18. Tristan #2
I drain the second glass of whiskey and set it down harder than necessary. The crystal makes a sharp sound against the wood of the bar cart, and I stare at it for a long moment, trying to make sense of what I'm feeling.
It's not supposed to be like this. This marriage was supposed to be a business arrangement, nothing more.
I get the territory, the power, the legitimacy that comes with being married to Giovanni Russo's daughter.
She gets protection, security, a husband who can keep her safe in a world that would otherwise devour her. Simple. Clean. Uncomplicated.
But nothing about Simone is simple or uncomplicated. She fights me at every turn, challenges me in ways no one else ever has, makes me feel things I don't want to feel. And tonight, when I thought I might lose her…
I pour a third glass of whiskey but don't drink it.
Instead, I walk to the window and stare out at the grounds, at the lights of Miami in the distance.
Somewhere out there, Sal Envio is planning his next move.
Enzo Torrino, too, probably. They both want what I have, and they're willing to hurt Simone to get it.
The thought makes my hands clench into fists. I've killed men for less than threatening what's mine, and Simone is mine now, whether she likes it or not. The ring on her finger, the vows we spoke, the way she responded to me in that car tonight—it all makes her mine.
But I don't just want to own her. I want her to want to be owned by me. I want her to look at me the way she did tonight, with heat and need, overwhelmed by pleasure, consumed by it as much as I have been. I want her to stop fighting me and start fighting with me, beside me.
I spend the rest of the night pacing, drinking, and trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about it. By the time the sun starts to rise, I'm no closer to an answer, but I know I can't keep avoiding the conversation we need to have.
In the morning, I shower, shave, and put on a fresh suit, then make my way to the kitchen. Nora is already there, preparing breakfast, and she looks up when I enter.
" Senor ," she says carefully. "How is Senora this morning?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen her yet." I pour myself a cup of coffee, black, and lean against the counter. "Is she awake?"
"I heard her moving around about an hour ago. She asked for breakfast to be brought to her room."
Of course she did. She's avoiding me, just like I've been avoiding this conversation. But we can't keep dancing around each other forever, not with threats closing in from all sides.
"I'll take it to her," I say, and Nora raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. She prepares a tray with coffee, fresh fruit, and a cheese Danish, and I carry it upstairs.
I knock on Simone's door for once and wait for her to answer. When she does, she's dressed in a simple black slip dress that glides over her curves, her hair on top of her head again. She looks beautiful and untouchable, closed off from me again, like a work of art behind glass.
"I brought breakfast," I say, holding up the tray.
She hesitates for a moment, then steps aside to let me in. I set the tray on the small table by the window and turn to face her.
"We need to talk."
"Do we?" She moves to the dresser and starts putting on jewelry, her movements precise and controlled. "What else is there to say? I ran, you brought me back. I want to be free, you think you own me. It’s all settled."
"Nothing is settled. If anything, last night made everything more complicated."
She meets my eyes in the mirror, and I can see the wariness there, the way she's bracing herself for whatever I'm about to say.
"Sit down, Simone. Please."
She doesn't move for a long moment, then sighs and sinks into the chair in front of her vanity, reaching for the cup of coffee sitting on the tray.
"I understand that you didn't want this," I begin, and she lets out a bitter laugh.
"Do you? Do you really understand what it's like to have your entire life decided for you by men who see you as nothing more than a bargaining chip?"
"More than you might think." I sink down on the edge of her bed, studying her face.
"There are expectations that have been placed on me my whole life, too, Simone.
But that's not what I don't understand. You were raised in this world.
You knew you'd have an arranged marriage eventually.
Your father was working on one before he died.
So why are you fighting this one so hard? Why are you fighting me?"
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers wrapped around the coffee cup, staring down into it like it has the answer she should give me. When she finally speaks, her voice is clipped, sharp, but it doesn’t lessen the impact of what she says.
"Because I didn't plan for you."
I know what she means. She doesn’t have to explain. She didn’t plan for a husband who would make her feel something, who would arouse her the way I do, and I smirk at her, unable to hide the spreading glee in my chest at her admission that she’s not impervious to me.
“You didn’t plan to meet a man who you can’t control yourself around.”
Her eyes snap to mine, glinting with irritation. “Don’t think so highly of yourself, Tristan. It’s not becoming.”
“Clearly you think highly of me. Was it before or after I made you scream while you were coming all over my cock last night?”
“You’re fucking insufferable,” she spits out, and I smile at her.
“Careful, célie . Keep cursing at me, and we’ll repeat yesterday all over again. Your mouth was the best I’ve ever had.”
She pauses, her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying. I’ve never done it before. It can’t have been the best.”
“It was.” I give her that, that small admission of how she makes me feel, the pleasure she’s capable of giving me, in hopes that it softens something between us. That it makes us able to find a middle ground. But I can still see her seething, her jaw tight as she stares me down.
"I was prepared for a marriage of convenience,” she says flatly.
“As you said. A real marriage of convenience.
A polite, distant arrangement with a man who would leave me alone most of the time, who would treat me like a decorative object to be displayed at parties and ignored otherwise.
I was prepared for someone who would want my name and my inheritance but not. .. not me."
I can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth. "But I want you."
Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks away. "You want to possess me. There's a difference."
"Is there?" I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you want to be possessed. At least by me."
“All I want is to be free of you,” she snaps, and I chuckle.
“I saw the way you responded to me last night, Simone. I felt it. In the car, after I found you. You weren't thinking about convenience or arrangements then."
She stands abruptly, moving to the window and putting distance between us. "That was adrenaline. Fear. It didn't mean anything."
"Didn't it?" I stand too, moving closer to her, refusing to let her distance herself. “At the very least, Simone, it means you want me the way I want you. There’s passion between us. Sparks. Lust. You want me to give you pleasure as much as I want to take it from you. Marriages have flourished with much less.”
She doesn't answer, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands are clenched at her sides. I can smell her perfume, a waft of expensive floral scent that makes me want to bury my face in her neck. I want to devour her. It’s hard to think when she’s around, hard to focus on what needs to be said when all I want is to feel her heat around me again, to engage in the challenge of trying to make her let go.
"Tell me about Sal Envio," I say, changing the subject before I do something stupid like reach for her.
She turns, surprise flickering across her face. I’ve managed to catch her off guard, at least. "What? You already know everything about him.”
“I want to hear what you have to say about him.”
Her eyes narrow, as if my asking for her input is a trap that she’s waiting to be sprung. "He was my father's right-hand man for years. His most trusted advisor, his enforcer when necessary."
"And now?"
"Now he's been pushed out of power by my father's death. By you taking over." She meets my eyes, her expression carefully blank. "He's not the kind of man who accepts that gracefully."
"What else?"
She hesitates. "He's cruel. Especially to women.
My father wasn't a warm man, but I thought he had certain lines he wouldn't cross, though I know better now. Sal doesn't have those lines. He never has. He sees women as objects to be used and discarded. He says he wants to give me to Enzo, to be his right hand, but I’m not sure I trust that.”
My jaw tightens at the mention of Enzo’s name.
The man Simone was supposed to marry. The man she plotted against me with.
I haven’t forgiven her for that, yet. The feeling of betrayal is too fresh, and though I see fear in her eyes when she talks about Sal, I wonder how much I can trust it.
How good of an actress my wife really is.
"He won't hurt you," I say firmly. "I won't let him touch you, Simone. I'll keep you safe.
She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Will you? Or will you just use me the same way he wants to, the same way Enzo wants to? You married me for power, Tristan. You've never pretended otherwise. How is that different from what they want?"
The question hits me harder than I expected, and for a moment, I don't know how to answer. Because she's right, isn't she? I did marry her for power. I did see her as a means to an end, at least at first.
Now she’s an obsession. I’m not sure if that’s any better.
I try for honesty, the only thing I haven’t tried yet. The only bridge that I can still see between her and me, that might not result in our marriage continuing to be an endless battle of wills.
The battle turns me on. But the stakes are higher now, and threats are coming our way. I can’t afford to always be at odds with my wife if I’m going to succeed at this venture.
If I’m going to keep what I took when I claimed her.
"Maybe it's not," I admit finally. "Maybe I am using you, just like they want to. But there's one difference."
She snorts, brushing back a loose piece of hair as she looks at me with that same defiance that I know so well. "What's that?"
"I'll protect you while I do it. I'll keep you safe, I'll make sure you're taken care of, and I'll never let anyone hurt you. Can Sal or Enzo promise you the same?"
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her processing my words, weighing them against everything she knows about the world we live in.
"That's not enough," she says finally.
I feel something drop in my chest. "What do you mean?"
Simone shrugs, setting her coffee cup down.
"Protection isn't enough. Being taken care of isn't enough. I don't want to be your beautiful prisoner, Tristan. I don't want to be locked away in this mansion like some precious object while you go out and live your life. You don’t deserve me. You didn’t earn me. You stole me. You’ve taken me. You think you’re some mafia warlord who’s claimed the woman who will give him everything, but I will give you nothing , because you haven’t shown me why I should.
You want to save me and protect me and shield me, but there’s nothing behind that shield that I want. "
“That’s a lie.” I glare at her, frustration welling up. “I felt you last night, Simone. I’ve felt the way you respond to me before. You want me. You’re just too fucking stubborn to admit it.”
“And you’re too fucking arrogant to admit that you don’t deserve a damn thing you’ve been given!” She raises her voice, her eyes spitting fire, and her jaw clenches. “You can keep taking what you want, Tristan. I certainly can’t stop you. But you’ll never get what you need .”
Without another word, her chin in the air and her eyes dark with fury, she shoves past me, striding toward the door. I could stop her, but I don’t, too startled by the rage in her voice and the force of her words to do anything.
I flinch as she slams the door behind her, leaving me in her room, standing in the wake of her anger. It feels like a physical thing, and for a long time, I don’t move, staring after her.
Nothing about that went the way I thought it would.
And I have no idea how I’m going to fix any of it.