19. Milana
MILANA
As soon as Luca leaves and the front door clicks closed, I sink down on the bed. My emotions have been ripping through me like a hurricane this morning, and I don’t even know where to start assessing the debris.
Gabi. Pierced. I should phone her, but she won’t answer because nobody calls her. Yuri screens her calls to the point that she never has her phone with her, fully focused on the girls. I didn’t even bother to get her number.
I drop back and stare at the ceiling, my hand sliding down my stomach, hovering, recalling with a squeeze to my heart the day I got pierced.
Now you’re mine. Only mine. As I am only yours.
Liar. Fucking Bratva asshole.
Even these memories don’t stop me from sliding my hand between my legs.
Through the jeans’ thicker seams you can’t feel much, unless you know how to feel for it.
I circle my fingers slowly, with just a bit of pressure, and inhale a sharp hiss as the piercing tugs at my clit, at the deep singe of pleasure that comes with it.
I haven’t craved release in such a long time, but the need has been building ever since Luca Scalera waited for me at the end of the aisle.
A kiss. A ride on his bike. A warm hug on the yacht.
My hands on his body. Hard. Muscled. That twinkle in his eye basically the bad-boy promise of how good he’d make it for me.
In the burning glare of all my other problems, I’ve been reduced to a shriveled-up woman, but now…idle time makes for idle hands. In this apartment, there will be nothing but that godforsaken piano to keep me sane. Just another day, maybe a different location, but the same shit.
Except this time, Luca Scalera—my husband—will be around, basically a walking, talking aphrodisiac, that sinfully sexy voice of his just a prelude to his body.
But it’s more than that. God, I’m so weak, but Luca makes me feel safe, and that’s even more dangerous. Women who feel safe let their guard down.
I glance at the nightstand and retract my hand.
I can’t be too careful. As I sit up, my gaze sweeps to the light fittings, then lower to all the electrical sockets, everywhere secret cameras could be installed.
I try not to make a show of bending down to look for them, in case I’m already being monitored.
Big Brother—no, Big Husband—is watching you.
And I bet he’s big. And knows what to do with it.
So not helping.
I reach for my purse and my phone. No news from Masha. I have so much to tell her, and so little hope. It didn’t take much to conclude that this apartment is an impenetrable fort. There must be a fire escape, but I have no idea of the building’s layout. I bet Luca is going to keep me in the dark.
His bedroom is spacious, with a king-size bed and a reading nook with a budding library in one corner.
I pad over and take a moment to glance through the stack of magazines and new paperbacks from every genre imaginable.
Covering the bases and then some more. He plans for me to read a lot, which means only one thing: I’m staying put.
The view over the other city high-rises traps me, walled in on all sides.
Like Ivan’s house, these floor-to-ceiling windows will have privacy film on them, because nobody gets to see what goes on in a Scalera household.
I can’t spot any cameras in the bedroom, but as soon as I walk out into the living space, my Bratva instincts home in on where a camera is hidden in the air conditioning control box on the wall. Clever. Not clever enough.
There’s no knowing whether it will be on or recording, but one thing is sure: I’ll have eyes on me at random times.
At least Ivan never sank to this level of depravity in my quarters at home, but now, the rest of his house is rigged to the teeth with cameras.
You only get to survive a coup once. Ivan isn’t taking any chances with his girls in tow.
I amble over to the fridge and study its contents.
Vacuum-packed tuna steaks, chicken breasts, tenderloin, Greek yoghurt, endless vegetables already prepped.
Everything a man on a serious health drive would eat.
Good. Excellent. Fucking great. Not a cookie in sight.
I’ll have to become a domestic goddess and bake for what it’s worth, to fatten myself up nicely so I have back-up fuel for the day I get to run.
I end up making a coffee and am contemplating taking the ridiculous bow off the piano when my phone vibrates. I pull it from my pocket. Masha. At last.
Sorry for only getting to you now. Was exhausted last night. Slept in. Came and crashed and then had to get up several times.
I close my eyes. She shouldn’t be the one doing this. She’s still typing, and I wait for the one thing I’m never going to get: a photo. We agreed to this arrangement before I left. No evidence, no images, no proof. We write in code all the way.
Everything is fine. Tell me about your HUSBAND! How exciting…? Or…?
I grimace at her feigned enthusiasm for my arranged marriage, because Masha didn’t support my plan.
From my side, I had no other options. Plus there’s no code needed here.
There’s nothing to hide. If someone intercepts and reads her messages, the fact that I’m married now is word I want to spread so the Bratva can scratch me off their to-do list. I sit down on the sofa and put my coffee on the table.
Husband is a hot Mafia speed freak who loves Ducatis, tuna steaks, and rubbery chicken breasts. Also bought me a Steinway as a wedding present, making me feel like shit.
Masha: No way! A Steinway?
Me: Concert grand.
Masha: You’re kidding me. Obviously he’s loaded, but is he really hot, like in Italian hot?
Hot doesn’t cut it. Luca is dangerous.
Me: Owns a yacht. And not a small one. Pretty loaded.
She knows some of how this marriage came about, as I sent her the basics when I started concocting this plan—nothing to give me away to Ivan, only to assure Masha I wasn’t forced into a marriage at gunpoint.
There’s no network at her parents’ isolated hunting lodge, but she received my messages as soon as she got coverage on the road back to Saint Petersburg.
Masha: How long before you can come home for a visit?
My heart stings with a kind of pain I didn’t know existed until I got myself into this mess.
Me: I don’t know. As fast as I can, obviously.
Masha: I know, malysh. I’m preparing for your return. We’ll be ready and waiting. And then we’ll end this once and for all.
Once and for all? How?
I want to ask her what she means, because it sounds freaking ominous, but the front door clicks open and Luca walks in.
I drop my phone beside me. I can’t have him grow suspicious of me, questioning the fact that I’m basically permanently on my phone, messaging someone, tracking her whereabouts, waiting for the worst.
He’s holding an envelope as he crosses to me. “You’ve eaten something?”
Thank God for a neutral topic.
“No, your pristine fridge is a bit too organized for me. I didn’t want to mess with your…meal planning.” How else do you tell your husband you’re a terrible cook and can’t even make a decent borscht?
“No?” He chuckles as he drops down on the sofa next to me, still holding the envelope. “The prep is all Elena. I just throw shit together and pray it’s edible.”
I sigh. What a lie. I bet he throws shit together and it tastes fabulous. I had some of the dinner on his yacht. I’ll bet the epicurean in him is as strong as his Italian nature. As developed as the skill he likely has as a lover. Italians are, after all, known to be the best.
“How often does Elena do housekeeping?” I ask, looking for a female alliance.
“As and when needed. She’s on standby, runs errands sometimes. She’s a proper nonna, in her sixties already. Goes under the radar. Very useful.”
Ah. No chance in hell she’ll crawl into my pocket. Heart and soul sold to these boys and probably as protective of them as a mamma bear.
“This is for you,” he says as he tears open the envelope. “Company credit card linked to one of our businesses.” He folds open the single page and pulls the card free. “The monthly limit is a hundred thousand dollars. Do you think you’ll need more?”
My jaw drops and my stomach with it. “A hundred thousand dollars? What on earth—”
“Too little?” he says as he holds the card out to me.
“Good god, Luca, a month? For what?”
He grinds his jaw, staring at me.
“Princess.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his thighs with a sigh.
“There’s been a shift. This thing with Gabi…
I’m not sure you understand the situation.
For now, you’re here, properly Rapunzeled for lack of a better word, and you’re going to have to entertain yourself.
I dunno. Write a book, paint our fine landscape from this window, make a quilt, bake sourdough, practice piano, work toward doing a recording.
We surely can arrange something like that here? In the apartment?”
“With these acoustics? They’re terrible!
You’ll have to cover the whole place in carpet first,” I spit out, saying the only thing that is clear in my head.
My body went numb at the words Rapunzeled and entertain yourself.
Right now, I’m still in shock, but I’m reeling because being locked up in a Boston high-rise was never my plan.
“Really?”
He is clueless. Tiny flames of fury are licking at my insides. I am powerless—again. “What do you mean by Rapunzeled?”
He drops his gaze, and when his eyes come back up, they hold an apology. But it’s an anchor chain twisting around me, squeezing out all air as it locks me in place.
“This is now your tower, so grow a terrarium or a rainforest or something in this glass cube you’re stuck in. Your stay is free, but sanity…sanity costs money. Therefore the credit card. You needed money, didn’t you?”
All the money in the world, but I’m stuck. I’m quivering now, blood careening through my veins, blind spots dotting my vision. “Do you mean I don’t get to go out at all?”
“Everything you need is here.”
No, it isn’t. Nothing I need is here. “That isn’t an answer,” I hiss.
“Well, you can’t leave this apartment. Not until this situation with Gabi is resolved.”
“But that could take—” I break off, head spinning, pressure pulsing in my temples. “That could take months, if not years.”
“I wouldn’t know. You tell me. Italians have a different take on time than the rest of the world.”
Time isn’t the issue and yet it’s the most important thing here. He doesn’t trust me to stay put. He doesn’t trust me. He’s going to keep me caged—
“Fuck you!” I screech, turning on him with claws raised, ready to hit and scratch.
He pre-empts me, just as he did with our first kiss, and has my wrists trapped in his hands before I can get in even one slap or scratch. He staves me off; I struggle, but it’s a joke. Worst of all, his grip is so gentle, I won’t even bruise.
“We don’t do that type of shit here, princess,” he says, so calmly the words chill me. “Not unless it’s for fun…if you know what I mean.”
My chest heaves, his sexual innuendo coursing through me, pulsing where I touched myself earlier. And then, I really lose it. I start to fight as if my last breath depends on it, jerking at his hold, shifting, trying to lift a knee to shove it into his groin.
But he is faster. He’s up from his seated position in a flash and somehow has me on my back, hands trapped above my head. I gasp as his body bears down on me, solid, warm, unforgiving in its male strength.
I can hardly breathe with his weight on me, but he shifts and this is even worse. His thigh rests between mine, and through the layers of our jeans, I can feel his length, the hardening ridge of his cock, pressing into my sex.
“Well, that took an unexpected turn,” he murmurs as he pushes himself up a little on one hand, the other still handcuffing both of mine, staring into my eyes. A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “Your reaction wasn’t entirely unexpected, but you’re killing the messenger here.”
“The messenger—” I choke out, hating the hot tears of helpless frustration burning behind my eyes. “Who the fuck decided this? Ivan?” Fuck my brother to still have a hold on me despite pawning me off to Il Consiglio.
“No. Matty and Nicky walked in while I was with Ben, and we’re all in mutual agreement that this is for the best. For your own safety.”
Fuck my safety. Sitting here is going to kill me. “So I have no agency because some fucknut Russian is looking for your sister?”
“Yeah. Before you spit at me in rage, let me finish. I’m going to need your phone too, to see what you get up to during your ample free time.”
My last connection to Masha—
I can’t let him have it—
I’ve never spat at a man before, but the urge is surging up. My chest strains against his as I gather a breath, but he senses my intention and smiles. The fucker actually smiles.
Then he drops his face to mine, so low there’s no point in spitting at it.
He shifts with the move, his leg dragging in an agonizingly delicious slow grind over the apex of my thighs.
He shifts again, and this time, the teasing against my sex is more intense, intentional.
I strangle a moan, but don’t quite manage.
He traces a line with his lips along my temple and whispers, “Try spit in my face now, mia bellissima streghetta. We can go at it until you score a home run. No pressure; we have the whole day.”