9. Milana
MILANA
I lick my bottom lip, the pressure of his mouth still imprinted on mine, the swell of his lips that swept in with a hint of whiskey.
Asshole! Kissing me like this and sending sparks of desire all over my body.
First, it was in his voice. Then in his gaze as he watched me walk down the aisle.
In his touch as he slipped the wedding band on.
And now in his kiss. Here’s a man who knows a woman’s body and has made it his life’s work to understand the intricacies of the female anatomy.
Not only for her pleasure, but for his too.
I don’t know what the fuck it is with some men, but they have this sexual aura that no woman can look away from. No, we become weak, drenched with desire, beggars for his attention.
And this is my husband. Without a doubt a fucking playboy.
It’s in his proud stance. In his broad shoulders filling his tailored suit jacket, that square and smoothly shaven jaw that’s already working on a testosterone-fueled and very sexy five o’clock shadow. It’s in the stupid little dimple on his chin.
He isn’t handsome. The man is beautiful, so I look away. This is my life now. Fuck my dormant hormones which have been through the wringer, but they just got jumpstarted as if he attached two cables to my dead battery by merely leaning his body towards mine.
We step to the side with nothing to say to each other, me dealing with my overwhelm as Ivan and Gabriella say their vows.
I zone out, but even without paying attention, everything that’s missing in our connection is so blatant in theirs, and my stomach bottoms out with churning nausea.
Never mind, I’ve been so tense for months, it’s almost normal now.
As soon as Ivan and Gabriella have tied the knot and all the paperwork is signed, Luca’s hand rests on my lower back, from where the heat of his touch spreads.
I hate it.
It’s delicious.
I want more. I want him to circle my ass with the palm of his hand—possessively.
Fuck me sideways. Is this who I am becoming now? Of all the things to put me in a casket, it would be a physical attraction to my husband.
“Wanna get out of here?” he asks softly, leaning in to keep this exchange private.
Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react. “Yes.”
Get me out of here already so I can focus on freedom—finally. On Russia.
“Say your goodbyes, and we’ll get going.”
“Where to?” The sooner I know, the sooner I can start planning my escape.
“We’ll start with a blind date. Seems appropriate, don’t you think?” He straightens and winks at me.
I falter. The sexy fucker winked at me.
But a blind date? It’s more than I expected. At least he isn’t hauling me over his shoulder and carrying me off caveman style to rape me behind some garden shed.
The thought is like a sudden speed bump because I already know Luca Scalera isn’t the sort to lower himself to that level.
He doesn’t need to and has way too much finesse.
No, women probably throw themselves at him and he indulges as if he’s eating from a buffet.
A man is, after all, just a man, whichever way you turn him.
But he’ll have his expectations: I’m his wife.
I’m going to squash them dead like a cigarette in an ash tray. Not because of this stupid dumb physical reaction, but because I can’t afford distractions. I can’t afford to do anything that would bind me tighter to this man.
I do the rounds quickly, and as Gabriella pulls me close, I cling a little tighter.
“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers.
“Yes.” Of course it is. Everything is fine once you’re dead. “Thank you for…everything. And good luck, malysh,” I murmur back. “He’ll love you right.”
We break apart, and when I pull the girls to me, first Irisha, then Katya, I bite my lip to stave off my tears. They will never know how much I love them. Hopefully, they’ll never learn the reason why I left them.
“You’ll see them again,” Luca says as I straighten, realizing he was watching my exchange, reading my emotions as if they’re a neon sign. “Soon. I promise.”
God, he irks me. Never mind that I’ll have to hide what he does to my body in mere seconds, I’m never going to stop watching my back, am I?
Ivan’s hand is on my elbow, drawing my attention, and the soft squeeze that follows says what words can’t. “I’ll message you about Papa.”
“Thank you.” I step in for a quick hug, and he seems to sigh into it. It’s been such a crazy year, with Ivan bearing the brunt of it on the home front. “Don’t worry about me, please—”
“How can I not worry about you, Milana?” he whispers, his voice thick. We hug tighter, and I wish he wouldn’t let go, but we’re not children anymore. His hold on me loosens. “You’re strong. Stay strong.”
He has no idea. I survived and outwitted him, so what’s another man in the equation? Now if we can leave, I can start figuring out how to do the same to Luca Scalera.
“Off we go.”
My husband has one hand on my back, and with the other, flips his brother off with a surreptitious middle finger. It makes Matteo smirk with a shake of his head.
Our introduction was brief earlier, but now he gives me and my black dress an approving nod.
“You’ll be a good match. I already sense it. Don’t try to tame him,” he says in passing. “We’ve given up. Go with the flow is the best advice I can give you now.”
Tame him? I’m not sticking around to tame anybody. But Matteo’s advice rings deeper. Don’t fight the cage, make the cage work for you. Papa’s advice, and it’s as if he is talking to me through Matteo.
I nod and we walk off, out of the front door and into the sunlight. There isn’t a single car waiting outside for us. What the fuck... Center-stage, a few steps from the front door, stands a massive black motorcycle. The color of the day.
To the side, three men in suits, wearing avatar glasses, wait idly with their hands in their pockets. Mafia security.
“You’ve ridden a motorcycle before?” Luca asks, reaching for my hand.
“What? That thing? No.” I shrug loose from his tentative hold to sweep my hair away from my face and over my shoulders.
He needs to stop touching me already. I’m kindling begging for the strike of a match.
And why am I even surprised at a motorcycle?
Hot-as-fuck and biker-boy basically go hand in hand. “Is that yours?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I huff in frustration. This black rebellion dress isn’t made for helicopters and motorcycles. “Could somebody just choose normal transportation for today? Like in a car?”
“Not a normal day, princess. Not a normal man you married, either. Best you get with the program.”
You can say that again. He is the last thing I expected today.
He propels me toward the motorcycle, hand on my lower back, and I brake against the push with my heels. I don’t like fast-moving things. Least of all when I’m exposed like I’d be on a bike. “This dress…I can’t—”
“Your choice to arrive at your wedding dressed as Morticia and not as a Disney princess.”
“Morticia!” Hell, I didn’t even think about that. It’s kinda funny and spot on, but why does it sting? Asshole. To get to me like this.
“Yeah, so much for my vision of us riding off into the sunset with your white skirts billowing in the wind.”
I harrumph, but why does that wedding-dress visual entice me so much? We’d just need a few tin cans tied to the rear and— Nope. Not on the agenda. Fuck this.
“Don’t worry,” he continues with a smirk. “I’ll still call you my princess, even if mia bellissima streghetta suits you better.”
“And what the hell does that mean?” I won’t allow the man to insult me in Italian.
“My beautiful little witch. Wearing all black to our wedding.”
I cross my arms, refusing to take a step closer to the motorcycle or to engage in banter. I’m here to get the hell out of Ivan’s compound and somehow on my way to Russia.
“A mood as black as the dress she wears. Don’t worry, I’ll eventually fix both.”
Ah. A man with ambitions. Let me watch you fix me. My husband has no idea how messed up I am. I’m beyond fixing.
He’s at the motorcycle, opening some compartment.
He reaches inside and turns back to me with something in his palm I can’t see.
As he steps closer. I step away, but my heels and this stupid dress don’t allow five inches backwards, what with the tight fit and slit in front.
It’s made for piano playing where most of the work is in the upper body.
To my surprise, my groom is going down on one knee, looking up at me as if he’s about to pop The Question.
“Too late for that,” I spit out. “It’s done now.”
“Ha,” he chuckles. “Maybe if I’d asked you, I would have had my dream dress.”
In your dreams— I rear back when he flicks open a switchblade, my hands fumbling in the air. “What are you—”
“Hold still,” he soothes, his hand on my ankle, anchoring me in place. “I don’t want to nick you by accident.”
I steel myself against his gentle touch in one of the most underexploited sexual areas on my body, but before I can draw a breath, he’s lifted my dress away from my leg and is slicing—SLICING—at the fabric, ruining it.
It’s an ice bucket of water over every nerve ending that’s been sparkling with desire.
“Oh my…GOD! You—You…!” Villain.
The blade is so sharp, it glides through the velvet.
I’m frozen in shock, stunned speechless, but no fear sparks through me.
Fear is not an emotion my husband evokes in me—not yet—and this should scare the living daylights out of me.
Another slice at the fabric, and my attention zaps back to where he’s kneeling at my feet.
And all I see now is him taking off my delicate heels, sliding his hands up my legs, one caressing my inner thigh, higher, deeper into the dark shadows of my dress—
No! I shake my head, gaze down at him, but Luca is focused on the job, hand steady, so fast, he’s almost done. I’m trembling from my core outwards to every extremity. It should be rage, but he is so unexpected, I’m suppressing a laugh, sounding as if someone is strangling me.