Chapter 6
Dimitri
SONG: THE WALLS BY CHASE ATLANTIC
Giuseppe cornered me during the reception, between the cake cutting and whatever circle of hell came next on the wedding itinerary.
"A word," he said. Not a request.
We stepped into a side room off the ballroom. His men flanked the door. Mine did the same. Nobody trusted anyone. Standard operating procedure.
"There's a tradition," Giuseppe began.
I'd learned to be wary of that phrase. Traditions in our world usually involved either violence or humiliation. Sometimes both.
"What kind of tradition?"
"An old one, from Italy." He looked uncomfortable—actually uncomfortable.
Giuseppe Rossi, who'd probably ordered more hits than I'd had hot meals, was shifting his weight like a nervous schoolboy.
"The morning after the wedding night, you must present proof of your wife's virginity.
The bloody sheets. It's called La Prova delle Lenzuola. "
I stared at him. "You're joking."
"I don't joke about tradition."
"Let me understand this correctly. You want me to...what? Wave stained sheets at everyone like a medieval banner?"
"Not everyone, just the immediate family. My wife will verify them. It's a matter of honor. Giulia's honor. The family's honor."
Honor. That word again. The thing men killed over and died for and apparently displayed bodily fluids to prove.
"And if I refuse?"
Giuseppe's face hardened. "Then my family will assume the worst. That Giulia was not pure. That the alliance was built on deception. My leadership will be questioned. The familiga will dissolve into chaos and the alliance will be null." He paused. "You don't want that, Dimitri."
No. I definitely didn't want that.
I'd planned to set Giulia up in a nice house, visit occasionally to maintain appearances. Keep things professional and distant. No complications. No messy emotions. Apparently, the universe had other plans.
"Fine," I said. "Tomorrow morning, I'll provide your proof."
Giuseppe relaxed slightly. "Thank you. I know it seems archaic—"
"It is archaic. But I understand why it matters to you." I straightened my cuffs. "Anything else I should know? Any other medieval rituals I need to perform?"
"Just treat her well. That's all I ask."
I returned to the ballroom where Giulia sat alone at our table.
Her face was flushed from the champagne she'd been steadily consuming since her cousin's meltdown.
She'd handled that situation better than I'd expected.
Hadn't cried. Hadn't made a scene, just sat there with her spine straight and her chin up while her family imploded around her.
Impressive, actually.
The reception dragged on for another three hours. More toasts. More dancing. More performing for two families who'd rather be pointing guns at each other than sharing a dance floor.
Finally, Giuseppe announced that the newlyweds would be leaving, a subtle Italian way of saying get on with the consummation already.
A car waited outside. My driver held the door as Giulia gathered her enormous dress and climbed in. I followed. The door closed and suddenly we were alone in the back of a town car. Truly alone for the first time since the altar.
She stared out the window. The lights of the city streaked past. Her hands twisted in her lap.
"Where are we going?" she asked quietly.
"The Phoenician presidential suite."
"Oh."
That was it. Just oh.
The silence stretched. I should say something, make small talk, put her at ease. That's what a good husband would do. I wasn't a good husband. I was a man who'd married a stranger for political gain.
"Your cousin," I said finally, "is he always that dramatic?"
Her head whipped around. "He's grieving. Your father killed his best friend."
"My father killed a lot of people. Doesn't give everyone permission to ruin weddings."
"Marco was like a brother to him."
"I understand grief. I also understand that this alliance is bigger than one man's pain.
" I looked at her. Really looked at her.
The makeup was starting to fade. The elaborate hairstyle had loosened slightly.
She looked younger without all the polish.
Vulnerable. "But I'm sorry. About his friend. About all of it."
She blinked. Like she hadn't expected an apology. "Thank you."
We rode the rest of the way in silence.
The suite was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows, modern furniture. Everything cold and clean and expensive. I’ve been staying here for weeks, but it’s never felt like home, just a place to sleep between crises.
Giulia stepped inside and stopped. She turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The view. The space. The complete lack of personality.
"It's very..." She searched for a word. "White."
"I've been too busy to set up a formal home and I…I didn’t have any desire to move into my father’s house."
"I don’t blame you."
She walked to the windows. The desert spread out below us. Lights in the distance.
"I've never lived this far out," she said softly. "You can't hear anything. No sirens. No people. It's like being in a different world."
It was. That's why I'd chosen it. Distance from the streets. From the blood and chaos of running the Bratva. But standing there watching her, I realized how isolated it felt. How removed from actual life.
"There are three bedrooms," I said. "You can choose whichever you want. The primary has the best view but—"
"Which one is yours?"
"The primary."
She nodded. Didn't say anything else.
Right. We were married. We were supposed to share a bedroom. That's how this worked. Except I needed to tell her about Giuseppe's tradition. About what was expected to happen tonight.
"Giulia. We need to talk."
She turned from the window. Her expression was guarded now like she was bracing for bad news.
"Your father told me about a tradition. Something about..." How did I phrase this delicately? "Proof of virginity. The sheets need to show that we...that tonight was your first time."
Her face went scarlet. "Oh God. He told you about that?"
"About an hour ago. I'm sorry. I know it's invasive and archaic but—"
"It's fine." She wouldn't look at me. "I knew about it. All Italian girls know about it. I just...I'd hoped maybe he'd forgotten. Or we would be able to skip it because you’re not Italian."
"Giuseppe doesn't forget anything."
"Neither does my mother." She laughed but there was no humor in it. "So, we have to...tonight has to..."
"Yes."
She nodded slowly, her hands twisting together. That nervous gesture I was starting to recognize. "Okay then."
She walked past me toward the hallway, and I followed her to the bedroom. She stopped in the doorway. The room was as impersonal as the rest of the suite. King bed. Modern furniture. Nothing to indicate anyone actually lived here.
Giulia stood frozen. I could see her breathing quicken. See the way her shoulders tensed. She was terrified.
And I was an asshole.
"We don't have to do this," I said. "We can figure something else out. Get something that looks like blood. Fake it." But even as I say it, I know I’m lying. I can’t show weakness now. I can’t send the familigia and this alliance into a downward spiral.
She turned. "Papa will know. My Mamma will know. And then what? The alliance falls apart because we couldn't follow one tradition?"
"It's a ridiculous tradition."
"But it's theirs. It's what they need to believe the marriage is real." She took a shaky breath. "And it is real. We're married. This is...this is what married people do."
Not like this. Not with fear in their eyes and their hands shaking.
But she was right. We'd backed ourselves into this corner, and the only way out was through.
"Alright." I moved to the bed and started unbuttoning my shirt. "But we go slow. And if you want to stop at any point, we stop. Tradition be damned."
She watched me remove my shirt. Her eyes went wide.
Right. The scars. I had a lot of them. Bullet wounds. Knife wounds. One particularly nasty burn mark from a disagreement in Moscow.
"You've been hurt," she said softly.
"Occupational hazard."
"Do they still hurt?"
"Only when it rains." I quip.
She smiled, just a little, but it was something. She reached behind her back for the dress zipper. Fumbled with it but couldn't quite reach.
"Help?"
I crossed to her and found the zipper, pulling it down slowly. The dress gaped open revealing smooth skin and white lacey lingerie underneath.
My mouth went dry.
She was beautiful. I'd known that objectively. But seeing her like this, vulnerable and real and right in front of me. Different from the photos. Different from the bride at the altar.
She stepped out of the dress, and it pooled around her feet like a cloud. Underneath she wore white lace. Everything white and virginal and exactly what her family would expect. She crossed her arms over her chest. Self-conscious.
"You're beautiful," I said. It was true.
"You don't have to say that."
"I don't say things I don't mean."
She looked up at me then. Really looked at me. Her dark eyes searched my face like she was trying to figure out if I was lying. "I'm nervous," she admitted.
"I know."
"I've never...I mean, obviously I haven't. But I don't know what to do."
"You don't have to do anything, just..." I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Just let me lead you. That's enough."
She leaned into my touch just slightly. Then she stepped closer and placed her hand on my chest. Her palm was warm against my skin. "Show me?" she whispered.
Something in my chest cracked open. I'd planned to make this quick. Clinical. Get it done and move on. But the way she looked at me. The trust in her eyes despite everything.
I couldn't do clinical. Not with her.
I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her. Slowly, not like at the church. This was real, sensual. Her lips were soft and tasted like champagne. She made a small sound in the back of her throat and pressed closer.
My hands slid to her waist. She was tiny under my palms. Delicate. I could feel her heartbeat racing as I pulled her closer.
We moved to the bed, never breaking out kiss. I laid her down gently, and she looked up at me with those enormous eyes. Scared but willing. Trusting me not to hurt her.
The weight of that trust was crushing.
I kissed her again. Her neck. Her collarbone. She trembled under my touch. I went slow, let her adjust. Let her body figure out what was happening.
Her hands found my shoulders when I slipped my fingers between her folds.
She gripped tight when I touched her in ways that made her gasp.
My fingers gently probed her entrance as my thumb massaged her clit.
I felt the fear slowly leaving her body, a different kind of tension taking its place.
The place where my fingers were growing wetter and wetter.
"Is this okay?" I asked against her skin, continuing to nip kiss her as I stroked her.
"Yes. Don't stop." Her voice was breathy.
So I didn't.
I'd been with women before. Plenty of them.
But this felt different. Maybe because it mattered.
Maybe because she was my wife and this was supposed to mean something.
Or maybe because when she looked at me like that, like I was good instead of dangerous, like I was someone worth trusting, I fucking hated it.
I was careful with her, slowly inserting my fingers until I felt that barrier.
Gently stroking her until she came apart in my arms, shaking and gasping, her mouth opening on a silent scream.
Soon I was braced over her, my cock in my hand, hard as steel.
I lined myself up with her entrance and gently started to push forward.
When the moment came, when I hit that barrier proving her innocence, we both tensed.
I kissed her deeply and pushed forward quickly.
Her face contorted with pain, and I held still, keeping myself deep inside of her, letting her breathe through it.
I caught myself whispering things that might have been reassuring or might have been nonsense.
I couldn't tell anymore. Slowly I withdrew and pushed back in, creating a steady rhythm.
She started to slowly participate, clearly getting pleasure and tightening her legs that were wrapped around me.
She was responsive. Curious. Not at all what I'd expected from a virgin raised in a traditional Italian family.
When she came apart in my arms again, taking us both by surprise, her face held this expression of wonder, like she'd discovered something unexpected and beautiful.
I followed her over that edge, lost myself in her and forgot for a moment about tradition and duty and bloody sheets.
Forgot everything except Giulia.
Afterward we lay tangled together, her head on my chest, my arm around her shoulders, and both of us breathing hard.
"That was..." She trailed off.
"Yeah."
"Is it always like that?"
"No." I pressed a kiss to her hair without thinking. "Not usually."
She tilted her head up to look at me. Her hair was completely destroyed, makeup smudged. She looked thoroughly debauched.
She looked perfect.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For being gentle."
Something in my chest tightened, panic creeping in around the edges. This was supposed to be simple. A transaction. A political necessity.
But the way she fit against me. The way my hand had automatically found her hip and held on like I was afraid she'd disappear. This wasn't simple at all.
"I should..." I started to pull away.
Her hand pressed against my chest. "Stay. Please. Just for a little while."
I should say no put distance between us before this got more complicated.
But I stayed.
She fell asleep within minutes. One hand still resting on my chest, her breathing deep and even.
I stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened.
I'd felt something. During. After. Right now with her sleeping against me.
Something warm and terrifying and completely unwelcome.
I'd told myself I could keep this professional.
That a wife was just another piece on the board.
Another tool to maintain power. But Giulia wasn't a tool.
She was real and complicated and currently drooling slightly on my shoulder in a way that should have annoyed me but somehow didn't.
This was bad. This was very bad.
Caring about people made you weak. Made you vulnerable. My father had taught me that lesson over and over. I couldn't afford to care about Giulia.
But as I lay there watching her sleep, feeling her warmth against me, and the steady rhythm of her breathing, I realized with a sinking feeling that it might already be too late.