Chapter 6
GINA
Iwake up in an enormous bed, the sheets crisp and luxurious against my skin. My head is pounding a little from last night’s Champagne.
It’s not until I squint my eyes open and see the sun streaming in that I remember where I am.
Dante’s penthouse.
The view of Manhattan stretches out forever. I’ve never slept somewhere this fancy in my entire life.
Dante.
I can still smell him on the pillow next to mine. His musky cologne has a touch of cedar in it. Yet it’s mixed with something raw and primal that makes my cheeks flush.
The sheets lay tangled around my legs. And there’s a slight but delicious soreness between my thighs that reminds me exactly what happened last night.
I run my fingers over the empty space where his body had been.
It’s still warm.
Where has he disappeared to?
Rolling over, I remember the way he kissed me last night.
Dante hardly said a word. But when he claimed me, I felt he was making me his woman in the most literal way possible.
And I especially remember the way he held me as I drifted off to sleep.
Forcing myself to rise, I look over at my shredded wedding dress near the floor-to-ceiling windows. So much for that.
When Alice and I were kids, we talked of saving our wedding dresses for our daughters.
Now, Dante’s daughter will have to buy hers at a shop, like every other bride.
In the shower, I cleanse my body with a rose-scented body wash. I feel a tender ache when I lather between my thighs.
Sore, yes, but I smile as I remember that moment he claimed me.
When I run soap over my hip, I wince and look down.
A bruise blooms where his hand gripped me. Four faint marks in the shape of his fingertips, or so I imagine. I press it gently and feel him through the soreness, like he’s still there under my skin.
I get out of the shower and dry myself with a heated fluffy towel. Then I shrug the towel off and look at my naked body in the full-length mirror.
A smaller mark sits high on my breast where his mouth had been. I brush my thumb across it. It pulses back at me.
Dante claimed my body last night as his and his alone. As if I were a priceless possession.
But where is Dante now? His own bedroom? The sacred place he warned me not to enter?
Is this the way it’s going to be for the rest of our married lives?
As I wrap myself in towels and back out into the bedroom, my phone pings. It’s a text from Alice. In it, a smirking emoji and a big question mark are followed by, Details, please!
I text her that we’ll talk later and quickly get ready for my day. As I pick through my suitcase, I realize I haven’t packed much. Mostly jeans and T-shirts.
Mom said something about buying clothes once I got to New York, but what kind of clothes? Where will I be going?
The scent of brewing coffee wafts towards me. Is Dante up and making coffee for me?
As I walk out to the living room, the Manhattan view mesmerizes me at once. It’s even more spectacular in daylight.
Yet what I didn’t notice last night are all the pictures of Dante’s late wife, Mary.
I’ve only seen her once during that harvest party night so many years ago. But who else could the woman in the silver frames be?
Her image is everywhere. On the mantel above the fireplace, behind the sofa, on the bookshelf.
I step closer to examine the photos. She’s attractive, I’ll give her that, though her looks are not conventional.
She resembles a modern day vampire more than anything else, with long, jet-black hair and a statuesque physique.
Her vibrant red lips even make her look like she’s feasted on fresh blood.
But that’s not what draws me in. Even in a photo, she radiates a magnetic charisma that’s impossible to miss.
I force myself to turn away.
When I reach the kitchen, I find Ciro behind the counter. He’s dressed in a sleek navy suit similar to what he wore last night.
“Good morning, Mrs. Ricci.”
I nearly look behind me. Then I remember I’m Mrs. Ricci.
“Good morning, Ciro,” I say, jumping up a bit to reach the tall seat at the island.
“I have coffee for you,” he says. “And what may I make you for breakfast?”
I accept the coffee with gratitude. “Are you the cook, too?”
He chuckles. “Mr. Ricci employs both a housekeeper and the occasional personal chef.”
“Why occasional?”
“Mr. Ricci often dines out. The chef is for when he entertains at home. What can I bring you?”
“I’ll eat when Dante—I mean, Mr. Ricci gets up. What time would that be?”
“Mr. Ricci typically rises quite early, usually around dawn for his trainer and workouts before he goes to the office. I imagine he’ll text you tonight about dinner plans. Can I make you an omelet?”
“No. Cereal will be fine. Do you have Cap’n Crunch?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe. What did I just say? Why not just go ahead and ask for Lucky Charms?
“I’m afraid we don’t have that, but I’ll make sure it’s delivered for tomorrow’s breakfast. Can I tempt you with home-cooked oatmeal?”
“No thanks,” I say, hearing the sound of a vacuum cleaner coming from the back of the apartment. “I’ll just take my coffee and go to my room...”
But as I step away, I wonder what Dante expects me to do all day.
As I walk down the hallway, I see the housekeeper inside a room that’s neither mine nor Dante’s.
Can this be Mary’s room?
Angie said she’d heard he keeps her bedroom as it had been when she was living. Like a shrine to his devotion to her.
A moment later, the housekeeper shuts the door partially when she leaves the room.
That’s my cue to step forward and push the door open.
The bedroom is similar to mine in size.
But the décor is Art Deco. Very dramatic. And I can see one of those old-fashioned desks used back when women made a big deal of sitting down to apply their makeup.
Mary Ricci has been dead for approximately six months now.
Why are her things still here? Why does the housekeeper bother cleaning it?
And why are her photographs still all over the living room?
Seems Angie was right. Dante is still obsessed with Mary.
I step further into the room, feeling my skin prickling at my neck. Why do I feel as if I’m doing something wrong? It’s my house now, isn’t it?
As I gaze at the chair before her vanity table, I imagine beautiful Mary sitting in it. Perhaps stroking her glossy black hair with her silver comb.
I jump back when the image of her smirking back at me through the mirror becomes a little too vivid.
Catching my breath, I move to her bedstand. A gorgeous diary with gold leaf embossment sits on it. Its pages are tantalizingly spread open. A sleek fountain pen lies on top as if she just finished a journal entry.
What was it she had written?
I take a step forward, my breath catching as I reach down to pick it up.
Just before the first sentence comes into focus, I hear the sound of quick footsteps.
My eyes snap to the doorway where Dante stands.
“Dante...” I murmur, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “I was just having breakfast and saw the open door.”
He strides into the room, each footstep heavy on the wooden floor.
Dante’s dark eyes lock onto mine, cold and suspicious, making me feel like he can see straight through my lie.
I try to breathe. But the air between us feels thick and dangerous. Like right before a thunderstorm breaks.
“You are never to enter this room again. Is this understood?”
I nod frantically, my voice coming out small and shaky. “Yes, Dante, yes.”
My body instinctively shrinks away from him, shoulders hunching.
His right arm twitches at his side. Muscles coiling beneath his sleeve like a snake about to strike.
I can almost feel the sting of his palm against my cheek before it hits.
My stomach knots up tight.
But he stops short of striking me.
“Now leave.” His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jumping near his ear.
I rush out of Mary’s room to my own, closing the door tight behind me.
My new husband almost hits me.
His muscular arm reaches out to strike me.
And his eyes. Those intense black eyes pierce me in a glance.
Which is maybe more devastating than the sting of the slap itself.
Yet what I don’t understand is the way I go hot from neck to knees. The same way I did last night when he snipped my dress away.
And marked me with his scent.
I cross to my bed and stare at the empty dent in his pillow.
Just hours ago I discovered how a powerful man like Dante claims a woman.
Yet if he declared me his alone, why is he still so obsessed with Mary?
Lying back on my pillow, I inhale his still-there scent. The cedar of his cologne has penetrated the linen, mixing with the intoxicating aroma of pure male arousal.
I close my eyes and imagine last evening all over again.
Through the thin silk of my panties, I press my forefinger against the area near my clit and feel myself grow moist.
Very slowly, I trace the shape of my pussy. The fabric drags just enough so I feel a pleasant friction against my nub.
I circle through the silk, light and steady. A pleasant sensation builds with each pass.
My mind imagines Dante’s hands at the foot of the bed last night. Snipping my dress away with his silver scissors. My nipples hardening as the cool air hit them through my lingerie.
Then the way Dante said good girl with his lips at my throat.
My fingers work their circles and my breath hitches. Yet in my mind’s eye, it’s Dante’s calloused thumb that is touching me. His weight pinning me into the mattress. The flat of his palm closing over my wrists.
Mine, he’d said.
I come fast and hard, biting my lip so the men can’t hear my aborted scream.
The orgasm is so sharp through the silk it almost hurts. I curl onto my side afterward, breathing into the pillow that smells just like him.
For a long minute I don’t move.
My body is calm.
But my mind is not.
I just brought myself to orgasm thinking about a man who clearly resents me in his life.
Entering Mary’s room was a mistake. I had no idea of its repercussions.
Will Dante never allow me to share his bed again?
Will Dante send me away? Back to my parents?
I force myself to stop the negative thinking. In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face.
Then I pull on jeans and a sweater and call Angie.
“It’s Gina. Want to get some coffee?”