23. Milana
MILANA
Of all the weird arranged-marriage conversations I thought I’d have with Luca, this was the last thing I’d expected.
The awkward we’ll never-have-sex conversation.
Tick. I’m not going to cook and be your darling trad wife, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.
Tick…okay, only sort of, it still needs some work.
But ‘tell me who he is and I’ll kill him’?
Nope. Not on my bingo card as a newlywed.
But to think he offered…God, it feels like I have someone in my court for the first time since landing back in the States.
Someone who knows nothing, and yet knows how it all started going pear-shaped.
Plus he is helping Masha, which takes the edge off—I’m one problem down, only a million to go.
The relief is so intense, I’m ready to open the floodgates again, but instead bite my lip.
When is he going to stop being a curve ball?
“I’m glad he’s been dealt with,” he says, breaking into my thoughts. “Good to know the Bratva doesn’t mess around with this type of thing.”
If only he knew how the Bratva has nothing to do with this aspect of things. I shoot him a small smile. “Thanks for offering.”
“Any time, princess. Knight in shining armor, at your service,” he says with a crooked smile, then stands. “You need to get some sleep.”
I nod, but suddenly, I don’t want him to leave.
I want him to probe more, ask me questions, force me to talk about everything I’ve vowed to never talk about.
Brutal vows I made, not realizing in the moment what I was signing up for, but I didn’t have a choice.
Or did I? I made the rules; I get to change them, break them.
Imagine telling him everything—
He leans in and presses an unexpected and very soft kiss to my hairline. “G’night.”
This man. All his tender gestures. They’re little sand grains piling up… One day, I’m going to cave under the weight of them all. But this one, this sweet, innocent kiss, cracks my defenses because who is immune to this level of unscripted compassion? Not me. And definitely not me in the long run.
I watch how he walks out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him, leaving me to digest his revelation alone.
Luca chose to tell me that he was the one who scrubbed those photos of me off the internet, which speaks volumes. He is a man with integrity. He doesn’t want to hide things between us or have secrets—
I’m so fucked.
But he has seen those photos of me, taken on the sly while I was asleep. Erotic. Dirty by most people’s standards. Demeaning because they were sent out into the world.
I suck my lip, digesting this turn of events, and come to one conclusion: it’s unfair. He has seen almost all of me, but I haven’t seen anything of him.
And then, of course, the messed-up female in me wonders if he liked what he saw.
With a huff, I drop back to the pillows and kick off the covers, suddenly too hot with the idea of him looking at me, eyes lingering, with his soft touch as he caresses my skin.
My hand reaches for the nightgown covering my legs and slides it up until cooler air flows over me.
I stroke over my thigh, up to my hip, to the line that leads to my sex, my fingertips dipping deeper, meeting wet heat, and a slow throb ripples through me as I touch myself.
As soon as I circle the piercing though, I pull my hand away.
There’s always been something about it, but now, there’s more of a shadow hanging over it than before. I’m married to another man. This isn’t his marking.
Fun as it is—was—I should get rid of the piercing but have no clue how.
It’s not on the top of my to-do list, and I have enough to deal with.
The last thing I need is to explain an unfortunate infection to a doctor.
It is one way to get out of this tower though.
Except they probably have someone who would do a home visit. There’ll be zero privacy.
I turn on my side, giving up. For once, my mind isn’t boiling over with thoughts of Masha, and Varya, and everyone I’m cut off from in Russia.
All I can think of is Luca. The look on his face when he saw me on our wedding day.
I thought the split second of shock was over my black dress, but it was way more than that.
It was those images of me. Realizing that he was marrying the same woman.
Does he still have them?
I sit bolt upright. Does he jerk off to memories of them?
This thought still haunts me when I drag myself out of bed the next morning. Instead of knocking on his door in the middle of the night, demanding he told me where they were, I chose to fret over it and do nothing.
I walk out of my bedroom, feeling like roadkill, and spot Luca behind the kitchen island with his back to me. My breath catches. Good God. He’s naked.
Well, not exactly. A white towel is slung around his neck, and as I take a proper look, I notice grey sweatpants, but they’re hanging low, accentuating the dimples above his perfect ass and the ropes of muscle lining his back.
His broad shoulders, the way they pull and tug as he does something with the coffee machine. This isn’t helping at all.
He senses my presence and turns a bit, hands still busy with the coffee machine. His eyes light up. “Princess! Just in time for coffee.”
“Make it strong, will you,” I say, soaking him in.
He isn’t wet from a shower; that’s gym sweat.
Why must this be such a turn on? I settle on a barstool, making sure my matching robe covers my boobs.
The last thing I need is for him to home in on my breasts and realize my nipples are misbehaving.
For good measure, I gather my hair to drape over my chest.
“Did you manage to fall asleep?” he asks over his shoulder, the concern back in his voice.
“Yes. Thanks for helping with Masha, it really helps.” And that’s no lie. Money could iron out a lot of issues on that side. For one, she can leave if she has to.
“No problem.”
He opens the fridge for the half-and-half and turns to finally give me the view I’ve been salivating for.
The towel covers some of his chest, but those are blank spaces I have no problem coloring in.
The rest of him is pure male perfection, the ridges of his six-pack, his navel, that V disappearing into his pants, and the gathering of hair that leads the eye south.
I force myself to look up as he leans across the counter to push the container my way.
“Those photos of me…” I start, then run out of courage.
“Yes?”
His eyes search my face, and the intensity of his gaze heats up my cheeks.
“Do you still have them?”
He laughs but it’s dry. “You know the answer, princess.”
“I don’t!” He smiles now, and it’s so tender, I want to cry. “Luca!”
“I have them buried under layers and layers of firewall and passwords. I’m the only one who can access them, okay? I don’t see a problem with that since I’m now your huzzzband.”
I drop my head to my hand and sink into my seat. The way he says ‘husband’ cracks me up. “Okay,” I squeak. “We’ll never talk about this again.”
“But I love talking about you, naked, getting naked—”
“Stop! You’re already half-naked.”
“I am. Side effect of working out for two hours.’
“Two hours? Are you mad?” I say, straightening so I can run my gaze over his body.
“Nah, just bored. A habit I developed to keep sane during the curse of being locked up, see?” He grabs the towel’s ends, one in each hand, and lifts it away from his body. “Like what you’re seeing, princess? Tell me it’s been worth it.”
Oh, God, help me already…he is so freaking hot, and I drink him in as if I just crossed the desert and he is water.
My gaze snags on a tattoo on his inner forearm.
Everywhere else, his skin is bare of ink.
Words in some gothic font, almost Cyrillic, which it can’t be because he is Italian not Russian.
“What does the tattoo say?” I ask, wanting to steer the conversation away from the sexual cliff’s edge it’s dangling over. I’d love to know something about his body, something secret like he knows about mine.
“It’s in your blood,” he says without hesitating, dropping his arms and covering his pecs again with the towel.
“What’s in your blood?” I say, trying not to groan in disappointment at something so unpoetic.
“Ha.” He shoots me a crooked half-smile. “Being fucked-up and in the Mafia.”
“Really? That creative, hmm?”
“Listen, it was Stephano’s choice, his way of dealing with shit. I wasn’t consulted, and he had it done before I could stop him. I then drew the line. I wasn’t going to get inked every time he went on a bender, so we both only have this one, exactly the same.”
I shake my head in wonder. “Are you really such a carbon copy of your brother?”
Hidden, basically locked up so the world could only know about the existence of one twin. It’s abuse on a level I can hardly fathom.
“I had to be,” he says as the coffee machine stops gurgling. He pushes a mug in my direction and picks up his espresso where it stood to the side, cooling off. “Mostly.”
“Mostly? What differences are there between you then?”
He tosses back the espresso, puts the cup down, and leans onto the counter, resting on his elbows.
“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” he whispers with a smirk and nods down his body. “Just something to distinguish me from Stephano if ever I end up in a body bag.”
A totally unnecessary heat flushes my cheeks as I’m flooded with ideas of what it could be. Luca is playful, clearly into sex and everything that makes me blush.
“Oh, do tell,” I tease back. And don’t end up in a body bag. I’m starting to suspect that between the two of us, I got the better deal in this arranged-marriage pact. “Do your brothers know what it is?”
He chuckles. “Nope, but just one look and they’ll have no problem telling us apart if it comes to that.”
“Now you have to tell me,” I beg, playful too, matching his tone. “I’m your wife! Wives need to know these things.”
“Too easy, princess.”
“Come on. You have photos of me—”
“Oh, you want to negotiate now?”
“No. What if you two prank me and then I’ll feel like an idiot—”
“Stephano’s in Italy, so as tempting as it is to prank you, it’d be kinda hard to pull off.”
“Still—”
He leans in close and whispers, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Luca!”
With a naughty chuckle, he straightens and walks away. “I need to shower, princess, so guess what, I’m going to leave you hanging.”
And guessing. Wondering…holy fuck. What if…?
I swallow hard, tracking him with my gaze. Those grey sweatpants. That dick print. Oh, my…
He’s hung like a horse. And leaving me gaping.
Asshole.
Gorgeous sexy asshole. Somewhat sweet and considerate asshole.
Goddammit. The man is actually getting to me.