20. Luca
LUCA
“I hate you, so much,” Milana chokes out, and I close my eyes.
Not as much as I hate myself, and that I have to do this to her. She’s so delicate, from the floral scent of her hair to the softest skin at her temple, her female body so easy to dominate.
I should let her go. I should move off her, but she hasn’t calmed yet. Her breathing is ragged, strained, and she’ll lash out again. I don’t blame her. Being contained like this isn’t new to me. I’ve grown up with it, but I get the fucking frustration.
For a moment, I just breathe her in, every sense more alert as soon as I close my eyes to avoid looking at her, knowing I’ll only find the agony of her situation reflecting in her gaze.
But the way she pushes into me, the quiver that runs through her every time I shift, throws fuel on the fire.
The need to rock into her is almost overpowering.
That little moan told me everything. Fuck, she’ll kill my control if she does it again. She isn’t immune to me; in fact, I’ll go so far as to say she wants this…needs this.
A sob rips through her, but she smothers it, and I run my nose along her hairline.
“It’s going to be okay, Milana,” I murmur.
“It’s just for now. I can’t— I won’t— No, we won’t let anything happen to hurt you or Gabriella.
” I squeeze her wrists, wanting to stress my point.
“Understand we’re doing this to keep you safe.
Five women were brutally murdered in Italy.
Five. Tortured for information and torched—dead or alive, we’re not sure—but the pattern is always the same. ”
She flinches at my words. “Which means they don’t know she’s here. They’re looking for her in Italy.”
“We can’t take any risks.”
It takes another thirty seconds for the fight to seep out of her. Her rigid legs relax against mine, her straining arms collapse, and she becomes soft and pliant underneath me.
Fuck. This is more dangerous. Now all I want is to stroke down the length of her arm, over her breast, down to her stomach.
Echo the touch with my lips. I want to unbutton her jeans and slide a finger along her panty line, slowly, sensually, to the point where she’ll widen her legs, begging for more without a word, letting me in.
Letting me undress her, so I can love every inch of her skin until I find how she’s been marked as Bratva property.
Letting me find the tattoo so I can contour and color it in with my lips, or find the scarification so I can trace it with the lightest of touches, erasing the pain with my fingertips.
And then, letting me dip into the most private part of her where she’s been pierced, and play with it, circle it, roll my tongue over it until she comes—
“Luca.”
It’s a soft plea, and I let go of her wrists as she turns her head to the sofa, sending me a clear message.
I push off before she can shove me away.
I sit beside her, cursing my fucking erection that’s drilling through my jeans like a fucking sand worm straight out of Dune.
There’s no hiding it, and she felt it already.
She doesn’t move, but cups her hands to her face as quiet tears stream down, disappearing into her hair.
In my mind’s eye, I see a whole year going past like this: Milana weeping on the sofa, me wanting to comfort her in every way possible, but not really knowing how.
“I know this sucks,” I say softly. “You might not care or believe this, but I understand everything about having no freedom.”
“You’re a man,” she says with a sniff. “What do you even know about being a woman, let alone one in the Mafia…in the Bratva?”
“I know nothing about being a woman, but I’m just a spare, Milana. For my twin, Stephano.” I push back on the red flag in my periphery—don’t share too much. But she’s my wife. She should know this about me.
“A spare? Are you identical?”
“Yes.” I shake my head and sigh. “When I was a young teen, our Don already started curbing my freedom. We were home-schooled, so didn’t have a long leash to begin with.
The older boys were luckier in that way: they got out often, working jobs, doing things for our Don, but not us younger bunch.
My father started blocking me from doing stuff, hiding me.
Only the inner circle knew my whereabouts.
I slowly slipped into obscurity of sorts.
It’s been seventeen years that I’ve been living this weird double life, always behind the scenes. ”
She sits up, crosses her legs, and pulls one of the new throw pillows to her chest. “You get to go out on your motorbike, buy yachts, live that life.”
“My freedom was earned.”
Sealed when the Don died. Fuck, that took forever. And now, Stephano is in Italy, my final green light. Then I got married into the Bratva. I chuckle drily. I planned to get off this rollercoaster, but it never stops long enough for me to clamber the fuck off; it just keeps on going.
“How?”
“By doing what I was told to do by my Don. Obeying him. Living within the parameters he set for me to the point that he trusted me. I’ve never done something stupid or reckless before. I don’t make mistakes like that.”
“Motorcycles aren’t exactly a no-risk ride.”
“Hmm, but they come with helmets. When I drive out of our building’s underground parking, I’m wearing one, so I’m always incognito.
I can ditch anybody who tries to follow me within minutes.
I don’t take my helmet off until I’m sure nobody has been following me, and by that time, I’m usually hundreds of miles away from where anyone might look for Stephano. ”
She stares at me, digesting my words. Then she shakes her head. “Fucking mobsters. You’re all lunatics.”
“Pretty much. I was hoping to get out before it rubbed off permanently, but hey, here we are.” Her, me, and the horndog in my lap. She hasn’t even glanced south once. I should be offended.
And then she does, and it isn’t surreptitious at all. She drags her gaze up my chest, intentionally slow, sensual. Borderline sexual, and my fucking erection twitches in my jeans.
Fuck my life.
“How do I earn my freedom?” she asks softly.
Her question catches me off guard, but the look in her eyes speaks of her desperation and how far she’ll go to get her way. Her reaction was also so over the top, it only reinforced the notion that she’s hiding something.
I zoom out to the bigger picture, struck again by how we got shoved into the Petrov Bratva without knowing who or what we were getting into, or what the stakes really were for them.
The thought hardens me, because my loyalty is with my brothers.
With Il Consiglio. Fuck knows what’s going on here, but I’m going to have to figure it out.
As much as I want everything with her, as much as I want trust between us, I have to figure her out first. Right now, my wife is the most dangerous thing in the room, and not just for my libido.
“I told you sex between us will never be a transaction, Milana. That’s not what I want.”
“No?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but she gives a very obvious nod at my groin.
I smirk. “Too easy, princess.” And my wife will never buy favors with sex.
“Then how?” she says, this time with more force.
Attagirl. Don’t fucking take it sitting down. Fight. “By helping us. With knowledge you know you have, knowledge you don’t even know you have. Open up to me. Tell me your secrets. Tell me the Bratva’s secrets.”
She contemplates my request, then she reaches for her phone where it had dropped to the floor during our earlier shenanigans.
“Take my phone. I don’t care.” She holds it to me and rattles off its passcode. “Read what you will in there. Find your fucking Russian.”
I pocket it. “Thank you.”
She pulls out the credit card out from between the sofa cushions, where it got stuck. “Will this work online in Russia?”
“I don’t know. Why? It’s maybe not the best of ideas to leave a digital trail—”
“Come up with a better idea then. You’ll see my friend Masha Baykova in my contact list. She can’t work, and I’ve been supporting her. Getting her groceries would be a start.”
“Sure thing.” I hesitate, because it’s none of my business, but then I shrug—I need to get to know Milana and her friends, her network. “Why can’t she work?”
Milana stands with a huff. “I don’t think you’ve got the stomach for that today. I don’t, and in any case, I’m done here. Once you’ve strip-searched my phone, I’ll see if I can use the credit card.”