Chapter 8
KARINA
Apparently, Frankie was given instructions to help me purchase an entire new wardrobe yesterday.
Once we were in the car, she had our driver Donovan take us straight to Union Square—Frankie’s favorite area to shop in San Francisco, about an hour south—to visit all of her preferred boutiques.
I was jittery and nervous at first, constantly glancing over my shoulder and being hypervigilant in case my uncle’s goons appeared, but we were flanked by two bodyguards at all times, and soon I started to relax.
As Frankie led me from store to store, greeting some of her sales staff favorites by their names, I realized how it must feel to get treated like a celebrity.
Managers locked their doors so we could browse in private, we were plied with tea cakes and sparkling apple juice (in deference to Frankie’s pregnancy), personal shoppers, stylists, free samples, suggestions for accessories and tailoring.
Since I normally dress very simply, I was happy to let Frankie take the reins on suggesting pieces that would be more appropriate for my day-to-day role as Marco’s wife.
I tried on so many designer outfits, I could barely keep track of them all.
Bottega Veneta for boots and bags, Carolina Herrera for more bags and dresses and suit pieces, TSE for cashmere, La Perla for undies.
Everywhere we went, Frankie received two-cheek kisses and I was introduced to much fanfare and compliments.
Talk about rolling out the red carpet. I’d never experienced anything like it.
And the whole time, Frankie was her usual gracious, warm self, even though I knew she was carrying the heavy burden of her sister’s abduction. She’s exactly what a Bellanti wife should be. All afternoon and into the evening, I couldn’t help wishing she’d rub off onto me.
As for my new wardrobe, well, whipping out the credit card was a bittersweet experience.
It allowed me to purchase everything I fell in love with, but all this Bellanti money is a direct tie to Marco.
I wish I didn’t have to rely on him for anything, but considering I left my family with nothing, I know I don’t have much choice at the moment.
But as I stand here in my bathrobe, I’m paralyzed by the choices before me.
Sure, I have a stunning new wardrobe with every imaginable option available, but I still don’t know how I’m expected to dress.
I mean, what does a Bellanti wife wear on a normal day?
A silk T-shirt tucked into a pencil skirt?
Classic capri pants with a cashmere top?
Maybe a crisp poplin shirtdress with kitten heels?
Frankie, of course, is resplendent in all her flowing sundresses, but I’m not sure I can get away with that kind of bohemian, resort wear look myself. She’s pregnant, after all.
Not that it matters much to anyone else.
Marco and his brothers hardly pay attention to me, and they barely seem to be home lately anyway.
When I mentioned it to Frankie, she’d said not to worry—that the Bellantis frequently get wrapped up in the winery business (or their other activities) and end up spending ungodly hours at their offices.
How does she stand Dante working that kind of schedule?
Especially with the baby coming so soon? I’d be losing my mind.
Then again, I’m sure Dante is quick to pick up her calls or rush to her side as needed. I’ve seen the way he looks at Frankie. She’s his whole world.
I’d never expect the same from Marco.
Speaking of, my husband is currently running around getting everything ready for his car unveiling in a couple of hours.
I don’t know the details, just that this is a big deal to him, but there have been catering trucks and event rental trucks and all manner of other services going in and out of the property since before sunrise.
Frankie mentioned there’s a gathering space behind the winery where Bellanti events are usually held, so I’m assuming that’s where we’ll be, but I don’t know for certain.
Presumably I’ll be fetched when it’s time for me to appear and play my role.
Like the good little Bellanti wife I’m supposed to be.
Slowly running my fingers over the fine fabric of my new clothes on their hangers, I pause at a linen dress that is typical of what I’d normally wear. Modest, classic lines, clean and simple. This event can’t be that fancy, right? I mean…it’s just a car reveal. This will do nicely.
Pulling it from the closet, I hold the dress against my body in front of the full-length mirror and sigh with pleasure.
It’s a sage green that complements my warm Mediterranean skin, sleeveless, with a deep but narrow V-neck that somehow manages to show zero cleavage and a hem that falls just past my knees.
The vertical pleats in the skirt add some movement and keep the whole thing from looking too matriarchal.
It cost me—no, Marco—over two thousand dollars and fits like it was cut for my body.
I plan to wear it until it’s a tattered rag, I love it so much.
“Absolutely not.”
My head snaps around and I find Marco standing behind me in dark blue slacks and a cream shirt that hugs his muscled torso so perfectly, it must be bespoke. I was so absorbed in my reflection, like some kind of narcissist, I didn’t even hear him come in. Serves me right.
“But…but this is nice,” I sputter.
“Not for this event. I’ll choose for you,” he says.
I clench my jaw and resist the urge to roll my eyes. Well, well. It seems Marco is turning into Pietro, flexing his control over what I put on my body.
“Fine,” I grind out, stepping aside so he can see what’s in the closet. “Be my guest.”
I go to the bathroom and get to work on my hair and makeup.
I can’t let Marco squash the fresh bit of confidence and hope that spending all day yesterday with Frankie gave me.
But it’s no use. My hands tremble as I apply my eyeliner, and I can’t deny that the tension Marco always drums up in me is back.
Full force. The ache and the wanting, the feeling I’m on the tip of my toes just waiting for something to happen between us. As usual, it overrides everything else.
Damn him.
“Here,” Marco says from behind me.
I don’t even get the chance to turn around before he reaches around my waist and grabs the tie of my robe, unknotting it and sliding it down my shoulders.
I gasp indignantly as he tugs my robe to the floor, leaving me standing there in my new white bra and panties.
It’s nothing all that scandalous or revealing—just an unlined lace bralette and matching briefs—but I hear his sharp intake of breath as if he’s just stripped me naked.
Our eyes catch in the mirror, and a fresh wave of heat rushes through me. Marco groans softly, his grip sliding gently over the curve of my hips, his fingers tracing back up to caress my hipbones. My skin instantly reacts with a tornado of sensation. How does he make me feel so—
“These are new,” he says, eyeing my panty set in the glass.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice taut with desire.
Fighting the urge to lean back against him, I stiffen as he lets go of my hips and turns to pull one of my new blouses off its hanger, slipping it over my head.
As I work my arms through the sleeves, he drops to his knees and helps me step into a pair of shorts.
Once he slides them up my legs, thighs, and over my hips, he takes his time with the buttons that run up the side.
My whole body is fire. I can’t stop imagining Marco bending me over the vanity and working his fingers down the front of the shorts, fingering me to a near-instant climax as he sucks my earlobe and grinds his dick against my ass.
I’m practically trembling under his capable hands.
But then, after setting a pair of heels next to me, Marco leaves without another word.
The second I hear the bedroom door close, I gasp out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Pietro sure as hell never dressed me like that. Never dressed me at all, thank God.
Surveying myself in the closet mirror, still trying to cool myself down, I realize I don’t completely hate the outfit.
It’s a simple ensemble, really, but Marco’s choice of fabrics makes it seem very elegant.
The sapphire blue silk top is lightweight and hangs loosely off one shoulder.
The shorts are cream-colored, tailored, with neatly cuffed hems. They’re quite short, yes, but they aren’t tight or overly flashy—which is why I let Frankie talk me into getting them in the first place, since I’d never considered the practicality of dress shorts before.
The strappy nude heels are the cherry on top.
And then I realize something. With Marco’s navy slacks and cream button down, we’ll actually match.
Did he do that on purpose, or was it subconscious? Hm.
On the bed, I find a small emerald green clutch and a pair of gold hoop earrings laid out. I put them on, and add a delicate gold necklace from Shreve I still don’t know what Marco truly wants.
Or what he wants from me, specifically.
Marco is standing at the base of the staircase waiting when I come down the hallway. He looks up from messing with his cuff and then watches me as I move toward him. I flush at his attention and drop my gaze to my feet, if only to keep myself from nervously tripping over myself.