prude.”
I gasp, reaching for the pastry in his hand to snatch it back, but he anticipates my move, holding his arm up high in the air so I can’t reach it.
When I jump, he laughs, so I poke his abs with my forefinger. Unfortunately, they’re so rock-hard that my move only manages to bend my finger back.
“Ouch,” I say, shaking my hand. I think it hurt me more than it did him.
The smile drops from his face, and he looks down at me and frowns. “Are you alright?”
“I hurt my finger.”
He places his cornetti on the counter and grasps my wrist, lifting my hand towards his face.
“Which one?”
“This one,” I say, wiggling my forefinger.
He unexpectedly kisses the tip of it, leaving me momentarily frozen and unsure whether to pull away or lean in closer.
“Is that better?” he asks.
I lift one shoulder as my eyes move back to lock with his. “A little,” I admit.
This time, he parts his lips, and I stand there shocked when he slips the entire finger into his mouth. I feel his warm tongue curl around my digit as he slowly drags it out, releasing it with an audible pop. Thankfully, I manage to bite back my whimper.
“How about now?” he asks, his voice lower and more intense than usual, making my pulse quicken as his gaze holds mine.
The combination of his actions, words, proximity, and the scent of his minty breath makes me feel slightly lightheaded .
He notices when I sway a little on my feet and instinctively places a hand on my hip, steadying me.
The world seems to pause momentarily as the air crackles around us, and it’s too much.
“I need to finish these,” I say, abruptly turning and giving him my back.
“Can I do anything to help?”
His offer shocks me. Papa firmly believed that a woman’s place was in the kitchen … not a man’s.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got this. It’s what I’ve been training for my entire life.”
“Training?”
I glance at him over my shoulder. “To be the dutiful wife.”
Those words have his brows pinching together. “This isn’t a fucking circus, Arabella,” he growls, shaking his head. “Your father has a lot to answer for.” He grasps my chin when I try to turn away. “Look at me, Bellezza .”
I shift my body slightly, and he locks eyes with me, his gaze intense as his hands grip the countertop, effectively caging me in.
“You don’t need to be anything but yourself around me. Got it?”
I nod, unsure of what else to say.
“Good. Glad we got that cleared up,” he murmurs as he leans in to press his lips to my cheek. It’s a soft, unexpected gesture, and so sweet that it catches me off guard.
He steps back, grabs his cornetti, and leaves the room.
Without thinking, my hand finds its way to the spot on my cheek where he just placed his lips, and my mouth curves up at the corners.
When I hear him call out, “Mmm, fucking delicious,” from somewhere in the distance, my smile grows.
It feels good to be seen and appreciated.