14. Simone
SIMONE
T he estate feels oddly empty without Tristan.
After the unexpected run-in with him in the kitchen, I went back to bed, sleeping fitfully until the sunlight streaming through my windows woke me again.
Tired and groggy, I got up and got dressed, forced down a quick breakfast, and took a walk before going through the motions of my morning workout.
Now, as I walk upstairs to shower, I swear I can feel that he’s not here.
It’s as if his presence permeates everything when he’s here. Because he’s impossibly overbearing , I think as I ascend the stairs, but deep down, I don’t think that’s really it.
It feels like I’m alone again, like I was after my father died. After he died, after I found out the truth about him, when I had to face an uncertain future, I felt like I was suffocating.
With Tristan gone, I feel like I can breathe again.
I have at least a few days. A few blissful days without Tristan’s demands or seductions or punishments.
But as I get into the shower, leaning back into the hot spray, I remember his voice telling me that we’d have a long conversation when he returned home.
I feel the burning stroke of his hand against my skin again.
And I feel that slow, hot coil of arousal that never seems to be far away when he’s on my mind.
I hate him. And I want him. The two things should be mutually exclusive, as far as I’ve ever known. But with Tristan, that doesn’t seem to be the case.
And, strangely enough as I go about my day, I find myself missing our banter. Our fights. The barbed words we throw at each other, keeping me on my toes. Tristan is infuriating, but he engages with me. He makes me feel…
He makes me feel alive.
The thought is a shock. But it’s true, I think, as I sit down at the desk in the library and open my laptop, intent on doing a little online shopping instead of heading downtown with the security team Tristan assigned me. I’m still uncomfortable with them, and I don’t like the idea of it.
My whole life, I’ve moved through it along the path I was told to follow.
I was a good daughter. A dutiful daughter.
I got good grades in school, learned all the things I needed to know about managing a household, put effort into making myself beautiful and stylish and desirable for a future husband.
I accepted that my father would choose who I would marry and that it would be for the good of the family.
And then he betrayed his closest ally, and abandoned me, and an Irishman from Boston swept in and made me his bride.
None of that was in my father’s plan. I don’t care what Tristan says; my father wouldn’t have married me to him.
He would never have let someone with the last name O’Malley take over his empire.
Tristan is an opportunist, and as far as I can tell, I’m right to stand up to him.
To fight him every step of the way… which is something I’ve never done before, with anyone.
I feel like I’m finally myself, instead of who I’m being told to be.
A ping on my laptop screen drags me out of my thoughts. I frown, seeing a message with the last name Torrino . It can’t possibly be…
I click on the email, blinking with shock as I read it.
Simone ,
As your email might be monitored, delete this as soon as you read it. I’m aware of your situation. Given the knowledge sooner, I might have tried to rectify it. There is still time. Meet me at Sol’s. Tomorrow at one. We’ll discuss options.
E.
I stare at the message, my pulse quickening.
Enzo Torrino. The man I was supposed to marry before my father's death changed everything.
I haven't seen him since the funeral, haven't even thought about him much since Tristan swept into my life like a hurricane.
The last time I really thought about him was the day that Tristan arrived here, when I was heading down to meet the men who all wanted to change my fate by tying it up with theirs.
Enzo is a part of the past. I didn’t really want to marry him—he’s not particularly handsome or interesting—but he does have influence.
Not here in Miami, but in Chicago. My father saw him as the perfect potential match—a man who brought enough to the table to make him a worthy heir, but not one who thought so highly of himself that he’d think he was above my father’s advice or that he could do better than my father had already done.
My father would have hated a man like Tristan.
And my father was an evil man. If he would have hated Tristan… should I ?
I quickly delete the email, my mind racing. I already know what I should do—ignore the email, or better yet, tell Vitto about it. Tell Tristan about it. I know that talking with Enzo, let alone meeting with him, doesn’t fit at all with the ‘rules’ that Tristan has set out for me.
I bite my lip, staring at the screen. Meeting with Enzo would be more than just disobedience.
Tristan will be furious if he finds out.
This goes beyond just locking him out of my room or refusing to respond to his advances.
This is insubordination, betrayal, even infidelity, if I let it get that far.
But I won’t. I just want to hear what he has to say. If there’s a way out of this, don’t I want to take it?
I’ll wonder forever if I don’t go. If there was an escape, and I didn’t take it.
My mind is made up long before I close my laptop and head back downstairs.
—
The next day, I dress carefully for lunch.
I put on a long, slinky black maxi dress with a palm-frond design, a slit up one side, and thin straps.
It’s flattering but not seductive, and I put my hair up, knowing that it shows off my slender neck and sharp collarbones but appears more professional.
I keep my jewelry simple, put on a pair of espadrilles, and grab a straw clutch.
And then I head downstairs to ask for my security team.
Vitto, of course, is the one I have to talk to. He raises an eyebrow when I tell him I'm going out for lunch.
"Boss said you were to stay close to home while he's away."
"I'm going to lunch, not fleeing the country," I reply coolly. "And unless I'm mistaken, I'm still a free woman, despite what my husband might think. He said I could leave the house as long as I had the security he chose for me along with me. So, call them up."
Vitto looks at me, a flicker of irritation on his face, but he nods. I feel a rush of victory—at least I’m not completely powerless. Vitto might not want to obey me, but I’m Tristan’s wife, and he still has to listen.
“I’ll be coming along,” he says as he radios the other men. My jaw tightens instantly.
“Are you part of my security team?”
Amusement flickers at the corners of his mouth, which only pisses me off more. “You should be more respectful,” I snap, but he ignores me.
“Mr. O’Malley said that I should keep a close eye on you. Can’t do that if I’m not with you.”
I huff out a sharp breath. “Fine. But I need to go. I’m meeting a friend, and I’m going to be late.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in a car headed downtown, Vitto in the passenger seat up front. The rest of the team is taking a separate car. When we get to Sol’s, a Spanish tapas restaurant, I pause as I step out of the car.
“You can all wait outside. I’m not going to have you hovering over me.”
Vitto’s mouth thins. “Ma’am, I don’t think...”
“You can call Tristan if you want. But right now, you answer to me. And I want privacy for my lunch.”
It’s a bluff. If he calls Tristan, I have no doubt that Tristan will tell him to sit right fucking behind me at lunch, which won’t work for this meeting at all. But I’m betting that he won’t want to interrupt whatever very important business Tristan is doing in Vegas.
It’s a bet that pays off. Vitto gives me a sharp nod, stepping away to relay instructions to the rest of the team. As he does, I walk into the cool, sleek interior of the restaurant, my pulse beating quickly in my throat.
The drive downtown gave me time to think about what Enzo might want.
We met a few times before my father's death, formal meetings to discuss the potential marriage arrangement, always with my father in attendance.
He'd been perfectly polite, even charming in a traditional sort of way. Everything a mafia princess should want in a husband—refined, connected, Italian. He wasn’t handsome, but he was polite, and I thought he might treat me respectfully.
He’s everything Tristan isn't.
But those meetings feel like a lifetime ago now. Before I knew what it felt like to have a man's hands on me, before I understood the difference between polite conversation and the electric tension that crackles between Tristan and me even when we're fighting.
Especially when we're fighting.
Sol’s is busy with the lunch crowd, but I spot Enzo immediately.
He's sitting at a corner table, looking every inch the sophisticated Italian businessman in his perfectly tailored suit.
His dark hair is styled back away from his face, his soft jaw clean-shaven.
When he sees me, he stands, that familiar polite smile spreading across his face.
"Simone. You look beautiful."
"Thank you." I let him kiss both my cheeks in the traditional greeting. His cologne smells old-fashioned, nothing like the crisp, modern scent of Tristan’s. Tristan always smells like a cool mist on a warm day, fresh and faintly salty. Enzo’s cologne is heavy, as if he inherited that from his father along with his wealth.
He pulls out my chair, ever the gentleman, and I sit down. The waiter appears instantly, as if he were waiting in the wings for me to arrive.
"Wine?" Enzo asks.
I smile. “I’d love a glass of red.”