Chapter Nine
Isabella’s POV
Everything had been going pretty well, so far.
The plan to get closer to Mikhail in order to gain his trust has had no hitches whatsoever.
I’d gone into typical wife mode since I woke up (after wading through memories of last night), and it had been going smoothly.
It would go on this way until it was time for me to pull the rug out from under him.
Of course, I wasn’t stupid enough to expect him to be swept away immediately or even soon.
Mikhail’s pauses and curious glances told me he was trying to gauge my actions and behavior.
But that wasn’t a problem. If anything, it was an added reason, an incentive, for me to keep at it and make him come to truly trust me.
If he’d just trusted me blindly and gone all in, he wouldn’t think twice before putting it aside if something suspicious happened.
But if the trust came slowly after his second-guessing everything he did, his brain would remind him of how much he had come to trust me, and that would just make it easier for me to ruin him from the very core.
So, from how private his penthouse is to his attraction towards my body, I had more than enough tools at my disposal to work my plan. It would all be perfect in the end.
“These pancakes are good. Very good,” he remarked, gobbling up the pancakes on his plate.
“You said as much the first time. They’re just pancakes. Why is it so surprising?”
“I am surprised.”
“Uh, why?”
“Your father has a large staff, I know that,” he started. “You definitely never had to cook for yourself or anyone else, for that matter. So, yes, I’m surprised you can cook, and you’re good at it.”
I chuckled.
“The fact that my dad’s house was always so full of people was probably what I hated the most about it.
It still always felt so…empty. Cooking was something I mostly did for the sense of control it gave me, even if it was temporary,” I explained, looking back down to my pancakes as I cut another piece.
“And they always allowed you. I mean, the staff. And even your father.”
“Nope. But I can only be stopped if I want to be stopped,” I revealed, looking up to meet his pale blue eyes.
“I bet that’s true,” he answered with a small chuckle, clearly not catching the double-meaning my words had.
“Hm.”
We continued eating in silence for a few more minutes until his plate, which was to my left, became empty.
I looked up from the table, only to meet a gaze that wasn’t characteristic of him.
There was no smirk, no silent show of power, no calculation.
It was just him…looking. Maybe appraising.
His eyes didn’t drift away even as my gaze met his.
“What? Want another mountain of pancakes?” I asked, attempting humor despite the puzzlement nagging at me.
“Nope,” he answered, shaking his head for an emphasis I definitely didn’t need. “Waiting for you to finish. To pack the plates.”
“I’ll do it. You can go to work, your warehouse, or wherever it is that you mafia bosses go to every day,” I answered, randomly gesturing towards him with my fork.
His lips curved in the tiniest fraction of a smile, but he didn’t say anything.
“I lived with mafia people almost all my life, so I know how these things work. So, get going,” I went on.
“You’re beautiful. Adorable,” he said, his tone low and deep.
“Right,” I drawled sarcastically, going back to my lovely food.
I’d be lying if I said his compliment didn’t scatter my thoughts for a second there.
“I work from home sometimes. And, this is one of those times. I mean, I just got married yesterday,” he casually clarified.
“Okay.”
“You should be here. On my left,” he let out, making me look in his direction again to see him gesturing to the vacant chair opposite mine. “You’re my wife. The space on my left is for you. Always.”
Thinking better of informing him that I would sit wherever I wanted to, I answered, “Okay.”
He was silent as I finished my food and just as I dragged the chair back to stand, he uttered, “No. Just sit.”
Rising to his feet, he grabbed my plate, put it in his, and took them to the kitchen.
“Don’t come. I’ll be done in a minute,” he instructed as he made his way into the kitchen.
So I sat back in my chair instead of following him. Idly, I looked around the sitting room, which was now my home, after all. I imagined myself cozied up beneath a soft blanket in one of the couches facing the drape-covered windows.
That wouldn’t be bad at all.
If circumstances were different, I might have liked being here, in this space. But, despite things being the way they were, I couldn’t say I hated the calm and private energy the whole place gave off.
“Are you sore?”
Mikhail’s voice startled me back to sitting upright.
“What?” I asked, hoping he had said something other than what I thought I heard.
He came to lean against the dining table, his body just inches away from my hand on the table.
“It was your…first time. I should have asked earlier, but I woke up before you, and I had to get started with work. And…and I couldn’t wake you. It hasn’t come up since,” he explained, sighing.
I had never heard Mikhail stumble over his words. Never.
Is the all-powerful mafia boss rambling? Is he nervous? Anxious? Uneasy?
“Yeah, it hasn’t,” I replied as it was clear he was waiting for me to say something.
“So…are you?” he prompted, his eyes on me like they were on a mission to search out how sore I was.
“Oh, a bit. But, I’ll be fine,” I answered, looking away, finding out he wasn’t the only one feeling uneasy.
“I’m sorry. I should have been more gentle,” he muttered.
There was something delicate about his expression that made me place my hand on his knee as I told him, “It’s always like that the first time. It’s not anything you did. Or didn’t do.”
I hadn’t expected his hand to come over mine as he nodded at me, but it did just that. And the heat my hand was trapped between heated up other parts of me, like my face and a lot lower.
“Talking about it makes…”
…me feel exposed to you.
“Let’s just not talk about it,” I concluded, shaking my head.
“Why should we talk about it when we can just do it? Everywhere. On every flat surface. Anytime.”
His heated gaze on my face and his low voice made it hard not to imagine what he was describing.
I pulled my hand from beneath his, pretending to adjust the collar of the shirt I was wearing.
“Let’s see a movie. Or two,” he opined, smiling.
“Or three,” I added, chuckling.
“I’ll order lunch. No cooking, just relaxing like a honeymooning couple.”
Right. We were that now.
“But you have work to do. I…”
“The empire won’t come crashing down because of my absence. I don’t have much to do today, anyway,” he uttered, going ahead of me into the sitting room.
“Okay.”
I sat on the three-seater leather sofa facing the television as he went to pick up the remote control.
Then he picked a smaller remote control from the center table as he approached the sofa.
Plopping down right beside me, he sat back, his cotton T-shirt riding up a little to show the band of his Calvin Klein boxers.
“What do you want to watch?” he inquired, pressing the smaller remote control.
The lights, which had been bright and normal, darkened into an intense blue, with the ceiling borders giving a faint yellowish glow. It was beautiful. And intimate.
“We don’t want to start feeling guilty for seeing movies in the morning,” he remarked, dropping the remote beside him and picking up the other one.
“You don’t want to feel guilty,” I corrected.
“Okay, maybe,” he admitted, making me nod in victory.
“So…what’s it going to be?”
“What do you watch?” I asked as the television came to life.
“Nah, I’m a total slut when it comes to movies and TV shows,” he revealed, chuckling as he sat up. “I watch anything. Depends on who I’m watching it with, really.”
“Never heard of TV slut before,” I remarked.
“You have no idea,” he said, flicking through shows, his eyes not leaving the television screen.
I had a feeling there was something deep beneath his humorous chuckle, but I couldn’t place it.
I shouldn’t even want to.
“You don’t watch movies a lot, then,” I pointed out.
“No, I don’t.”
Why do you want to watch them with me, then?
“Hmmm, let’s watch something neutral, then.”
“What do you like to watch?” he insisted, turning partially to face me.
“I like romance—sweet, no headache romance,” I revealed, and he chuckled. “I like action, and I like thrillers. A bit of horror, too.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“What? I look so nerdy, you can see horror on my forehead?”
“Quite the opposite, actually,” he argued, a smirk on his face.
“Of course,” I mumbled, sitting back.
“Given the circumstances…let’s do romance. Hm?”
“Works for me.”
We settled on a Mexican-American romance movie that I hadn’t heard of before, and as the opening credits rolled up the screen, Mikhail sat back too.
He snaked his hand around me on the couch without actually touching me, not that it made me any less aware of his proximity.
“Whoa...now, this is a language I surely do understand,” he stated as the second scene rolled into the third, where the hero’s men were stacking a van with firearms.
“The description said he led a violent life, so I was expecting nothing different.”
“I definitely didn’t read anything.”
“So you’ll always be surprised.”
“Hm, let’s see.”
The movie turned out to be gripping, and we watched in silence—except for when Mikhail brought chips and orange juice to the table.
And then the movie began to feel rushed as we entered the second half of it.
“Was he not way taller than her? How are they suddenly of the same height?” I asked curiously, turning to Mikhail. “It’s definitely a body double. Maybe they ran out of funds somewhere in the middle and—”
My words died on my tongue as he unexpectedly lifted me, placing me on his lap.
“This is exactly how it happens,” he informed, his hands on both sides of my waist.
While his gaze didn’t leave my face, I was too aware of the cool air hitting my inner lap. I didn't need to look down to know his shirt was barely covering my underwear. He wouldn’t have to lift the shirt to see the lace of my black panties.
“I’m about five inches taller than you, right?”
“Yeah, you are,” I answered, rolling my eyes at him and earning a small, proud smile.
“But, look, does it look that way?”