17. Sicily
SICILY
“Milan, let’s talk about this!” I cried out as he yanked me into his arms, carrying me out of the car bridal style the minute Adriano parked it atop the tall driveway. “You’re—you’re bleeding!”
His silence was only interrupted with the harsh crunch of his shoes against the pavement and the clink of his keys in the front door’s lock.
“Have a good fuck,” Adrian said with a yawn and a smirk that deserved smacking.
Were we going to fuck? The thought had my legs trembling, and I didn’t know if that was a good thing or because I probably should’ve told Milan a long time ago that just because I painted sex didn’t mean I knew how to do it.
My thighs clenched together as he carried me through the house, past his office, and toward the garden, his fingers tough through the thin fabric of my dress.
I frowned up at the stars. “Where the hell are we going?”
“Be quiet.”
Asshole.
I folded my arms over myself, turning my glare to the man, my husband, who was covered in blood and marching me through the cold air. He was angry—sad too, it seemed. He just looked like he was feeling, and that was dangerous.
“Milan.” I breathed heavily as he walked us toward a secluded spot behind a row of trees at the very end of the yard. There was little light there, no sound except the gentle chirp of crickets, and nobody to hear or see anything.
Would he hurt me here? Would he feel so much that he couldn’t help it?
There was a man inside of Milan that was kind and wanted to be just like everyone else, to feel pain and love and acceptance, but there was also a beast that hadn’t been tamed, simply leashed, and I’d chosen to forget that when he looked at me the way he had in the car.
“I am not functioning well,” he whispered but it wasn’t soft or quiet. He smoothed the wisps of my hair that had been caught in the wind and brought his face to it, to my neck, my hair, and breathed deeply. “What have you done to me? What are these feelings I cannot contain?”
I laid my cheek against his chest, feeling his throbbing heart through my skull. It was beating erratically, like it didn’t know how to slow. I didn’t care about the blood slicking my fingers, only that he was blaming me for something I didn’t know I’d done.
He set me down gently on a stone pathway that led to a glass room.
It was tucked deep between tall trees and full bushes, hidden, but it lit itself up like a star with gentle, flickering golden light.
I couldn’t see inside, only us in the glass, only the reflection of his bloodied body and the fear on my face.
“Milan—”
“Why are you still scared of me?” he asked, turning a metal key between his fingers.
“I’m not.”
“Do not lie,” he growled. “I may not feel all of what you can, but that means I can spot a liar from miles away. Your face displays key indicators of fear. Tell me why you are scared.”
His hand, wide and warm, curved against my cheek. We weren’t supposed to touch like this, Milan didn’t allow closeness, he didn’t like it, but right now, right here, this was his choice, a conscious decision to try and rectify what he didn’t understand.
The fear balled in my throat as I asked, “What contract were they talking about? What did you do, Milan?”
His face shattered like glass. It was like staring straight through something broken, something that had tried to repair itself over and over again, but the cracks were too obvious, and it was breaking all over again.
Who I was looking at was a boy, not a man, not a beast, one who was scared and didn’t have the words to say it.
He wasn’t scary, he was lost and he deserved to be touched kindly, trusted even, and found again.
“I cannot tell you.”
“Why?” I whispered, nuzzling into his hand.
He stepped closer, bringing his other hand to my face. “Because we would all be killed, and I will not allow another person to die, but especially not you.”
I gripped his wrists, forcing us to live this, to stay. “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”
“No.”
“This is why I’m scared,” I said quietly.
“Because I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done.
You shout at me and then you hold me. You tell me I’m data and then you beg me to kiss you.
You tell me you can’t say anything, but then Cesare’s wife says that he would miss you if it wasn’t for the contract. Who are you, Milan?”
He stepped backward, away from me and this, and sank the key into the locked glass door.
It clicked open slowly and gently, as if it deserved to be treated that way, like it was something to look after.
It smelled of lavender and something slightly metallic and familiar.
I stepped inside, following his lead, and came face-to-face with… Matteo’s cock.
My head spun as I took in the room that held all of my paintings, my canvases amongst new ones, my paints beside untouched palettes, my couch opposite an expensive looking pink velvet one.
There were candles sitting in ornate golden holders scattered over the walls, a section of grass and flowers, and even a small waterfall cascaded over a wall beside the door.
It was a small paradise of me.
“Did you—did you make this?” I asked with a voice so hoarse it hurt.
Milan nodded once, his eyes fixated on the splotches of paint across the table he’d taken from my old studio.
“When?”
“A few weeks ago. When we—” He sighed, and his eyes closed. “When I said a lot of things that caused a lot of undesirable emotions within you. And me.”
I picked up a paintbrush, one of mine that was scuffed and fraying, and then one that was new, one that I had never seen before. It had a shiny handle and sleek bristles and that was something I’d never have indulged in myself.
“What’s this for?” I whispered. “A gift?”
Milan clenched and unclenched his fists before he looked down at his hands like he was aware of it this time and took mine instead. “I do not feel remorse as normal humans do, but I can equate this sensation of loss as regret. I wanted to gift this to you to express that.”
My eyes brimmed with tears. This was the real him below all the secrets and uncertainty and he was trying so hard to be someone that knew and saw me even if he wouldn’t tell me everything. This was him seeing me, creating a place for me in his world.
I sniffled. “Say sorry.”
“I am sorry.” He brought my knuckles to his lips, kissing each one.
“Say you’re sorry for being an asshole.”
A kiss to my palm this time. “I am sorry for being an asshole.”
I bit my lip to stop myself from smiling. “Now promise you’ll fix everything for Fiorella.”
“I will fix everything for Fiorella.”
“Promise you won’t hurt me or my family again?”
His wide hand pressed against his bloodied Famiglia tattoo and then onto my own heart. “Se tradisco questa nostra cosa, possa il mio cuore essere strappato dal mio petto e il mio nome dimenticato.”
If I betray this thing of ours, may my heart be torn from my chest, and my name forgotten.
He’d sworn the Omertà on my heart.
That was an unbreakable vow, a promise worth a million, and he had promised it to me.
I tiptoed to press my lips gently to his, but he snatched my head back by my hair and his lips devoured mine.
He thrust his tongue roughly around mine, swirling in a maddening rhythm that coaxed a heat deep within my core.
His spare fingers cupped my jaw, groping and teasing my skin as though it would offer more of me.
He was rough, so rough that goose bumps of pain rose along my scalp, but despite what a dick he’d been to me and everything he’d done, I trusted him enough that it stopped being pain and flushed into pleasure.
This was what he needed, and maybe I did too.
Milan groaned into my mouth as I jumped onto his tower of a body, sliding my legs around his waist. The sound of him giving in to the chaos that he always controlled made my thighs slick with arousal.
“Am I hurting you?” I whispered against his lips, aware that his wounds were open and scattered over his torso.
A low rumble emanated from his chest. “This is not the right time for me to take you to bed gently. I require to release the emotions that you have put within me, and my hands do not feel soft.”
My core pulsed at the thought of his rough fingers against my flesh, of him in his worst form using me to heal the anger and pain in his body.
He’d definitely turned me into some kind of a masochist, but I couldn’t find it in me to care.
I rubbed myself against his growing length like a cat in heat, reveling in how his fingers shook with frustration and anger and need.
His lip snarled in response as he laid me gently onto the soft studio sofa, the old one that held years of rebellion, but as he stood over me, tall and imposing and corrupted as hell, he softened his eyes and tilted his head. “You are nervous.”
His fingers dropped his cufflinks onto the floor with a loud crack, startling me, reminding me that he had said something. I didn’t want to nod, but I did, like I was entranced.
“About what?” He frowned.
“Hurting you.”
His wrecked shirt dropped from his shoulders, and my breath hitched.
It was so rare to see this much of him, for him to put his scars on display like I was deserving of seeing them.
Each time I saw him was like the first.
Each time it reminded me of why I never wanted to look away.
Milan stepped forward, his half-naked body looming over mine. “Touch me.”
I did what I was told, the soft tip of my finger dragging a path over his untouched skin, over each ridge of muscle that hadn’t been bloodied or bruised, but he tutted, and his palm came down on my cheek, stinging but not hurting.
This was what people spoke of when they talked about pain with their pleasure, and I could see it becoming an addiction.
I wanted more.
Milan snatched my fingers and shoved them straight into the bloody mess of wounds, scratching my nails down the bleeding cuts. “When I say touch, you touch.”