Page 52 of Mafia Bride
“Ti sta a pennello,” he says, telling me it fits like it’s been painted on. “You’ll take it, but you’ll only wear it for me.”
Spell broken. Just like always. Thank God just like always, otherwise I’d be in so much trouble.
I frown at him and spin away from the mirrors, stomp into the dressing room without Gia. I put on the tacky lavender floral dress—the one that made him laugh instead of lust—and separate out the ten most expensive items, regardless of whether I like them or not.
I will absolutely spend his fucking money before I escape.
All the clothes I decide against stack in front of the fucking lingerie he had the audacity to think I’d ever wear for him. I wish I could get rid of the way he made me feel when he called me beautiful, hang it on the rack with everything else I didn’t want. But when Gia loads up everything in her arms, she snaps up the lingerie that made her giggle, assuming I want it. Stella bustles to get it all packed up, almost exploding in excitement. How many people come in for private shopping and drop a week’s worth of sales in a day?
Gia gets me a purse before I can walk out unaccessorized. I take it because it’s red, even though I have nothing to put inside it.
By the time we get back onto the cobblestone street with half a dozen fancy bags, the stores are all open and people are window shopping. Armando waits across the way. He must have been in a separate car.
How often does Santino travel with a security detail?
I try not to think about it. Asking that question opens up a dozen other doors I don’t want to see behind.
Armando nods at Santino, presumably giving him the all clear, and Santino transfers all our bags into his massive arms. A blue Corvette pulls up to the end of the street, just before it closes off for pedestrians. The windows are down and something with a heavy bass dumps into the clean morning air. The driver sticks his arm out and waves. Santino waves back.
“Ciao, Gia.” He kisses the top of her head. “Thank you for everything.”
Gia hugs him tight and turns to do the same to me. I don’t expect it and nearly get knocked over with her peppy bounce. She presses her lips near my ear. “I know you’re going to be the happiest. Give it some time, okay?”
Gia immediately dashes off to the waiting car with a friendly wave. I don’t even get to say goodbye. Suddenly, Santino and I are alone, in the middle of Flora Boulevard. To my left run countless expensive shops hugging the curves of the narrow cobblestone street. To my right, a quaint little square with a massive water fountain, flowers, and several benches.
No Armando in sight. No Gia. Just Santino, me, and plenty of people who could see me running away from a man. Surely, someone would stop and help me.
I look left at the shops. Right at the square. My heart is in my throat and I can barely feel my legs. This is—
Santino takes my hand and pulls me deep into the crowds. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” I manage, watching my window for escape shrink as he tightens his grip around my hand. It looks sweet but it feels menacing. I try to catch eyes with people around me, beg them with a glance for safety, but no one returns the look.
Deeper into Flora we go. The street narrows, the buildings loom. They get taller as we walk deeper, until the sky above is nothing more than a slit of blue lined with brick and stone.
A prison still.
“Do you remember the sky in Napoli?” Santino stops and looks overhead. “The color?”
“Blue?” Because what the fuck else am I supposed to say? It’s not like Naples is on an alien planet with green skies and mustard-yellow grass.
“A different blue. So blue it’s as red as the wine-eyed sea.”
I stare at him, trying to break down the barriers that hide Santino DiLustro from me, from the rest of the world. “That’s fromThe Iliad. I thought it was the wine-dark sea?”
“You go to school for nursing or ancient Greek verse?”
“Are you a mobster or a poet?”
Santino laughs. Belly laughs. The man laughs so hard he has to stop walking. His face is turned against the slit of blue sky and he’s never been more beautiful in the weeks that I’ve been forced to stare at his cruel face. He looks open, free, kind, happy.
He looks back down at me, and it’s as if his eyes have stolen a bit of the sun’s fire. He leans down and the heated intensity radiating out of him melts me into submission. His lips touch mine, and they’re softer than a kind thought; more demanding than the law of gravity. My mouth yields to the gentle caress of his lips and the probe of his tongue. He tastes like espresso and power.
I’m helpless. Joyfully, eagerly, wantonly vulnerable. Because I never want to stop kissing this man or feeling the pressure of his mouth on mine. How he claims me. How he commands me. How I’m all too eager to give it. How my body longs to press against his for more.
He pulls away with his thumb stroking my cheek.
The instant our lips part is the instant reality hits me. I’m nearly lost to him. Gia, the shopping, his laughter, his kiss. I don’t have the strength to fight him because very nearly everything in me wants to give in. To kiss him again. To beg him to take more, all of me.
