Chapter 10
10
NICOLAS
I’m in a meeting, though I’d much rather be elsewhere.
What I thought would be a two-hour discussion now threatens to consume the entire day. The meeting is important—critical, even, given recent events—but my attention keeps slipping. One moment, I’m listening to Matteo, my new second-in-command, deliver updates; the next, my mind is elsewhere. Or, more accurately, on someone else.
I shake my head and take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus. The room is thick with cigar smoke, mingling with the stale scent of coffee. The men around the mahogany table wear sharp suits, their words as cutting as their tailored edges. Most of them are older, seasoned players in the game. Matteo, seated to my right, flips through reports with a precision that suggests each glance will reveal something new.
I lean back in my chair, striving to engage in the discussion. They’re talking about the shipment from Montenegro—AK-47s, grenades, and enough ammunition to fuel a small war. It’s a solid haul, yet unease settles in my gut. Something about this situation doesn’t sit right.
Despite thorough investigations, we still don’t know how the ambush was possible. All we have are fragments—chatter, speculation, and half-formed theories. Nothing concrete. And nothing I can rely on.
“The shipment will arrive by the end of the week,” Matteo says, his voice calm and steady. Though he lacks the meticulousness of his predecessor, he’s been proving himself capable. “We’ve secured the docks and doubled the security.”
“And the Rossis?” someone asks, their voice carrying an edge of skepticism.
“They’re holding up their end of the deal—for now,” Matteo replies. “They’ve been conducting business in our territory and granted us access to theirs. Our products are selling well there, especially since most of the consumers are sampling them for the first time.”
I nod, tapping my fingers rhythmically against the armrest of my chair. So far, the partnership with the Rossis has held. Our products differ enough to avoid direct competition, and the numbers look good. Security is tighter than ever.
Yet my mind isn’t here.
Not just because I haven’t gotten any concrete information to hold my attention but also because I keep thinking about Aria Rossi. My wife.
To be honest, this is the best advantage of this alliance so far.
Because of how hard I stared the first time I met her, it wasn’t difficult to figure out her size. It also helped that her body was perfectly proportioned. The slope of her breast aligned with the curve of her hips, and her waist was so small I could almost wrap my hands around it completely.
Perfect. In every single way.
I told them to take all the clothes to her room. I picked them all myself, even the dinner dress. I wanted everything to be flawless.
Not because I care what she thinks—at least, that’s what I keep telling myself—but because I need her to play her part tonight.
“Boss.”
“That’s a bad idea,” I reply to Matteo like my mind never wandered. Thankfully, I could still hear their conversation in the background while my thoughts traveled elsewhere. “Instead of increasing the price of the products in our new territories, we should reduce them. We won’t establish superiority over Rossi’s products by selling ours at a higher price. We’ll do that by ensuring our products are better in quality.”
Matteo nods, and the other men at the table follow suit. They agree with me so often that I can’t remember when anyone dared to disagree. I don’t know how to feel about that.
“How about our marijuana farm beneath Martin's estate? Is it still running?”
Matteo launches into an explanation about the farm, and as much as I try to concentrate, my thoughts drift again.
Will she like the dress? Will it suit her? Will she even wear it?
I remember how good the blue dress looked on her that night. What if blue was the only color that truly suited her?
“…and asking for more money?” Matteo’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I glance up. “I want a detailed report on how the last money we sent them was spent.”
“We’ll finalize the plans tomorrow, boss.”
I wave a hand, dismissing them. Matteo lingers momentarily, his sharp eyes scanning my face, but he doesn’t say anything. The others file out, leaving me with the faint smell of smoke and leather.
The second the door closes, I pull out my phone and dial.
The assistant I hired picks up immediately. “Yes, sir?”
“Is her closet ready?” I ask, my tone clipped.
“Yes, sir. Everything has been arranged.”
“And the dress?”
“She loved it,” the assistant says. “She couldn’t take her eyes off it, and I even heard her say it was beautiful.”
I release a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding, the tight coil in my chest loosening slightly. “Good. Make sure everything else is perfect.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up and slip the phone back into my pocket, leaning against the high back of the leather chair. She loved it. The thought wraps around my mind, soothing the restlessness gnawing at me all day.
I spend the afternoon picturing her in the dress, imagining how it would cling to her, how the emerald green would highlight every curve, how she would move in it—graceful, deliberate, hers.
When she finally steps into the car this evening, the reality surpasses the fantasy. The very air shifts, charged with something electric, something alive.
She moves slowly, deliberately, every step as calculated as a queen’s. And the dress… the dress is breathtaking. Emerald green, sculpted perfectly to her figure, lace sleeves adding an understated elegance. Her hair is swept to one side, cascading over her shoulder like a waterfall of silk. Her lips are painted a deep red that’s both daring and impossible to look away from, while her skin glows faintly in the dim light of the car’s interior.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
She looks like she was made for this. For me.
Fuck.
I say nothing at first, letting the silence stretch between us, my gaze fixed on her. The way the dress hugs her waist, the faint shimmer of her perfume—strawberries, sweet and enticing—lingering in the air when she shifts—all ignite something primal inside me.
I feel the heat rising and spreading until I have to adjust my pants to make the growing discomfort bearable. My restraint is a thin, fragile thread stretched to its limit
Her head snaps toward me suddenly, catching me in the act of staring. Her eyes narrow, lips curving into a slight smirk. “What? Not beautiful enough for you?”
Her tone is sharp, defensive, as always. It’s a wall she keeps between us, but I’m getting used to it. I shake my head, the corner of my mouth tugging into a smirk. “Nothing. I thought blue was your color, but now I’m starting to think…every color might be.”
Her cheeks flush instantly, a delicate pink spreading across her face. She quickly turns away, her faze fixed out of the window, but not before I catch the way her lips press together like she’s trying not to smile.
The rest of the car ride is quiet, but I feel her. Her eyes flicker to me every so often, subtle and fleeting, as if testing her boundaries. She looks away just as quickly every time, like she doesn’t want to be caught. It’s so fucking cute, and it’s hard not to call her out on it.
The restaurant is everything it’s meant to be: polished wood, gleaming chandeliers, a quiet hum of subdued conversation. It’s the place where power doesn’t have to announce itself—it just exists, and everyone else knows their place.
My hand rests lightly on her lower back as I guide her to the table, the warmth of her skin seeping through the delicate fabric of her dress. It’s grounding in a way I can’t explain, like touching her keeps me tethered.
The waiter arrives with wine and appetizers—bruschetta, arranged like something you’d see in an art gallery. I barely glance at the plate, my attention is fixed on her.
“What’s your favorite flower?” I ask, breaking the silence.
She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes are on her plate, her fork idly pushing at the carefully arranged bruschetta as though it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“Aria,” I say, my voice dropping lower, more intent.
She hums softly, still not looking up.
“I asked what your favorite flower was,” I repeat, watching her closely.
Her head lifts then, her expression somewhere between skeptical and confused. “That question was for me?”
I frown, leaning back slightly. “Who else would I be talking to?”
She glances around the restaurant, her eyes darting to the other tables, the chandeliers, and the waiter hovering at a polite distance. Then her gaze snaps back to me, and she points between us. “You’re asking me what my favorite flower is?”
I almost smile at the disbelief in her tone. “I’m trying to get to know you, Bambina . Like any good husband would.”
Her eyes widen briefly before she sighs, her lips twitching as if fighting a smile. After a moment, she answers, “Lilies. White ones.”
“Elegant,” I say, nodding thoughtfully. “Classic. That checks out.”
Her head tilts and her eyes narrow slightly, studying me. “And you? What’s your favorite flower?”
“Black Dahlia,” I reply without hesitation.
She leans forward, resting her elbow on the table and propping her chin on her hand. “Why?”
I swirl the wine in my glass, letting the deep red catch the light as I consider my words. “It’s resilient. It thrives in the shadows. It’s beautiful, but there’s an edge to it—something dangerous just beneath the surface.” I pause, meeting her gaze, letting the weight of my words hang between us. “It’s a survivor.”
Her expression softens, her usual guardedness slipping away for a brief moment. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. She leans back, her fingers absentmindedly tugging at the edge of the napkin in her lap. “That’s… unexpected.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
She shrugs, glancing away. “I don’t know. I thought you’d pick something cold and predictable. Like a rose.”
“Roses are overrated,” I say flatly, my tone almost dismissive.
Her laugh is soft, but it lights her up in a way I haven’t seen before It’s genuine, and it tugs something in me. My eyes drift to her lips as they curve upward, full and impossibly tempting.
I can’t help but wonder how they’d feel on mine. Or what it would be like if they it wrapped around my?—
I shift in my seat, forcing the thought away as heat floods through me. Adjusting my pants discreetly, I reach for my wine glass to distract myself.
The conversation eases into something softer as the meal goes on, and how natural it feels surprises me. She’s opening up in small, careful increments, and I find myself telling her things I haven’t spoken about in years. With her, it doesn’t feel strange—it feels… right.
She asks me about my family, and I tell her about my mother. She used to grow herbs in a small garden behind our house, and her hands would always smell like rosemary and thyme. I don’t mention my father—some things are better left buried.
“What about you?” I ask, shifting the focus to her. “Do you like to garden?”
She shakes her head, a small self-deprecating smile playing on her lips. “I tried once. Everything died.”
A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. It surprises both of us. “That doesn’t shock me.”
Her eyes narrow, playful but sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t seem like the patient type,” I tease, letting the corner of my mouth curve upward.
She smirks, stabbing a piece of bruschetta with her fork like it’s offended her. “You’re not wrong.”
The main course arrives, and as the waiter sets the plates down, I catch her sneaking glances at my food.
“You didn’t order the crab,” she says, her tone almost accusatory.
“I don’t eat crab,” I reply simply.
“Why not?”
I set my fork down, looking at her with all the seriousness I can muster. “I don’t trust anything that walks sideways.”
She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. When she realizes I’m dead serious, she bursts out laughing. It’s loud, unrestrained, and completely unguarded. Heads turn from the nearby tables, but she doesn’t seem to care, and neither do I.
Her hand flies to her mouth as if trying to stifle the sound, but it spills out, rich and contagious. “That’s—oh my God—that’s ridiculous,” she says between breaths, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
I watch her, and though I’ve never thought of my distrust for crabs as anything remotely humorous, her laughter makes me reconsider. What’s funny about not liking something that scuttles sideways? To me, it seems perfectly reasonable.
But my wife keeps laughing. The sound of it, the way her shoulders shake with each uncontrollable chuckle, the way she tries to compose herself but can’t—it’s… cute.
For a fleeting moment, I forget where we are, the people watching, the roles we’re supposed to play. It’s just her, that sound, and me. The tension in my chest eases, and I feel something… lighter.
And then she catches me looking at her, and that rare moment shatters like glass.
I take another sip of wine, covering the smile that wants to break free. Damn it.
I should ask her something else to keep the conversation going, but the sudden arrival of two men from the Caldarone family steals my attention. They step through the entrance, their presence almost like a dark shadow creeping into the room. A few heads turn toward them, and I practically hear the collective thought: What are they doing here?
Only family and allies should be at the dinner tonight. Their presence is a statement—a challenge.
They glance in my direction, their eyes lingering just a beat too long. It’s deliberate. They want me to see them. To know they’re here.
I feel my jaw tighten, the muscles in my neck stiffen. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from reacting. My pulse spikes. The audacity. How dare they step into my space like this, so blatantly defiant? The weight of their challenge presses down on me. Someone is going to pay for this. There will be blood. Or worse.
I don’t give a fuck. There will be consequences.
Still unaware of the shift in the room, Aria laughs softly, her attention entirely on me. I don’t want to break her focus, but I can’t ignore the growing storm inside me.
Without thinking, my hand slides under the table, and settles on her bare thigh. Her reaction is instant.
She sucks in a sharp breath, her body going rigid. I catch a glimpse of her flushed cheeks, the pink blooming across her skin. She clears her throat, shifting in her seat, but she doesn’t pull away.
Her skin is warm and soft under my palm, and I feel the tension in her muscles, the way her breath quickens just a little. She’s affected, and I know she hates it. I can feel it in the way her body reacts, in the tension that coils around us both.
She glances around the room, her gaze landing on the two men. “Is this for them or me?” she whispers, her voice low.
I turn my head, finally looking at her. “Does it matter?”
She glares at me, her lips pressing into a thin line, but the color in her cheeks deepens. I give her thigh a subtle squeeze, just enough to make her inhale sharply.
Before she can retaliate, she switches the topic. “What’s in the locked drawer in your room?”
The question catches me off guard, and irritation bubbles up. I had hoped she wouldn’t ask, but the fact that she snooped pisses me off even more. I know who she did it for.
I lean back slightly, letting my hand remain where it is. “That’s my Pandora’s Box,” I reply coolly.
Her brow furrows. “What does that mean?”
“It means it holds the three most important things to me,” I say, my voice low. “And you’re not ready to see any of them.”
Her eyes narrow, and she tilts her head, studying me with renewed curiosity. “You say that like you’re protecting me from something.”
“I am.”
She glances around as if noticing for the first time that we’re in a public setting. “Fine. We’ll talk about it later.”
She pauses, then smirks, the shift in her demeanor almost playful. “Unless, of course, one of those things is a diary. Do you write in it every night? ‘Dear Diary, today I wore my scowl for seven hours.’”
The corner of my mouth twitches, and I fight the urge to laugh. Wasn’t I pissed a second ago? “That’s terrible,” I say, shaking my head. “And no, I don’t have a diary.”
She leans in slightly, her smirk widening. “I bet you do. You probably lock it in the drawer every night and guard it like it’s your life’s work.”
I shake my head again, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at my lips. I didn’t expect her to be funny or to have this kind of sharp wit.
Marco painted her as a spoiled brat, a bimbo. But sitting here, watching her crack jokes and hold her own, I feel the anger simmering beneath the surface again—not at the Caldarones, not even at Aria, but at her idiot brother. He doesn’t deserve her.
“Come on,” I say, pushing my chair back. “We can’t sit all evening.”
We stand to socialize, and I keep her close. My hand rests on her lower back as I guide her through the crowd. It’s not just for appearances—it’s a loud and clear message to everyone here: She’s mine.
When I catch the Caldarone men watching us, I lean and brush my lips against her neck. Then I do it again when I notice someone else looking. Twice. Then, a third time.
Her breath hitches, and I feel the shiver run through her. “Stop,” she whispers, her voice unsteady.
I smirk against her skin. “Relax, Bambina. It’s just for show. Don’t get too worked up.”
But it’s not just for show.
She’s driving me insane—the curve of her neck, the softness of her skin, the way her body reacts instinctively to my touch. All I can think about is peeling that dress off her, pinning her against the nearest wall, and claiming her in every way possible.
But not here.
Not because I give two fucks what these people think—I don’t. But because I won’t expose my wife like that. My wife.
I stop the neck-kissing and refocus on polite conversation as we move through the room, exchanging pleasantries with a few familiar faces. Still, my attention is always on her—the way her lips move when she speaks and her eyes light up when she smiles. She’s captivating, utterly perfect.
When we return to the table, I settle back into my seat, and my hand instinctively finds her thigh again. This time, I let it slide higher. High enough to feel the warmth radiating from her.
Her body stiffens as my fingers trace slow, deliberate circles on her skin, hovering dangerously close to the spot between her legs. She shifts slightly, as if torn between stopping me and giving in, but she doesn’t pull away.
Her breathing grows shallow, and each rise and fall of her chest becomes more pronounced. Her hand grips the table's edge so tightly that her knuckles turn white.
I lean in closer, my lip brushing the shell of hear ear as my fingers ghost over the thin fabric of her panties. I trace a line, teasing her. She presses her lips together, struggling to stay composed.
“You’re letting me,” I murmur, my voice low and edged with challenge.
She doesn’t respond—not with words. But her body tells me everything I need to know.
She’s letting me. She wants it.
My thoughts spiral, untamed and dark, consumed with everything I’ll do to her if she keeps letting me.