Luca
This is the last thing I imagined happening today. The woman I’m practically obsessed with is huddled behind my back and squeezing my hips with her knees as she clings on tight.
Am I in a fever dream? Because in my real life, shit like this doesn’t happen to me. I’m buried in the deepest level of Mafia hell, so to have my dream woman in the flesh, never mind have her on my bike with me, is surreal. If this is my new role Il Consiglio, let’s pray I don’t wake up.
As for Milana, she’s cursing. In Russian.
All the way out of the compound’s gate and ever louder as we slip onto the quiet road to the marina.
It’s kinda cute. She’s totally oblivious to the fact we can talk to each other through the helmets’ intercom system and the sound is crystal clear, even over the aggressive purr of the engine.
At least I understood that last part, but the rest is all Rachmaninov to me.
She carries on like this for a good three miles, arms clenched around my waist, tense body hugged against mine, clearly petrified.
I never speed unless on a racetrack; the last thing I want is to attract attention and get pulled off the road by the cops.
Now I’ve slowed down to an agonizing ten miles per hour, and she’s stopped yapping, but she’s now breathing shallowly, shifting and fisting her hands and basically feeling me up.
It’s freaking distracting, but in her mind, she’s probably looking for a better hold on my body and is having no luck with my fitted shirt.
If she carries on like this, she’s going to rip at my buttons.
I won’t mind that, not one bit, but my mind can’t go there.
It’s hard enough to keep my cock in check as it is.
“Don’t stop your ranting now, princess,” I say, trying to distract myself from her hands. “Get it all out.”
A sharp inhale. “What?”
“I was enjoying that, except I didn’t understand a word. Probably for the best.”
“You can hear me?”
“Uh-uhm. Helmet intercom system. Your voice is music to my ears,” I tease. “By the way, the only Russian I know is Moy starshiy brat mudak yebanyi.”
“My older brother is a fucking dick?” she repeats, sounding stunned.
Yep, I looked that one up and practiced saying it until the words rolled off my tongue like a real Russian.
“I was going for ‘my older brother is a fucking cunt’ but it doesn’t translate well, so dick it is. Isn’t yours? For this little marriage deal they negotiated?”
Her hands shift again, an anxious movement before clenching my shirt, her nails digging into my abs. I need to reassure her she’s safe with me, whatever else is going on in her head.
“Steady now, princess, I’ve got you,” I say in my most soothing tone. “Easy now.”
“Don’t talk to me as if I’m a freaking horse!” she huffs back.
What a comeback. Sharp as a whip and fuck if I won’t admit I love it. “You’d sure as shit be easier to ride if you were one.”
“Nobody is riding—” She breaks off and groans. “You’re incorrigible! And a villain!”
I smirk, but a villain is the last thing I want to be.
Not in her story. I bet there have been villains enough, what with those photos of her I scrubbed.
She’ll never know, but ever since this marriage loomed on my horizon, I vowed to be my wife’s safe space.
I won’t repeat the shit that went down in the Scalera household when we were boys.
“It’s going to be okay, Milana.” To stress my point, I place a hand over hers and stroke my thumb over her knuckles.
I was an idiot to think this would be fun, maybe even romantic for my mystery bride.
I mean, a man has to do something, try something to ease into the discomfort of this whole fucked-up situation.
“We’re going to turn up ahead, so try lean with me this time. ”
“This is petrifying. I never liked speedy things, or skiing, even rollercoasters, fully strapped in.”
We’re basically crawling now, and at this rate, I’m going to feet-paddle around the bend, using all my strength to make sure we don’t topple over. The notion makes me want to chuckle, but instead, I squeeze her hand and let go to take full control of the steering again.
“Just trust me. I’ve done a lot of mileage, trained on skills courses, off-roading, snow and ice in winter. All of it. Don’t worry about us. It’s the other people on the road you should worry about.”
“I don’t trust anybody, least of all men! Never mind men with bikes!”
I quirk a brow at this admission, but I get it.
A Bratva princess has no reason to trust a Mafia dickhead.
Yep, plus she’s a woman. I wouldn’t trust me, either.
But the tone of her voice says there’s more to her admission: she got burned by the asshole who took the photos of her and let them loose on the internet.
“Oh, boy, aren’t we off to a great start,” I say, keeping things light. “Listen, I need to go faster here or we’re going to fall over. Hold on, and lean left with me.”
She’s muttering something, maybe praying for her life, but probably condemning me to hell in Russian.
I take the turn-off at a sedate speed, and she doesn’t lean left, as expected, so I adjust for it.
Luckily, the road is straight again until we enter the marina.
She’s quieted down, and I’ve covered her clinging hands with one of mine again.
She’s cold, even though she’s pressed snug against me and my body is blocking the headwind.
My captain has sent through the GPS coordinates, and I follow them on the screen until I’ve cruised right up to the berth.
As arranged, my people are already here.
A driver brought her few things on board, and there’s someone to head back with my bike to Boston.
There’s the usual security detail who tailed us, and finally, there’s the small crew in charge of the yacht.
They won’t show their faces beyond what’s necessary, and as I park the bike, the guard who will drive my bike back steps forward.
“Don’t take your helmet off,” I say to Milana. “Not until we’re inside the yacht.”
“Why not? I can’t wait to take it off.”
“Security.” I glance around to see who is watching us. The marina isn’t busy, but I don’t want to attract any attention.
“Where’re we even going now?” Her hands fall away, but she doesn’t move, still pressed to me.
“Blind date on my yacht. We’ll spend a night or two as we sail to Boston. Depends.” I stabilize the bike on its central kickstand and swing a leg over to stand. “Let me help you.”
She manages a leg over the seat, but as she slides down, she grabs my arms. I steady her, but she doesn’t seem to find her balance on her heels. I have her in my arms before her knees can buckle, and her helmet hits mine with a dull thud.
“Ugh, let me go,” she complains, but her arm has hooked around my neck as I hug her close.
Fuck. My heart squeezes. I’m a husband, with my bride—my new wife—in my arms, ready to step into a new life.
Just like this. Just us. For a fleeting second, I pretend this is real.
I pretend she’s a warm bundle of perfect woman in my arms, trusting, with all the love a woman can have for a man in the way she clings to me, smiling.
And that look—that freaking look she gave to her lover, captured forever on video—shines in her eyes for me. A light I would never dim.
Our helmets are the barrier I need to keep this fucking real, and I can’t even read her eyes right now.
It’s for the best; I don’t want to read hatred for me in her gaze.
Still, I’m hopeful and can’t stop myself from murmuring, “Come now, princess, allow me to carry you over the proverbial threshold.”
She wriggles. “I don’t want to be on a bloody boat.”
“Too bad, no changing plans now,” I huff, trying to ignore how the curve of her hip will rub against my cock if I don’t hitch her up soon. “And be still, for God’s sake. I don’t want onlookers to think you’re being kidnapped. Or worse, have us slip from the gangplank into the dirty harbor water.”
“Ugh.”
She stops all her protesting. So that got her attention, eh? My princess doesn’t like getting dirty. Good to know, and I make a note to remember. We make it onto the yacht without any disaster, but things are stirring in my gut. This one…life isn’t going to be straightforward with her, is it?
As soon as we’re in the privacy of the yacht’s bar and sitting area, I lower her to her feet.
She isn’t much steadier on those killer heels, but she pushes away from me and reaches for a barstool for support.
As I take my helmet off, her fingers are at her helmet’s strap, desperate to unclip it but missing the mark.
I signal to a hovering crew member to get out and to let the captain know we can depart. He nods and leaves.
“Slow down, princess,” I say, putting my helmet down. “Let me help. I can see what’s going on here.” I tilt her head back a bit to get to the buckle, then push my fingers between her fumbling ones.
She drops her hands, and her frustration is palpable.
“This wasn’t my plan,” she mutters under her breath as I carefully release the buckle and lift the helmet off her head, her hair now a windswept and tangled mess.
I bite my cheek to keep from laughing as I put the helmet with mine on the bar counter.
The bedhead-look is adorable, but it’s the fire flashing in her gaze that really gets to me.
I’ll take any emotion from her, as long as it isn’t the dread that shone from her eyes for those few seconds she stood in the shadows before walking down the aisle towards me.
“This wasn’t my plan, either, but we’re going to have to make this work somehow,” I say. “I need to know…” I trail off, not wanting to be so blunt.
She’s gathering her hair away from her face, combing her fingers through the thick strands. The gesture is so feminine, I swallow at the sudden need to touch her, to hook those fly-aways behind her ear and follow it up with a string of soft kisses along her temple, down to the curve of her jaw.
“What?”
“You’re still cold?” I ask, copping out of what I really want to know as I pad around the bar to pour us drinks. It isn’t an unreasonable question—we’re out of the wind at least and the lounge is cozy.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Good. Can I pour you a drink?”
“Depends on what you’re pouring.” She eyes the row of hard liquor stashed against the wall as she hops up on a barstool and leans on the counter with her elbows. “I gave up drinking for a long time, but when I came back from Russia…it became this thing again…I shouldn’t—”
I suppress a sigh. We aren’t going to ease into conversation over wine tonight.
Sounds like she found herself on the slippery slope of a bad habit.
Wouldn’t be unusual in our circles, and especially not after having those photos of her appear on the internet.
Everybody deals with stress differently, and not always in healthy ways.
“Okay. Something non-alcoholic? We’ve got anything you want. Coffee, tea?”
“Just some water, please.”
I fill a glass with bottled water, push it over to her, then help myself to some whiskey.
“That’s not what you wanted to ask though,” she says softly as I take a slow sip, watching her.
“No.” I put my drink down, bracing myself. Get this out of the way. Set the stage for this marriage farce. “I want to know if— I need to know…” I grunt a sigh. “This arranged marriage was negotiated between our brothers, without our input. Don’t know about you, but I didn’t have any say.”
She quirks a brow at me, then shifts in her seat as she looks down.
Her knuckles are white with gripping her glass, and her gaze darts around the room looking for the nearest exit, somewhat anxious.
Fuck it. I bet she thinks I’m still going to force myself on her tonight.
Best cut to the chase here; it’s bad enough as it is.
“I need to know if there’s someone else, Milana.”
“Someone else?” She blinks at me, seeming confused.
“Yes,” I say softly. “Like someone you’re with, but you were forced into this marriage against your will.”
“I—I…this isn’t against my will. I mean, Ivan is a bastard, but he isn’t that cruel. And he definitely wouldn’t let me go with someone he couldn’t control by some means or another.”
Great. Control by some means or another. I bet he had Matteo by the balls and this is how we got here.
“No, there isn’t someone,” she whispers then pauses, dipping deep in thought. “It’s also yes…but not in the way you’d think. Not…” She shrugs and looks down, but her posture has gone rigid. “What about you? I’d hate for you—”
“No-no… but—” She said it. That man is still a fixture in her life. I have to respond, if only to try and save face in this marriage. “It’s a no, but also a yes. Also not in the way you think, either.”
How to admit to her that it’s her without seeming like a fucking creep?
I’m a creep. I don’t know her at all. Obsessed with a warm-blooded, sensual woman who belongs to someone else.
Belonged to someone else. She’s mine now.
I made vows earlier. Vows I intend to keep.
Ever since I slipped that ring on her finger, my subconscious has been working overtime.
What would it take to make her fall for me?
To make her mine as my wife in every sense of the word?
To make her forget him and fall in love, have that look in her eyes… for me?
Just once. I need that look just once, and I’ll die a happy man.