8. Arabella
Chapter 8
Arabella
“ M mm, something smells good in here,” Dante groans, coming up behind me in the kitchen like he did this morning.
He’s close … way too close. I’ve been reeling from his actions all day. I feel like I’m caught in an alternate universe, and my emotions are running rampant.
“I swear on everything holy if you manhandle me again as you did in front of your men earlier … I’ll?—”
“You’ll what, Bellezza ?”
My eyes scan the countertop, looking for a weapon … anything, but all I see is the pasta wheel I was just using. It’s completely lame, but it’s better than nothing.
I snatch it up, holding it high in the air so he can see it over my shoulder. “I’ll run this over that smug face of yours.”
He throws back his head and laughs at my idiotic threat, angering me further.
“What’s that going to do? Leave a pretty pattern on my skin?”
I growl as I spin around to face him, obviously not learning my lesson from this morning because I’m now mere inches from him … again . Thankfully, this time, he’s at least wearing clothes.
“If I rammed it straight into your throat, it may break the skin,” I growl.
He chuckles. “For the record, I’m not scared of that … thing or you, Mrs Mancini.” I hate that I get a little thrill when he calls me that. “And I’d hardly call what I did manhandling.”
My free hand moves to my hip. “You pulled me down onto your lap.”
“That doesn’t count as manhandling, Arabella.”
“You kissed me!”
“It was a peck at best, and you are my wife. Husbands kiss wives … it’s what we do.”
“You slapped my backside.”
“In my defence, your backside is very slappable.”
“Grrr.”
He gives me one of his disarming smiles. “Did you just growl at me?” he asks, bopping the tip of my nose. “Adorable.”
“I will do more than growl at you if you don’t leave my kitchen.”
“I’ll leave on one condition.”
I eye him sceptically. “And that condition is?”
“You give me a kiss.”
This time, I laugh. “Nice try, hotshot, but I am definitely not kissing you.”
He widens his stance, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His posture is firm and unyielding, exerting his power and control. “Then I’ll stay right where I am.”
I throw my hands in the air. “ Non riesco a capacitarmi di tutto questo, è come un incubo (I can’t believe all this, it’s like a nightmare)!”
“Do you have any idea how sexy you are when you’re angry?”
“Ugh. ”
“You can resist all you want, but I’m not moving until I get my kiss.”
This man is infuriating, and I swear he takes pleasure in pushing my buttons. “You’re a thug.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “A thug? That’s a little harsh, Bellezza . All I want is a kiss. A thug would want more than that.”
My cheeks balloon as I blow out a frustrated breath. “Fine.”
I push up on my toes, and as I go to place a half-hearted peck on his cheek, he turns his face at the last second, connecting our lips.
I should pull away and fight these crazy feelings I’m having, but my heart is starving for what he can give me. I may not agree with his lifestyle and everything it represents, but I like how he makes me feel.
I think I may even like him … a little.
Apart from the occasional hug from my sister, I’ve been deprived of affection for years … ever since I lost my mother.
That’s probably why Dante Mancini overwhelms me like he does. I’m used to pushing my emotions down, pretending I don’t need anyone. But every touch, every kind word, is like a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It confuses me. I feel like I’ve been living in a dark room for years, and suddenly, someone—namely him—opened a window and shrouded me with light.
I drop the pasta wheel in my hand, and it lands on the tiles below with a ting as I reach for his tie, wrapping my fingers around it and yanking him closer.
It’s forceful and very unladylike.
This man brings out a side of me I never knew existed. A side that has been yearning to break free for years. A person my father never would’ve allowed me to be. His words from this morning have been running rampant in my head all day. “You don’t need to be anything but yourself around me. ”
I’m not sure if I even know the real me anymore.
“Arabella,” he breathes as he buries his long fingers in my hair, tilts my head slightly to the side, and deepens the kiss. I part my lips, unsure of what to do. The only experience I’ve had with kissing is what I’ve seen in the movies.
His touch is firm but gentle, guiding me as if he knows exactly what I need without me having to say a word. He’s showing me the perfect rhythm … the perfect pressure. He’s not just kissing me; he’s teaching me. It’s so damn hot I feel moisture flood my underwear as my toes curl in my shoes.
This isn’t as rushed as I expected. His movements are calculated and deliberate, like he’s savouring every moment … savouring me .
The instant he pulls away, I feel the loss, but then I realise it’s just enough to let me breathe before he dives right back in to kiss me again. This time, his pace is slower, allowing me to follow his lead. It’s intense … intoxicating. And with each expert move, I feel myself falling a little further.
This man is everything I swore I’d never want—he’s wrong in every sense of the word—but he’s addictive, pulling me deeper and deeper into his web. I don’t know what I’ll find when I reach the centre, and that uncertainty scares me the most.
A part of me wonders if it’s worth the risk to find out.
I’m lying on the floor beside Dante’s bed, staring up at the ceiling, and it’s safe to say I’m absolutely fuming. It has nothing to do with the kiss either … it’s what came after that had me wanting to stab him with a fork.
When the kiss finally ended, leaving me hot and bothered, he left the kitchen as promised. Half an hour later, we sat opposite each other at the dining table and ate dinner. The entire time, he kept staring at me with a look so intense my heart was racing. It was like he was more interested in eating me than the food in front of him. And boy, I wanted that too.
I was eager to get the food out of the way to see where the rest of the evening would take us. I was silently hoping for another lesson in kissing, but as soon as he finished his meal, he calmly wiped his mouth with the napkin, stood, thanked me for dinner, and told me he was going out with his men to celebrate his new position.
The nerve of that man.
If I could’ve summoned tiny lasers to come out of my eyeballs, they would’ve seared right into his handsome face.
I know exactly what happens when Mafia men go out to ‘celebrate’. Every time my father did that, he’d come home with lipstick stains on his collar and a strong scent of perfume clinging to him.
Like all his men, Papa had numerous women on the side. Mistresses … whores, whatever you want to call them. That is why my mother finally decided to leave. She’d had enough, and that decision cost her her life.
Infidelity is commonplace with the Cosa Nostra, and it is another reason why I never wanted to marry into this stupid, misogynistic world. If an Italian woman isn’t pure, she’s classed as tainted and unmarriageable. Yet, an Italian man can stick his dick in whoever he likes both before and after his marriage, and society seems to accept that. It’s so unfair.
Rolling onto my side, I punch my pillow in frustration. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours, too angry to sleep. At least I can be thankful I only kissed him and didn’t give away my virtue. That would’ve been a whole different kind of heartache.
I’m jolted out of a deep sleep when I hear a bang, followed by, “Shit!” I sit up, rub my eyes, and then squint when the room is suddenly flooded with light.
Dante is standing at the doorway and staggers slightly as he begins moving across the room. My eyes narrow as they follow him … he’s drunk.
When he pauses in front of the dresser, he shoves his hand into his pocket, removes the money clip, and tosses it on top. His watch is next, and even the smallest, mundane moves he makes are sexy.
“Did you have fun?” I snap, still pissed at him.
His head turns towards the bed, and his eyebrows pinch together when he finds it empty. That frown only deepens when his eyes move to the side, and he spots me on the floor.
“Why are you down there, Bellezza ?” he asks.
“I was asleep … the floor is my bed, remember.”
“The fuck it is,” he barks, stalking across the room and closing the distance that separates us in a few long strides. “Did you not wake up in our bed this morning?”
He towers over me even when I’m standing, so I have to crane my neck to meet his heated gaze from down here. “Not by choice.”
“Get on the bed, Arabella,” he barks.
“ Vaffanculo (Fuck off)!”
His eyebrows jump at my vulgarity. “You swore at me.”
“Big deal. I’ve heard you say worse.”
“Get on the bed,” he repeats, pointing in that direction to emphasise his words.
“No!”
He tilts his head back and groans, and that sudden movement causes his inebriated arse to stumble slightly. “Why are you always busting my balls?”
“I wouldn’t touch those filthy balls of yours if you paid me.”
“Filthy? ”
“Yes.”
“I bathe daily.”
“You also fuck whores.”
That has him rearing back. “I’ve never had to pay for sex in my life.”
“Just because you didn’t pay for it doesn’t mean she wasn’t a whore. You have a wife! Only a troia (Whore) would sleep with another woman’s husband.”
His eyes sweep over my face, and I think the alcohol in his system is making what I said take a little longer to sink in. But he eventually holds out his hand in front of him with his palm facing forward and says, “Hold on a minute … is that where you think I’ve been? I told you I was going out with my men to celebrate.”
“And I know exactly what that means.”
“Obviously, you don’t.”
“Do you forget I grew up in this world?”
“You grew up in Stefano Rossi’s world, not mine, Arabella. Do some of my men have mistresses? Yes, they do. Do I agree with that? No, I don’t. I’ve been married to you for five fucking minutes, but even if it were five weeks … or five goddamn years, it wouldn’t matter. Marriage is sacred to me.”
“You expect me to believe that. You didn’t even know the person you were marrying.”
“That’s true,” he says with a sigh as he sits on the side of the bed and runs his long fingers through his hair.
When he dips his face and stares down at the gold wedding band I placed on his finger the day we were married, my suspicious eyes immediately look for evidence of another woman on his clothes.
I don’t see any.
He’s also close enough that I could smell a woman’s perfume … but I can’t. Have I got this all wrong?
His eyes move back to me. “I always intended to marry for love, but just because I didn’t, doesn’t mean I’m going to cheat on you.”
My eyes widen in shock. “You’re not?”
“That’s what I said, didn’t I? And if you know as much about this world as you claim to, you’ll know that a man’s word means everything.”
My brain feels a little scrambled as I try to process everything he just told me. He reaches for my hand when I continue to sit here in silence.
“I know I’m not the person you wanted to be tied to for the rest of your life; I’m far from perfect. I’ve done some terrible things in my time, but I’m not the monster you think I am … not with you, anyway. I’m sorry you are somewhere you don’t want to be, but it would’ve been someone else if it wasn’t me.” He lets go of my hand, bows his head and twists the chunky ring on his pinky back and forth. “I found out on our wedding night that your father was organising your marriage to someone else before I came along.”
“He was? Who?”
“My sixty-five-year-old father.”
I gasp. “Your father?”
“Yes. Lucia told me.”
“Lucia knew? She never mentioned it to me.”
“She overheard him talking about it. I’m sure she would’ve told you about it if …”
His words die off, but I already know what he can’t say. He’s sure my sister would’ve told me what she overheard if his father hadn’t been assassinated before the wedding could take place.
I ponder his words momentarily. He is right; it would’ve been someone else if it weren’t him. The thought of being married to someone forty-five years my senior is repulsive.
My father never cared for me. The only thing he cared about was what I could give him. I was always just a pawn in his game… a bargaining tool, a carriageway for his stupid male heir.
I could’ve done far worse than Dante, and for that, I’m grateful.
“Come, Bellezza ,” he says, reaching for my hand again and tugging it. “It’s been a long day, and I’ve had too much to drink. I want to lie down, spoon my beautiful wife, and sleep.”
How can I say no to that?
Standing, he pulls back the covers so I can crawl onto the bed. I snuggle into the spongy mattress, a complete contrast to the cold, hard marble floor I was just lying on.
My anticipation grows as Dante strips down to his boxer briefs, turns off the light, and curses softly when he stubs his toe on the foot of the bed.
I bite my lip to muffle my laugh.
I’m almost ashamed of how I treated him when he got home. My father has tainted me in a way that always makes me think the worst about any man connected to the Cosa Nostra.
I let out a contented sigh when my husband slides in behind me and pulls me closer, pressing his front into my back. I like being wrapped in this man’s arms more than I’m comfortable with. He’s yet to prove he can’t be trusted, but a part of me still worries that this version of him is all an illusion.
“Goodnight, Mrs Mancini.”
“Goodnight, Mr Mancini.”
When he leans in to place a soft kiss on my hair, I swoon into the darkness, feeling warm, safe, protected, and more at peace than I have in years.