Chapter 23
23
ARIA
Three days have passed since I returned home in tears after my conversation with Marco.
And for three days, Nicolas has been by my side.
He hasn’t let me alone for a single moment.
This morning, I don’t wake up to the feel of my husband's tongue between my thighs or his cock in my mouth, as I have for the past three days. Instead, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains pulls me from sleep. The warmth of the blankets should be comforting, but the guilt pressing against my chest today grows heavier with each passing day.
I turn onto my side, reaching for the space beside me, but it’s empty. Nicolas isn’t here.
Maybe he's grown tired of comforting me, of making me feel like the sexiest woman in the world. Maybe my time of self-pity has run out, and he’s downstairs waiting—ready to ask the questions he hasn’t voiced yet.
My heart pounds, a cold dread curling through me, but before my thoughts spiral any further, I notice a small slip of paper resting on his pillow.
I sit up, my fingers brushing against the note. His handwriting is bold, unmistakable.
Meet me in the kitchen for breakfast.
I stare at the words, my breath catching in my throat.
The past few days have been a stolen luxury, a fragile escape from the truth that still lingers between us. I know I can’t outrun it forever. Eventually, I’ll have to tell him what I did. Face the consequences of my betrayal.
But not yet.
For now, I just want to hold on to this—to him—for a little longer.
I slip out of bed and head to the closet, choosing a soft beige top and a skirt that falls just above my knees. As I run a brush through my hair, I gather it into a loose ponytail, securing it at the nape of my neck. I step into a pair of flats, smoothing my skirt with trembling fingers before heading toward the kitchen.
The moment I step into the hallway, a familiar scent drifts through the air—floral and delicate, something I haven’t smelled in this house since the day we married.
My steps slow as the fragrance intensifies with each step down the staircase. Lillies.
When I reach the kitchen, my pulse is a frantic rhythm beneath my skin.
And then I see it.
The long dining table is covered in bouquets—white, pink, and yellow lilies spilling across the surface in soft, elegant chaos. Their petals look impossibly delicate, yet vibrant, soaking the morning light and filling the air with their sweet, heady fragrance.
I draw in a shaky breath, my chest tightening.
It’s overwhelming. Beautiful. Too much.
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them.
It feels like a lifetime ago when we had our first public dinner as a couple. The first question he asked me that night was about flowers. He said it was because he wanted to get to know me better, but I didn’t believe him. Not then.
Now, standing here, surrounded by lilies in every shade, I realize how much has changed.
A sound behind me pulls me from my thoughts. I turn—and there he is.
Leaning against the counter, watching me. His dark hair is slightly tousled, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the top, exposing just enough of his chest to make my heart stutter. He always commands the room without effort, but there’s something different right now. Something softer in the way he looks at me.
And just like that, I feel it.
Holy shit, I’m falling. Hard and fast.
“I heard women love flowers,” he says, his voice low, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.
I can’t stop myself.
I move toward him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my face into his chest. He stiffens for just a second—probably because he didn’t expect it—but then he relaxes, his arms coming around me, holding me tight.
His warmth seeps into me, grounding me, wrapping around my heart like a promise.
I don’t want to let go. Ever.
But I force myself to pull back slightly, my eyes searching his. “Why?”
His fingers brush my hair back, gentle yet certain, and as always, his touch sends waves of warmth rushing through me. “Because I want you to know that you matter,” he says softly. “Everything you say, everything you do—it matters to me.”
Something tightens in my chest.
“It doesn’t matter what happened that day,” he continues. “Or what’s happened to you before. I want to keep proving to you that you’re special.”
He’s still trying to make me feel better, even without demanding answers. Since the night Marco betrayed me—since my world cracked open, leaving me stranded between past and present—Nicolas has done everything in his power to hold me together.
And I don’t deserve it.
Guilt claws at my throat, burning like acid. I force a smile, stepping back as he pulls out a chair for me. “Sit. Eat.”
I lower myself into the seat, my hands trembling slightly as I smooth my dress over my lap. The maids bring in scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and fresh-baked bread. A small plate of strawberries sits beside my glass of orange juice.
I should feel grateful. Instead, I feel like a fraud.
The weight of my betrayal grows heavier by the second, darkening the brightness of this beautiful morning, tainting everything he’s done for me.
He sits across from me, pouring himself a cup of coffee, his movements so effortless, so normal. He has no idea.
No idea that the woman sitting across from him—the one he’s trying so hard to help—is a traitor. A selfish, disloyal bitch, a coward who has put his empire in jeopardy.
I pick up a slice of bread, tearing it apart absently, trying to ignore the suffocating guilt. “You’re taking me to all your meetings today?”
He nods. “Only if you want to go. And remember, as my wife, it’s important to me that you understand my world.”
Something about the way he says my wife makes my stomach flip. It’s not cold or calculated, as Marco always spoke about me in relation to Nicolas. He’s just stating it as a fact. No ulterior motive. No hidden agenda.
I try to focus on my food, but my thoughts won’t stop spinning. The weight of everything presses down on me, thick and suffocating. After a while, I realize I need to say something—anything—or I’ll choke on my own silence. And maybe that’s what I deserve.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice to stay light. “Marco once told me that every Mafia has a master plan.”
Nicolas hums in response, reaching for a slice of toast.
“How often do those plans change?” I ask, keeping my tone as casual as possible.
He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Not so often.”
Good. Everything is going well so far. Just a normal conversation. I shrug. “Well, in my opinion, plans like that should be changed as often as possible.”
That gets his attention. He sets his coffee cup down, one brow arching. “Why?”
I hesitate, gripping my fork tighter as my mind scrambles for the right words. Something neutral. Something that won’t give me away.
But nothing comes.
He leans forward slightly, studying me. “Are you scared I’ll be betrayed?”
Fuck. I’ve just shot myself in the foot. My chest tightens, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I drop my fork, my breath coming faster.
“Nicolas, I?—”
I can’t keep it in anymore. The weight of my betrayal crashes over me, suffocating. The words claw their way out of my throat in a broken whisper.
“I told Marco.”
Silence.
“I told him about your plan.” I force myself to continue, my voice barely audible. “About where your men will be stationed. How you’re taking over the terrain.”
His expression darkens. “And you know all this information how?”
“Because…” My hands clench into fists. “Because I found your master plan.”
The silence that follows is suffocating.
My throat burns, and my fingers tremble in my lap. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought—I thought he would let me come home.”
Still, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me.
I brace myself for the explosion. For his rage. For the moment he decides what my punishment will be.
But when he finally speaks, his voice is calm.
“I know.”
There’s no way he just said that. I must have misheard.
“What?”
He leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. I can’t, for the life of me, tell what he’s thinking.
“I put that information in my office on purpose,” he says evenly. “That isn’t my master plan.”
My mind stutters, struggling to process his words. “You?—”
“I knew that asshole would pressure you to do something like that without even considering that he was putting your life in danger.” His voice remains disturbingly calm. “So I set a trap for him.”
Shame burns through me, hot and unbearable. I want the earth to split open and swallow me whole.
But I can’t stop.
“I also tried to break into the drawer in your room,” I confess, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t even know why I say it. Maybe I’m testing him. Pushing him. Seeing how far I can go.
Why isn’t he angry?
His lips curve slightly, but there’s no amusement in his expression. He exhales, then stands and moves toward me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself. A slap, a punch, a bullet to the head—what is he going to do?
But then I feel his fingers on my chin, tilting it up. My breath catches as I open my eyes, expecting rage, betrayal—anything but the dark hunger burning in his gaze.
“I moved the drawer to my office yesterday,” he murmurs. “Do you want to see what’s in it?”
A lump forms in my throat, but I let him pull me to my feet. This has to be a trap. He’s going to take me to the office, tie me up, torture me-
The thought sends a hot pulse between my thighs.
What the hell is wrong with me?
In the office, he moves toward the drawer beside his desk and presses a code into the small lock. There’s a soft click, and then he opens it.
Inside, resting on dark velvet, is a silver ring.
I stare at it, my mind blank. My brows draw together. “What… is it?”
“The ring every mafia lord wears.” He picks it up, the metal gleaming under the soft light. “But I’ve never worn it.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightens slightly. “Because I’ve never felt good enough to.”
His words hit me like a stone to the chest—heavy, unexpected. I don’t know why he’s telling me this, or where this is going, but I know one thing.
I reach out, my fingers brushing over the cool silver. “That’s not true,” I say, my voice steady. “You deserve this more than anyone I know. More than my brother. More than my father.”
Something flickers in his eyes. A shift. A crack in the armor.
He doesn’t stop me when I slide the ring onto his finger. His hand catches mine, warm and firm, and he lifts it to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to my palm.
“I know you mean it when you say I deserve the ring. And I believe you.” His thumb traces over the metal now resting on his finger. “So, believe me when I say—you deserve to be free from your brother’s shadow.”
Before I can respond, he moves. In one swift motion, he pulls my shirt and bra up, baring me to him.
That darkness returns to his face, raw and unyielding. His gaze is so intense it sends a shiver down my spine—bordering on fear, but laced with something deeper. Something I crave.
“But like I told you, Bambina ,” he murmurs, his voice thick with command. “Actions have consequences.”
My breath stutters.
“Are you ready for the consequences of yours?”
“Yes.”
His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “Maybe you think you do.” He tilts his head. “Pull up your skirt.”
A tremor runs through me. I don’t hesitate. I obey.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. Then, with deliberate ease, he steps closer. “Get on the desk.”
I slide onto the smooth wood, but before I can settle, his hands grip my ankles, pulling them up and apart. The shift sends me sprawling backward, my weight caught on my hands, my body open to him.
He jerks my knees open, his eyes locking onto my soaked panties.
“Next time anyone tells you to do something dangerous,” he says, voice low and commanding, “you tell them to fuck off.”
His hand moves to the desk drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors. The metal glints under the light, and my breath catches.
“Then,” he continues, hooking a finger under the crotch of my panties, “you come to your husband and report.”
With a swift snip, the fabric falls apart, useless now.
“You’re my wife.” His words are possessive, edged with something deeper. Before I can process them, his fingers thrust inside me, stretching me open. I gasp, my body arching, but he doesn’t stop.
“I’m responsible for you.” His fingers curl, stroking that spot inside me he always finds with devastating precision. His thumb circles my clit, slow, deliberate. “And I own you. Do you want to come?”
Heat coils in my stomach, pleasure building fast. I grip the desk panting. “Please—let me come.”
He stills, his touch maddeningly light now. “The answer is, ‘If it pleases you.’”
“If it pleases you,” I gasp.
“It doesn’t. His voice is dark, edged with something wicked. “You’ve been a very bad girl, Bambina . Very bad.”
He pulls his fingers from me, glistening with my arousal, and presses them against my lower lip. “Clean them off.”
I obey without hesitation, wrapping my lips around them, sucking my taste from his skin. His eyes darken as he watches me.
“I need to teach you what to expect from your husband,” he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers with a slow drag across my tongue. “Show you how you deserve to be treated.”
He waits.
I stare up at him, my body bared, aching, desperate to please him, but unsure of what he wants.
“Now, what do you say?”
I don’t know the answer. I just look at him, my tits and wet cunt open for him, wondering how to please this godly creature.
“You say, ‘Thank you.’”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A slow, satisfied smirk tugs at his lips. “Good girl.”
Then, without another word, he turns to the drawer, searching for what comes next.
He pulls out two silver paper clips and a sleek platinum credit card. His fingers skim over my skin, slow and deliberate, as if savoring every moment. Then, he rolls my nipple between his fingers and pins the paper clip to it.
Holy fuck.
A soft gasp escapes me, the sensation sharp but not unbearable—more of a whisper of pain tangled with pleasure. My body reacts instantly, heat pooling low in my stomach.
He watches me carefully, searching my face for any sign of hesitation. “You’re going to repeat after me,” he says, his voice steady.
I nod, breathless. He fastens the second clip, and a sweet ache pulses through me, making my toes curl.
“Then you can come.”
“I’m really sorry,” I whisper, my voice trembling with emotion.
He trails the cool edge of the platinum card along my skin, the sensation sending a shiver through me. Then, with a swift flick of his wrist he slaps me with it between my legs. I have to bite back a scream. It hurts like the best hurt. Like the ugliest package under the tree that explodes into sparkles and song when opened.
“This is the only punishment you get for betraying me,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. Another, harder slap. I clench my jaw. “After this, consider yourself forgiven. We move forward. No more guilt. No more bringing this up.”
I swallow hard, my breath uneven. “Okay.”
He tilts his head, watching me. “Okay?”
Slap. Not painful, but enough to make my body hum with awareness.
“Yes,” I whisper, then add, “Yes, sir.”
He trails the edge of the card over my skin, the coolness making me shiver. Then, with a tap against my clit, a gasp slips from my lips. My body is wound tight, teetering on the edge of ecstasy. Right now, nothing else matters—only him, only this moment. I don’t care if I still feel guilty. Don’t care if I get hurt. I want this drug right now, for as long as I can have it.
“Repeat after me,” he murmurs, his voice like silk and steel. “’You own me.’”
Another teasing tap. My breath catches. “You own me.”
“My body is your toy.”
A slow slap with the card, sending sparks dancing up my spine. “My body, oh God. My body is your toy.”
“You will never obey anyone but me.”
His fingers trace my trembling thigh, then glide over my clit with deliberate slowness. I whimper. “I will never… God. Anyone but you.”
He lifts my chin, his dark gaze locking onto mine. His voice is low, reverent. “You’re exquisite like this. So beautiful. So mine. You’re perfect. I want to fuck the breath out of you. I want to hurt you. Mark you. I want you to beg me to stop and love it when I don’t.”
His fingers slip inside me again, his touch claiming, worshipping, guiding me higher. I feel my orgasm build.
“Don’t come.” He reaches behind me and swipes things off the desk. “Lie back and hold your legs open,” he murmurs.
I lean back and put my hands behind my knees. He puts his slick fingers in my ass, deep.
Looking at my cringing face, he says, “Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“What do you say?”
“Thank you?”
“That’s right.” With his other hand, he plucks the paper clips off my nipples and watches me closely.
I know what’s coming, and I know he has it under control. I trust him with my body, if not my heart. I trust him with my pain.
The stinging comes a second later. He bends away from me, digging his fingers in my ass and putting his tongue on my throbbing clit.
When he sucks it gently, he puts his other hand over my mouth.
Good thing. Because I am lost, and without that hand, my cries as the burning pain turns into a mind-bending orgasm would have brought in the whole house.
“Stop!” I whisper, my voice shaky.
He hears me—I know he does. But instead of pulling away, he ignores me, licking and sucking, stretching my ass, bringing me to orgasm again until I can’t breathe and my cries dissolve into tears.
When he finally pulls back and removes his fingers, I gulp for air, blinking up at the ceiling as he moves. A moment later, I hear water running. I don’t have the strength to sit up, but I manage to lift my head just as he returns, carrying two warm cloth towels.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, my voice still breathless.
He doesn’t argue. Instead, he lifts me effortlessly into his arms, carrying me to the couch.
I sink into the cushions as he kneels beside me, pressing a warm towel to my face, gently wiping away the tears I didn’t even realize were still there. The heat soothes, easing the raw edges left behind by emotion and sensation alike.
“I know you’re fine,” he says, his voice quiet. “But this is how you should be treated.”
His words settle deep in my chest, warming me from the inside out. He presses a towel on my sore nipples, careful and attentive, his touch reverent. Then he wipes between my legs. I close my eyes, letting myself sink into the warmth, into the care he gives so effortlessly when it’s just the two of us.
Why is Nicolas so hard on the world, yet so gentle with me?