Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
Vitali sits in his office, the muffled sound of his phone conversations drifting through the half-open door, while I meander around the kitchen, my stomach rumbling in anticipation. The countertops are generously spread with breakfast options, and my eyes linger on an assortment of Italian pastries that instantly make my mouth water. I reach for a sfogliatella , its golden, flaky layers forming a delicate shell around a sweet, creamy filling that promises pure delight. Placing it gently on a small, white plate, I set it on the kitchen island, its inviting aroma filling the air as I turn my attention to the quest for caffeine.
Just beyond the main kitchen, tucked into a cozy serving nook, I find a coffee bar that rivals most American cafés. It boasts a sleek, top-of-the-line espresso maker, gleaming under the soft kitchen lights. I swiftly engage the machine, flipping switches to heat it up while reaching for the portafilter resting beside a jar filled with rich, dark pre-ground coffee beans. The earthy scent rises as I fill the portafilter, tamping it down with practiced ease.
Crouching down, I open the small fridge nestled beneath the bar and survey the neatly arranged assortment of milks. My hand settles on the whole milk, its creamy promise unmatched by the alternatives.
“You certainly can’t milk an oat,” I murmur to myself with a chuckle, pouring the precise amount into the stainless-steel milk pitcher. With the familiarity of an old habit, I immerse myself in the ritual of crafting a latte, the whirring of the steam wand a comforting symphony to my morning routine.
Soon, I’m leisurely sipping on my creamy latte at the polished dining room table, a half-eaten sfogliatella resting temptingly in front of me. Don’t judge; it’s already my third one this morning, and each delicate pastry bursts with layers of flaky goodness and a hint of citrusy sweetness. Now, however, with my stomach pleasantly full and my latte nearly finished, a wave of boredom washes over me.
Vitali’s penthouse, a sleek expanse of modern luxury, isn’t exactly designed for entertainment, at least not the kind that keeps me engaged. The spacious living room boasts a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, but I’ve never found joy in the passive act of watching movies or shows. In my father’s house, such idle distractions were discouraged, replaced by more meaningful pursuits that demanded attention and intellect.
He lacks a library filled with books, and the entire place is already immaculate, leaving nothing to tidy up. Well, perhaps the bedsheets could use some attention, but I’m not quite prepared to tackle that task just yet.
“This is for you,” Vitali’s voice breaks through my silent contemplation.
Startled, I nearly jump out of my skin. “ Dio mio . You scared the crap out of me. You should wear bells when you walk. You’re far too stealthy for someone with your build,” I exclaim, my heart still racing from his unexpected presence.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says with a warm smile, placing a brand-new iPhone on the table in front of me. Its sleek design catches the light, and I can’t help but admire its smooth glass finish. “I’ve already programmed my number and a few others in there as well. Dario’s is in there, so if you ever need anything and can’t reach me, you can call him.”
“Right. Thank you,” I reply, my voice a blend of gratitude and awe. I nod my head, my fingers lightly tracing the polished surface of the phone. It’s the first time I’ve held a device of my own, and the novelty of it must be evident on my face because Vitali leans closer, his presence reassuring and familiar.
With a swift swipe of his finger, the screen comes to life, revealing a photo from our wedding. In the image, he’s kissing me, his hand is woven into my hair, eyes closed, capturing the deep desire of that moment.
This was the instant we became husband and wife, a memory etched in the pixels of the phone, symbolizing a new beginning. If only it meant something other than just another strategizing play on his chessboard.
“This is where you make your calls,” he explains patiently, pressing the vibrant green phone icon that stands out against the sleek screen. His fingers move deftly, guiding me through the process of setting up my voicemail with careful instructions, ensuring I grasp each step.
He also demonstrates how to add and edit contact information, navigating the menus with practiced ease. As I explore the list of contacts, I realize that it’s not just him and Dario on the phone. There are nearly a dozen names, each one a thread connecting me to this new world. I spot Vanya’s, Evaline’s, Adrian’s, Kenzo’s, and several others from yesterday’s gathering at McDonough’s.
Tears well up at the corners of my eyes as he plants a gentle kiss on the side of my head, a tender farewell before he departs, leaving me to become more familiar with my new device. The room feels quieter as he steps away, his presence lingering like a soft whisper.
He still has several meetings to attend, and he’s leaving me alone for a few hours, the air filled with a sense of loneliness and solitude, while he ventures out with Adrian and Kenzo. Sighing, I grab a bottle of water and make myself comfortable on the large couch, cuddling up with one of the blankets from the closet as I scroll through my phone.
I’m thrilled to discover that he has downloaded a reading app just for me. With a grin, I eagerly select a romance novel and dive into its pages. Soon, I am lost. Lost in the dark, gritty underworld of Matthew Rizzo’s world, a notorious mob boss who rules the streets of Chicago with an iron fist.
His seductive power and his fierce authority have me spiraling down a vortex of danger. This isn’t even my reality, yet I’ve become intertwined with the raw allure he holds. Immersed in his world, caught up in their twisted mafia romance.
My eyes dart across each word, each sentence, drinking in the intoxicating narrative like a deliciously dangerous elixir. Pages fly by as though they are seconds ticking away, yet each one etches itself vividly into my mind; painting a bewitching tableau of ruthless men and their daring loves.
His fingers dance across Silvia’s moonlit skin as if it were his own personal canvas. The description of their forbidden tryst sends chills racing down my spine, lighting a strange warmth deep within me. I can’t help but mirror her emotions as if they are my own—she is just as fiery and vulnerable as me.
The room around me spins into a blurry background while Silvia’s encounters intertwine with my imagination. Matthew’s magnetic pull draws me closer, and for a fleeting moment, I harbor a longing to be Silvia, to feel his rough edges against my eager skin.
“God,” I murmur softly, unaware of how tightly I’m gripping my phone. “Why can’t this be real?” The weight of that longing is more intense than I expected. Although I’m experiencing my own mafia story with Vitali, unlike the mob boss in my novel who would sacrifice everything for his beloved, I am merely a pawn to my husband.
I drop my phone onto my lap and let out a heavy sigh.
As I glance out the large window beside me, I’m surprised to see the sun much lower in the sky than I anticipated. How long have I been engrossed in reading?
My eyes find the clock on the wall—it’s almost dinnertime. The room is now cloaked in a dim haze, the morning sun replaced by the relentless passage of time. I’ve spent hours absorbed in Matthew Rizzo’s perilous world, and the thought makes my stomach churn.
The entire day has slipped away. Have I squandered it? Or perhaps, in this lonely and shadowed existence, it was the best way to pass the time. Immersing myself in a world far removed from my own. After all, real life in the mafia isn’t nearly as thrilling. Maybe experiencing Silvia’s bittersweet romance with Matthew Rizzo wasn’t such a waste after all.
Double-checking the phone to make sure I haven’t missed anything; I realize that there haven’t been any missed calls or messages. It’s nearly six in the evening and Vitali hasn’t called or checked in once.
Me
Where are you?
It doesn’t take long for Vitali to respond to my text, but bitter disappointment fills me when I see it.
Vitali aka Diablo
Out. I’ll be back later.
Me
You’ve been gone all day. Should I make dinner?
Vitali aka Diablo
Don’t bother.
Don’t bother. Vitali’s text throbs in my head like a persistent migraine, each word a disappointment echoing loudly and painfully. The cold language of his text message after his warmth this morning feels like ice against the flames of our fiery relationship. Words as sharp as jagged diamonds, slicing through me with swift, brutal ease.
What I don’t bother doing is responding. Is this how my days will be spent? Sitting at home with nothing to occupy my time, just waiting for my husband to show up? At least at my father’s house, I had more activities. Even though my father paid little attention to me or let me leave the compound frequently, he always ensured I had things to keep me entertained.
When I tap on his contact, my eyes are drawn to a small map nestled at the bottom of the screen, where a blue dot pulses rhythmically. Intrigued, I scroll down further and press on the map, only to discover that it reveals his current location.
The name that appears is Clovers
He’s out at a nightclub?
Fuck this.
Placing my phone gently on the table, I wander toward the bedroom, anticipation bubbling beneath my skin. I begin to rummage through my suitcase, fingers brushing against the smooth fabric of my carefully packed clothes. My search leads me to a striking satin dress, its rich crimson hue shimmering in the soft light of the room.
The elegant garment boasts a ruched tulip hem that adds a playful yet sophisticated flair, while the daring plunging neckline promises to make a statement. It’s one of the outfits I remember Peter thoughtfully placing in the suitcase, and its luxurious texture and vivid color captivate my senses and will show Vitali exactly what he is missing.
I grab a sleek pair of matching heels, their glossy finish catching the light as I slide them on. With a quick, practiced motion, I tease my hair, adding just the right amount of volume. Thankfully, I still have the fake I.D. that Vitali had crafted for me before leaving New Orleans—a small but crucial lifeline. My next challenge is figuring out how to slip away from here without drawing any attention.
Surprisingly, escaping proves easier than anticipated. The elevator descends directly into the garage, a vast, echoing space devoid of any prying eyes or lurking figures. Relief washes over me as I realize I won’t have to confront any of Vitali’s men, a tense encounter that would have had them marching me back upstairs.
As I step into the dimly lit garage, a more daunting task presents itself. Leaving the penthouse was the easy part; reaching my destination will be the real challenge, especially since I have no money, leaving me unable to afford an Uber or taxi. I pull up the map on my phone, exhaling a sigh of relief when I see that the club is merely a few blocks away from the hotel, conveniently close to McDonough’s.
The website for the club also says that it is ladies’ night, which means the cover is free. One last thing I don’t need to worry about.
I hug myself to keep warm as I walk to the club, the fall breeze whipping into me. Twenty minutes later, I am handing the bouncer my I.D. trying not to look uncomfortable and out of place as he inspects it. He looks between me and the card several times, one brow raised before he hands me the I.D. back, lifts the red rope, and motions for me to go ahead. It’s a small feat, I know, but I feel like I’ve just won the Olympics.
The pulsing music thrums through my body, a palpable vibration, as I step into the club. The room is a kaleidoscope of flashing colorful lights that burst from every corner, casting vivid patterns on the sea of people. A barely clothed server glides past me with a tray brimming with glittering drinks, each bottle and glass shimmering under the strobe lights.
Holy shit, this is far more intense than I had imagined. It’s worth mentioning that I’ve never set foot in a club before, and this wild scene defies all my expectations.
Women, adorned in scanty attire, writhe atop tables, their bodies swaying with the rhythm, while others are ensconced within cages scattered throughout the vast building. The space is jam-packed, a throng of bodies moving in sync with the music, and I have to carefully navigate to avoid colliding with anyone.
The club towers three stories high, a labyrinth of levels, each guarded by a formidable bouncer at the stairwells. It seems the higher you ascend, the more exclusive and extravagant the perks become.
My stomach twists in knots as bodies meld together, grinding in a feverish dance, hands, lips, and tongues exploring one another with unrestrained passion. The lights are dimmed just enough to allow couples to indulge in near-complete privacy, their intimate encounters becoming mere shadows on the dance floor.
Is this really where my husband chooses to spend his time while he’s in Seattle?
I swallow back the urge to vomit that my husband might have grabbed one of the women from the dance floor to take back to a private room and fuck her. Just thinking about it makes me want to douse the building in lighter fluid and set this place ablaze.
Even if our marriage isn’t about love—I’ll be damned if he’ll lay his hands on me after fucking another chick. One thing I won’t tolerate is being made a fool of. And if Vitaly De Luca thinks he can marry me, fuck me, and then sleep around with other women, then he hasn’t seen exactly what I am capable of yet.
But he will.