Chapter 6
Cesare
The day had been endless. Three hours with my capos reviewing territory reports.
Another two analyzing Viktor's recent movements—new shipments, new alliances, new threats.
Then damage control with business partners who'd heard whispers about wedding irregularities, reassuring them the Monti-Lombardo alliance remained solid.
All I wanted was scotch, silence, and sleep.
The elevator doors opened.
She was there, again.
Paola. My wife. Curled on my couch in an emerald silk nightgown that clung to curves I'd been trying not to think about all day. Dark hair tumbled loose around her shoulders. Green eyes wide, alert despite the hour.
In an echo of the previous day, I’d warned her this morning not to wait up again. But here she was anyway. Would this be a habit? It made something in me ache, stepping into what had always been an empty apartment and seeing someone look up expectantly.
She'd been sleeping—I could see it in her slightly disoriented expression, the way she blinked against the sudden light.
Something about that knowledge—that she couldn't sleep until I came home—did things to my chest I didn't want to examine.
"You're awake," I said, setting down my bag, shrugging off my jacket.
"I couldn't sleep." Her honesty is like an arrow to the heart, but it sets off alarm bells as well–she’ll need to learn to lie if she’s going to survive in my world.
I should tell her to go to bed. Should keep my distance. Give her the space I promised.
Instead, I moved toward her—drawn like a magnet to metal.
She didn't move. Just watched me approach with those wide eyes—fear and something else. Curiosity? Attraction? It’s been the same look all week, but I haven’t figured her out, and she hasn’t told me what she’s thinking. Not unless I ask.
And a part of me–the weakest part–is too scared to ask what she thinks of me.
I stopped in front of the couch. Close enough to touch. She had to tilt her head back to meet my gaze.
The nightgown was nearly the same color as her eyes. The neckline was modest but the fabric betrayed her—outlining curves, hinting at the body beneath. Heat flooded my system. Hunger. Need.
I was already losing my carefully constructed control.
I braced my hand on the couch beside her head, leaning over her. Not touching. Not yet.
"You should be in bed."
"I tried." Her eyes searched my face. "Couldn't."
The pattern was becoming clear—Paola didn't lie well. Didn't hide her emotions the way Bianca would have. Everything she felt played across her face: fear, defiance, confusion, and—there—desire. Brief but unmistakable.
"You're thinking too much," I observed. "I can see it. Calculating. Planning."
A flush colored her cheeks. Caught. "Isn't that what prisoners do? Plan their escape?"
"You're not a prisoner."
"No?" There was a challenge in her voice, and I had to fight back a smile. "Then what am I?"
Good question. I didn’t have an answer that wouldn't sound like a lie.
"You're my wife," I settled on. It was the only truth that mattered.
She looked away, but not before I caught something in her expression—resignation mixed with something I couldn't quite identify. Acceptance? Or something more dangerous?
My hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Unexpectedly gentle, even to me.
Her skin was impossibly soft. She shivered at my touch but didn't pull away.
"You've had time to think," I said quietly. "About what comes next. About us."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. She knew exactly what I meant.
"I've thought about little else," she admitted.
"And?"
Her breathing changed—faster, shallower. She wanted this, wanted it with me. But I needed to hear her say it. "And I'm still terrified."
Not the answer I wanted, but I appreciated the honesty. "Fear and desire aren't mutually exclusive, Paola."
The flush crept up her neck. She couldn't deny the desire—I'd seen it in her eyes, felt it in the way she responded to my proximity.
"Five days," she whispered. "I still have five days."
Four. But I didn’t correct her; didn’t need her more scared, not with how delicious it was when I saw her shiver.
"You do." I leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "But I wonder... are you counting down to the deadline? Or counting down to when you'll finally stop fighting what you want?"
The question hit its mark—her pupils dilated, her breath caught.
"The choice is still yours, moglie mia. But choose wisely. The waiting is torture for both of us."
I pushed away from the couch before I did something I'd regret. Or wouldn't regret. That was the problem.
In the bedroom, I closed the door. Leaned against it.
My control was fraying. I could still smell her—something floral, feminine, intoxicating.
This wasn't supposed to happen. I'd fucked countless women. Sex was transaction, pleasure, release. Nothing more.
But Paola—she was getting under my skin in ways I didn't anticipate.
Maybe it was the challenge. She was the first person in years who looked at me with something other than fear or greed.
Or maybe it was the innocence. Knowing she was untouched, that I'd be her first, her only—the possessiveness that thought triggered was primal.
I stripped off my clothes, stepped into the shower. The cold water was an attempt to try and regain control. It would be near impossible to sleep next to her again without reaching out and claiming what was mine.
The ice cold shower didn't help. I could still see her on that couch, vulnerable and wanting and afraid all at once.
Four more days.
I wasn't sure I'd last that long.
I exited the shower, towel around my waist, and found Paola in the bedroom. She was standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the city.
"Can't sleep out there either?" I asked, moving to my dresser. Part of me had been hoping she’d settle back into the couch, keep some distance between us. My body felt hot and hard and tense with her near.
"No." She didn't turn around. "Too quiet. Too big. Too... everything."
I pulled on boxer briefs, considered leaving my shirt off, but grabbed an undershirt—giving her modesty. Or myself restraint.
"You'll get used to it."
"Will I?" Now she turned. Her eyes were red-rimmed—she'd been crying. Silently, privately. "Get used to being locked up? To having no choices? To being owned?"
The word "owned" shouldn't turn me on. It did.
I approached slowly. "You want honesty?"
"I want a lot of things. I doubt I'll get any of them."
Fair. "The honest truth is: no, you probably won't fully get used to this. Not the way it is now. But it will get easier."
"When? When you've broken me completely?"
I stopped in front of her. "I don't want to break you, Paola."
"Then what do you want?"
What did I want? That was a good question.
A week ago, I wanted a convenient wife. Someone decorative and undemanding. Simple.
Now? Looking at Paola—fierce and vulnerable and far too real—I wanted something I couldn't quite name.
"I want you to choose this," I said finally. "Choose me. Not because you're forced. Because you want to."
She laughed—a bitter, broken sound. "That's impossible and you know it."
"Is it?" I reached up, cupping her face. She could pull away, but didn't. "Your body responds to me, Paola. I can see it. Feel it. You're attracted to me despite everything."
"That's not—"
I kissed her. Cut off her lie with my mouth.
For a second, she froze. Then she was kissing me back—hesitant, unpracticed, but genuine.
Nothing like the performance kiss at the altar. This was real.
I kept it controlled—lips only, no tongue, no demand. Just tasting her, testing her response.
She made a small sound—not quite pleasure, not quite protest.
I pulled back, rested my forehead against hers. Both of us were breathing hard.
"Tell me you don't feel that," I murmured.
She couldn't. The truth was written all over her flushed face.
"Feeling something doesn't make this right," she whispered.
"No. But it makes it easier."
I stepped back, giving her space. "Come to bed, Paola. Sleep. That's all. Just sleep."
She looked at the bed—massive, intimidating, my territory.
Then at me—dangerous, compelling, her husband.
She made a decision. Moving toward me, Paola slid under the covers. I followed, keeping to my side.
As promised.
We lay in darkness, not touching, but aware of each other in every way.
"Cesare?" Her voice was small in the dark.
"Yes?"
"That kiss... was that part of the arrangement? The performance?"
Interesting question. I should lie; I should make it clear that this marriage was business and nothing more. "No. That was for me."
Silence. Then: "Oh."
I could hear the confusion in her voice. Good. Let her be confused. I was confused too.
More silence. Then: "I’ve been researching you. On the computer."
My body tensed. Most people were too afraid to look into me—or smart enough not to. But Paola wasn't most people. Of course she'd search. Try to understand what she'd been forced into. Who I really was beneath the suits and threats.
Part of me respected it. Another part worried what she'd found—not the curated business image, but the whispers underneath. The bodies. The violence. The monster.
"What did you find?"
"That you're a very powerful man. Dangerous. Connected to... to things I don't understand."
"Does that scare you?"
"Yes. But..." She trailed off.
"But what?"
"But you gave me computer access. You remembered I love Renaissance art. You're giving me time when you could just... take what you want."
She was trying to reconcile the monster with the man. I understood—I was trying to do the same with her.
"I don't want to take, Paola," I said quietly. "I want you to give."
"Why does that matter to you?"
Good question. Why did it matter? I'd never cared before. Sex was sex. Consent was a formality.
But with her—it mattered. I wanted her willing. Wanting. Choosing me.
"I don't know," I admitted. Rare honesty. "But it does."