Chapter 4 #3
“That’s where you’re wrong, bellezza,” Giovanni says quietly. “How you feel about it doesn’t matter.”
My breath stutters. For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks.
Then he smiles without mirth or teasing. A smile that terrifies as well as mesmerises in its dangerous beauty and deadly promise.
“There’s no prolonging anything,” he goes on.
“Because nothing has changed. You’re still my wife.
And I am still your husband. We made vows.
” He pauses, watching my face carefully.
Something sharp and unreadable passes through his eyes.
“But you keep talking about divorce,” he adds lightly. “So let me make something clear.”
My pulse stutters, and I know deep in my bones that I will not welcome what he’s about to say next. Not one little bit.
“There will be no divorce,” Giovanni continues calmly. “You are coming back. And we are staying married.”
My breath catches. “You don’t get to decide that alone,” I say hoarsely. “And you definitely don’t get to decide what I do or do not want.”
He tilts his head, then he drops his hand, and I’ll be eternally furious with myself for wishing his touch back.
His hand slides into his pocket, he steps back, and just like that, the chill in the room returns. “Then I suppose you’ll have to convince me otherwise.”
There is no humour left in him now.
Only certainty.
I turn and leave the living room, and Giovanni doesn’t stop me.
My steps quicken when I hit the hallway.
I don’t run, I’ve done enough of that, thanks, but my body betrays me before my pride can catch up because I want to get away from this insane temptation of being around him right now.
And also because I want something a fraction more.
The smell hits first, pulling me in one direction.
Garlic, butter, something rich and slow-simmered. A warmth that coils through the house and slides straight into my stomach.
Hunger I’ve been ignoring all day rears its head violently.
I follow it like a drooling fool, drifting down a wide corridor into a stunning kitchen that looks like it belongs in a magazine shoot, with white marble, copper pans and sunlight slanting through tall windows throwing everything into gorgeous relief.
And there, at the island, stands a woman in her fifties with silver hair tied neatly back, stirring something in a pan with professional calm.
She glances up, eyes kind and curious. “You must be Lucia,” she says warmly. “I’m Caterina, Signor Dragoni’s personal chef.”
Of course she is.
“I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly unsure of myself in a way only Giovanni ever makes me feel. There must be an infestation going around. “I didn’t mean to intrude.” I turn to leave but her voice stops me.
“Of course you’re not intruding in your own house, signora,” she replies, unruffled.
Your own house.
The phrase lands strangely in my chest.
She gestures towards the stove. “Your husband asked that I prepare your favourites.”
I blink. “My… favourites?”
“Yes. The aubergine you like from the little place in Queens. The lemon chicken. And your mother’s rice recipe.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “I… That’s…” I falter. “That’s not necessary.”
She smiles, slanting me a far too knowing and experienced look. “Nothing is necessary. But everything can be thoughtful.”
I purse my lips to stem the retort that wants to challenge thoughtful versus scheming when it comes to Giovanni. But I move closer despite myself.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask quickly, because standing around feels intrusive but I’d rather be here than anywhere else in the house. Especially where Giovanni is.
Her head tilts, amused. “You can sit. And eat an aperitivo if you wish?”
I grimace. “I don’t sit well.”
“Neither does your husband,” she replies dryly. “Something you both have in common, I suspect.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
A little more at ease, I slide onto the nearest island stool. Moments later, she slides a small plate towards me with a piece of warm bread and something spiced and fragrant atop it.
“Just a little something,” she says gently. “Eat.”
I take it, force myself to take a little civilised bite and not inhale the whole thing at once. And oh God, it’s scrumptious. I finish it in under a minute and she’s there with another one, a glint of amusement in her eyes.
“Sorry, I didn’t realise how hungry I was,” I say, reaching for it.
I’m mid-bite when a presence shifts the air behind me. I swallow the food in my mouth and force myself not to look at my imposing intruder.
“You shouldn’t be walking around barefoot in a marble kitchen,” Giovanni says calmly. “It’s cold and your feet are still sore.”
Fighting irritation and a compulsion I can’t seem to wrestle into submission, I turn. To find him holding a small black first-aid kit.
I’m still staring when he prowls towards me and crouches in front of me without ceremony.
“What are you doing?” I gasp, the food forgotten.
One eyebrow arches. “What does it look like?” He sets the kit on the floor and reaches for my ankle. “And you have a spanking coming your way, by the way.”
My breath stutters and I dart a look at Caterina, who very deliberately pretends not to hear a word.
“You wouldn’t dare!” I hiss, glancing back at the infuriating man before me.
“Haven’t we extensively covered the extent of my daring, sweet wife?” Giovanni murmurs. “Now are you going to give me your foot, or do I have to wrestle you down?”
Heat rushes to my face, but it’s the blaze tunnelling low in my pelvis, heading towards the space between my legs, that has me muttering a heated, “No!”
Seeing he’s intent on… whatever this is, I spring up and take two steps away.
He rises and catches me with infuriating ease and swings me straight into his arms like I’m feather-light.
“Giovanni!” I protest, thumping uselessly against his chest.
“I think we’ll do this somewhere more comfortable,” he states as he carries me out of the kitchen without breaking stride.
“You can’t just manhandle me however you wish, you know?”
“Now there’s a salacious idea,” he mutters. “Because I’d love to manhandle you quite thoroughly on my cock.”
I’m sputtering over that when we reach the living room, and he crosses over to the wide sofa. “Stay,” he orders, setting me gently on the couch.
I open my mouth to argue. He raises one brow.
I close it, knowing this is another useless fight I won’t win. A fight that will dissipate my energy when I can spend it making plans to wrestle back my freedom.
So I say nothing when he kneels again, taking my foot carefully into his hands.
The touch is precise. Controlled. Almost reverent. And warm. God, so warm, so… electrifying, I have to catch and hold my breath, unable to take my eyes off him as he cleans the tiny cuts I didn’t even feel I’d earned running across gravel and sand.
Considering the charged air whipping around us, considering the one heated, measuring look he levels on me before he starts, his fingers are surprisingly steady and gentle.
And that’s somehow worse than if he were rough.
Because this feels intimate.
Sure, possessive and vastly territorial too. But there’s a level of care. Reminiscent of the man I knew, the man who captivated and fascinated and made me fall under his spell before the truth of him was revealed.
I watch him, my heart doing things I don’t want to name, swallowing down the swell of something dangerously close to gratitude.
He finishes quickly, tapes the last small bandage in place, then stands without comment.
For an age he simply stares down at me, making me aware of every inch of my skin, every stuttered breath I fight to inhale and release.
Then, “I’ll see you at dinner,” he says calmly.
And then he walks away. Leaving me sitting there, foot wrapped, chest tight, emotions clawing at my ribs.
I stare at the doorway long after he’s gone.
When I sag back against the cushions, the weight of our earlier conversation returns in full force. Everything Giovanni said and everything he didn’t say crashes down on me.
My fists bunch in my lap as I think of my father.
Of the way he lived, hands always rough from work, laughter easy, anger rare but righteous. The kind of man who believed in earning every inch of your ground.
Then I think of how he died.
Alone and afraid because he took a wrong turn, then refused to kneel. Refused to let a man more powerful and more ruthless grind him into the ground.
And now here I am. Married to a man who rules the very world that crushed him.
That truth has haunted me for eighteen months. Not just that Giovanni turned out to be just like the men who killed the father I loved.
But that I fell in love hook, line and sinker without inkling at all that he was cut from the same cloth.
That I wanted him in the first place.
That part… that complete and utter lust and passion-glazed blindness… still eats at me.
What would my father think?
Would he understand that I didn’t choose violence, I chose the man who could’ve shoved me away on a Queens street, doled out the sort of careless and ruthless punishment men like him were easily capable of… or worse… but instead apologised like he meant it?
Then spent weeks making up for it?
Or would he only see the blood he spilt?
The blood I know in my heart that Giovanni Dragoni has on his hands? The blood he all but admitted he was unashamed of spilling?
Would Papa ever forgive me for marrying someone forged from the same darkness that took his life?
That question has followed me through every island sunrise and sleepless night.
It weighs heavier than fear.
Heavier than Giovanni.
And as the house settles into quiet around me, that guilt wraps itself around my chest like a vice.
I close my eyes and let it press in.
Because running from Giovanni was easy compared to running from this.