Chapter 4
LUCIA
There’s zero melodrama to my temporary surrender.
I don’t say yes. Hell, I don’t say anything at all. I simply purse my lips and nod.
And the second I do, Giovanni’s nostrils flare and one hand rises, just like it did yesterday on the beach.
He holds it aloft for a moment, eyes drilling into mine as if checking for hidden weapons. Whatever he sees on my face must satisfy him because he clicks his fingers once and although it’s barely a sound, I still flinch from the power packed into that little move.
One little click and the world spins into movement.
Men appear as if summoned from shadow itself. Three of them, stepping out of nowhere, calm, coordinated, lethal. One of them makes my breath catch, before that same breath drops to my feet because of course it is.
The tourist. Flirty Guy.
The one who tried his tired lines with me only yesterday. All sunburnt shoulders and lazy smiles and “You local or just pretending?” charm.
My stomach clenches in wary surprise. Was he on the job when he attempted to flirt with the boss’s wife? Because… how stupid is he?
His expression shifts the moment he meets my eyes, a flicker of alarm, a fraction of apology. Christ, he really was that insane.
Instinct slams into me before logic can. And I look away from him without saying a word.
One of the many reasons I ran from my marriage was because I know how possessive mafia men are over their wives.
But more than that, I had first-hand knowledge of Giovanni’s near-obsession with me even before his true colours were revealed. Only at the time, I’d been thrilled and flattered, believed it was unalloyed with anything but passion.
But I’d learned differently, hadn’t I?
So I don’t react now.
Whether Flirty Guy deserves to be thrown under the bus for nudging that fine line with the boss’s wife or not, I don’t betray him.
Hell, I might need him down the line.
And the flash of gratitude that passes over his face before he schools it away tells me he’s very aware of the consequences of his actions.
Idiot.
I catch Giovanni’s narrowed eyes and lower my gaze before he sees it. I breathe a short sigh of relief when he tosses the bar keys to one of the others without breaking eye contact with me.
“Shut it down,” he says coolly. “We’re done here.”
My heart lurches. “That’s it?” I demand. “You just close it like—”
“Like it’s mine so I can do whatever the hell I want?” he finishes. “Yes, cara. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
The men move instantly.
And before I can form another protest, Giovanni steps into my space and bends, one arm scooping beneath my knees, the other at my back.
“What are you doing?” I yelp as he lifts me clean off the ground.
“Taking my wife home.”
“I can walk!”
“You could,” he agrees calmly. “But you won’t. And you don’t want to piss me off by ruining those perfect feet any more than you’ve damaged them running from your husband.”
I struggle for exactly three seconds. Then reality hits and the fight fizzles out of me.
It’s been eighteen months since anyone has held me like this.
Brushing past strangers and customers at the bar doesn’t count. Nor do fist bumps from my friends or neighbours in greeting or in passing.
No one has held me close. Intentionally.
For several moments, the warmth of his body and the solid wall of his chest send shocks of fireworks through my body as the familiarity of his ice and earth, curated specially for him by a perfumer in Milan, steals my breath.
And as he strides for the trio of SUVs suddenly idling on the street, a fight breaks out inside me, one side wanting to scramble out of his arms and the other yearning to use that fist on his chest to pull him even closer.
And damn him… damn him for the way my body suddenly remembers without permission the streamlined, chiselled perfection of this man’s body and how it made me feel in and out of bed.
To counter the roiling emotions, I go still, reject surrender and reject acceptance.
But the one thing I can’t reject?
Recognition.
I’ve missed human touch.
But more than that, I’ve missed Giovanni’s singularly lethal, mind-melting touch, the expertise he brought to every one of them from the moment we met.
More men part, then flank us as we move out into the sunlight, where the middle, sleek black SUV waits with doors already open.
In under ten seconds, we’re moving.
The drive is woefully short but it feels like crossing into another world.
Emerald House rises from the hillside like something torn from a magazine spread, all white stone and glass, wide terraces overlooking the ocean, palms arranged with architectural precision rather than nature’s whim.
It’s eye-watering luxury without softness or apology.
Power made beautiful.
I swallow when we come to a stop precisely before a soaring pivot door strong enough to stop a missile. Gilded or not, this is prison.
And this is where he brought my life.
Not as a guest.
As property.
He steps out, still cradling me captive in his arms, walks past a line of black-and-white-uniformed staff without acknowledging them, and heat creeps up my face when I recognise more than one face from my time on the island.
See the hint of surprise that cracks through their professional facades before they school their features.
Inside, the house is cool and quiet, the kind of silence that only exists when everything has already been accounted for and knows its true place.
Polished hallways and sleek décor whizz past me but I don’t bother questioning where we’re going. I’ll find out soon enough.
Giovanni doesn’t slow until we reach the master suite.
And then—
He sets me down on hideously plush carpet.
Gently.
The room is massive. Sunlight spills through sheer curtains. And as I turn in a full one-eighty, I see my things… everywhere, not piled or dumped, but arranged like I already live here. Have lived here for weeks.
Dresses I recognise in the adjoining dressing room. Shoes I picked in a dazzling white spate of bride-to-be giddiness and never wore. Jewellery boxes I haven’t opened since the night I ran.
For a moment, something fragile stirs in me.
I don’t even know my feet have carried me towards them until I reach out and touch the sleeve of a silk blouse I loved because the colour matches Giovanni’s eyes in those moments just before he—
I yank my hand back like I’ve been burned.
No.
I won’t let nostalgia, hot or cold, soften me, let the pampered life I once led, and all the signs that I’m about to be dropped nose-deep into it again whether I like it or not, sway me.
I turn sharply towards the bathroom. “I’m going to take a bath,” I inform him. “Alone.”
His lips twitch. “Of course. As you wish, cara,” he drawls, and I don’t miss the for now heavily trailed in there.
The pedestal bath is deep, marble-lined, steaming with a simple turn of the fancy tap, and I absolutely deny my eagerness when I flip the lock on the door, then unbutton my shorts, strip out of my bikini and climb into my first bubble bath in eighteen months.
The heat sinks into my bones, loosening muscles I didn’t realise were clenched so tightly.
For a good twenty minutes, I let myself float, pushing away thoughts too disturbing to entertain right now.
Then, with the inevitability of Giovanni’s silent presence pressing in and ruining my enjoyment of the water, I shampoo my hair, and I get out.
Wrap myself in one of the white hotel-thick towels.
And deliberately ignore every beautiful, expensive, familiar piece of clothing laid out for me.
Instead, going to the cheap case holding the things my husband had packed without my consent, I pull on a simple yellow seven-dollar island dress I’d bought months ago from a street vendor.
Cheap. Soft. Mine.
Pair it with an equally cheap pair of thonged sandals.
The bedroom is empty when I step out of the suite, breath held.
There’s a maid arranging flowers in a massive vase in the hallway. She’s not familiar but I return her bright smile.
Until she says, “Evenin’, ma’am, Mr Dragoni is awaiting you in the living room.”
My smile holds until I’m halfway down the sweeping stairs, then turns into a scowl that hopefully hides my absurdly thumping heart.
Giovanni is standing, glass in hand, gaze fixed on the horizon when I enter, and the sight of him, hair damp and broad shoulders restless beneath his black linen shirt, does things to my insides I actively despise.
“Comfortable?” he asks without turning.
“I didn’t come here to get comfortable.”
He turns slowly. Appraises me. The cheap dress with visible lack of accessories, hair damp and unbrushed, tossed loosely around my shoulders.
I’m a far cry from the woman who took pride in dressing up to impress him, watching his expression blaze every time I chose a piece of clothing I knew would drive him wild.
My stomach dips at the memory, even as he shrugs.
“Good,” he says. “Neither did I.”
Starting as I mean to carry on, I step closer, chin rising. “We need to talk.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “You need to talk. I will listen.”
I fold my arms, deciding to jump straight into the centre of the chaos. “Okay. Let’s start with the lies. About the fact that you’re Cosa Nostra. And yes, let’s talk about my father.”
The word lands between us like a loaded weapon.
His jaw tightens. The only sign that he’s displeased about my attempt to strike at the heart of everything that’s wrong with the very false picture he painted, the clever words and subterfuge he used to coax me into his world.
To drag the wool over my eyes until it was too late to do anything about it.
“What about your father? I never met the man, remember?”
“Oh, I remember. But I told you everything about him. Foolish me,” I say quietly. “Because we both know it was the reason you used his death, used my grief, my fear of that… violent and deplorable world, to shape how much you told me, and how much you didn’t.”