Chapter 30
Thirty
Another day, another plane ride, the hum of the engines a constant backdrop to my thoughts. It’s been two days since the incident at the club, and I’ve settled into a comfortable routine with Vitali. One thing I truly appreciate about my new husband is his ability to let go of the past when it’s unnecessary to cling to it. I disobeyed, he had punished me, and from what I can gather, all is forgiven. While most people might hold my recklessness against me, he has chosen to let bygones be bygones, and I can’t help but feel a growing affection for him because of that. Vitali could easily wield it against me or withhold his trust, but he hasn’t.
Our flight takes off in the stillness of early morning, the sky a pale wash of dawn colors. Once we level off, I recline, resting my head gently on my husband’s lap, and drift into sleep for the entire journey to our destination.
Miami. The vibrant, sun-drenched city that Vitali calls home.
This trip feels different. Adrian and Kenzo are absent, leaving just the two of us and the loyal men Vitali keeps by his side .
The thick, sultry heat of Miami grips me by the throat as I descend the plane’s steps, each breath feeling like I’m inhaling warm, wet cotton. Vitali stands beside me, a smirk playing on his lips, clearly entertained by my reaction to the oppressive humidity—a stark contrast to Rome’s dry, crisp air. His hazel-eyed glance is like a slithering viper, sliding up and down my body. It isn’t the sort of look you grow accustomed to. It is heated and possessive…as if he has etched his name into every inch of me.
“Too hot for you?” he teases, his voice a low, rumbling purr that carries a hint of amusement at my discomfort. His rough fingers intertwine with mine swiftly, a silent declaration to the men waiting on the tarmac. They nod in deference, acknowledging the power dynamic between us as we stride toward the fleet of sleek black SUVs idling nearby.
“Never,” I retort, my voice laced with defiance as I tug slightly against his grip, provoking the familiar possessive glint to ignite in his eyes when he tightens his hold. Vitali exudes the aura of a mafia boss. Each step he takes resonates with authority. He pauses occasionally to confer with a few men tasked with readying the plane for our upcoming departure in a few days.
He doesn’t bother with introductions, yet they all recognize me. Their eyes linger, some with curiosity, others with suspicion. Many of these men once served under Vitali’s father and followed Vitali to the States after his exile. They know my father betrayed the family, but I am determined to earn their respect on my own terms. To show them that I am not my father.
“Gia,” Vitali calls my name softly, drawing my attention back to him. I inhale deeply, plastering a calm smile on my face as I meet my husband’s gaze. “This is Marcello,” he introduces, nodding toward the man beside him. Marcello, younger and closer to my age, stands nearly as tall as Vitali but with a broader, stockier build. His dark blond hair is slicked back, accentuating the striking intensity of his whiskey-colored eyes.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” Marcello nods his head at me, his expression as serious and flat. “I look forward to the task of being your guard.” His words are formal, almost rehearsed, with a hint of duty that leaves little room for warmth.
I can already tell he will be a bundle of fun to have around.
“Thank you,” I reply, forcing a polite smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” The truth is, I’m not thrilled, but that’s a matter for another day. I won’t complain to my husband about him getting me such a stick in the mud for security, especially not in front of all his men.
After a moment of silence that stretches like a long shadow, Vitali nods at Marcello, then gives me an odd glance—a fleeting look that carries a message I can’t quite decipher, before leading me toward Dario. The man iswaiting patiently by one of the sleek, black SUVs, his posture relaxed yet alert. As we approach, he opens the back door of the passenger side with a smooth, practiced motion, and I slide in, casting him a grateful smile.
Vitali settles into the seat beside me, his presence reassuring, while Dario takes his place behind the steering wheel, his hands finding their familiar grip. To my surprise, Marcello joins Dario up front, slipping into the passenger seat silently, his lips pressed into a thin line. The atmosphere in the vehicle is tense, charged with the unspoken roles we play.
The world outside blurs into a vibrant tapestry as we weave our way toward the sun-drenched outskirts of Miami. The relentless sun blazes down on the shimmering concrete streets, casting sharp shadows that dance beneath the city’s towering structures. Miami is a city of the present, its skyline dominated by sleek, twisting edifices of glass and metal that stretch desperately toward the heavens.
The boardwalk is full of women parading in freshly tanned skin, their confidence accentuated by the smallest bikinis that leave little to the imagination. They sip colorful cocktails, their eyes scanning the scene with amusement as the men around them jostle for attention, their antics bordering on the ridiculous.
The streets, surprisingly immaculate, gleam under the bright sunlight—a rare sight in cities teeming with this much life and noise. That might be due to our current path along the picturesque shoreline, where affluence is palpable. Luxury cars gleam beside the curbs, and the air is filled with the rustle of designer fabrics that rival the opulence of Rome during fashion week.
This vibrant scene is a stark contrast to the more conservative sights I’m accustomed to in Italy, where women typically reserve their skin-baring attire for the beach or poolside. Here, the men and women, clad in barely there garments, dine leisurely in chic restaurants, their casual elegance both foreign and fascinating to me.
I glance down at my attire, a modest navy Ralph Lauren knee-length button-down shirtdress, an internal sigh escaping me. My eyes flicker to Vitali, who is engrossed in a lively conversation with Dario. I can’t help but wonder what he truly desires. Would he prefer a woman like those confidently striding past our window, or does he genuinely want someone like me—a twenty-two-year-old recently devirginized Italian who never even kissed anyone before him ?
He insists he would never stray, but how enduring are such promises? What if one day, he sees me as nothing more than a plain, unexciting wife, devoid of friends and hobbies beyond the comforts of cooking and sewing? Though Vitali’s attention is currently occupied with executing my father and Salvatore, I can’t help but question the longevity of his loyalty.
Before long, Dario is steering the SUV toward a small, gated entry point perched at the top of a gently sloping hill. He presents his badge to the vigilant security guard who meticulously scans it before returning it to Dario and activating the gate’s mechanism with a soft buzz. The tall wrought iron gate swings open without a whisper, allowing Dario to continue. The road is smoothly paved, curving gracefully down towards the house. Majestic bushes line each side of the drive, their dense foliage creating an intimate cocoon of seclusion and tranquility.
The moment the SUV pulls into the driveway, my breath catches in my throat. The house is a vision in white, crisp and elegant against the lush greenery that surrounds it. Sunlight filters through the palm trees, casting shifting shadows across the perfectly paved driveway.
Everything about it is pristine. Modern, yet has the timeless perfection of the old Italian architecture. When the engine shuts off, I climb out of the car, heart pounding. This place isn’t just a house. It’s a statement. A sanctuary. A castle hidden behind the palm fronds and tropical hush. And for the first time in a long time, I wonder if this is the place I can finally call home.