Page 104 of Mafia Bride
Santino lays his jacket on the stone seat, and I sit beside him.
The tour guide is a distinguished-looking man in a sport jacket and white shirt. He’s facing into the sun, so he leaves on his sunglasses to launch into his tale of history. The plays, the orators, the music. The life that once vibrated inside these crippled ruins.
“First time I came here…” Santino lowers his voice under the guide’s. “I stayed too long and missed the last bus. Zia Paola didn’t know where I was until the next day. Her fury was worse than Vesuvio, I promise you.”
“How old were you?” I ask.
“Fourteen.”
“I don’t blame her. I would have killed you the minute I found out you were alive.”
“Some nurse you are,” he grumbles, and I try to jab his ribs, but he catches my hand before it reaches its destination and kisses it.
The tour guide gestures across the plains, describing what lays beyond. Santino takes my hand and with a sly wink, we sneak out of the amphitheater. He leads me through the massive city, keeping an eye out like we were on some sort of secret mission.
Where was his security detail? I hadn’t seen any of them since we left the house.
Santino wouldn’t travel without them. Not with me here.
Or did he feel just that safe?
As we run between crowds of people and sneak into dark corners, laughing, I know that’s the answer. This is his home and he doesn’t need men with guns under their jackets.
“Do you like Pompeii?” Santino murmurs in my hair. I can feel the grin spread across his face.
“It’s my new favorite place.” All I can smell is him and it’s intoxicating.
“Mine too.”
I think about his pack of cigarettes sitting on the veranda back at the house, but am too overwhelmed with the nearness of him to dwell on it. When I look up at him, he’s already staring at me with an intensity that weakens every defense I put up between us.
When Santino kisses me, I know he carries the key to my body and soul. I don’t know when he got it, when he had it made, but I know it fits me, because when he turns it, I unlock.
Maybe the heat of Italy in June is getting to me, and I pull away.
“This feels wrong, in a place like this.” I whisper to keep myself from turning into a submissive puddle. “We should be reverent.”
“Do you know how long ago these people died?” Santino asks in my ear, his breath sending cascading goosebumps across my entire body. “Did you know there were people encased in lava as they were lying together? They spent their last minutes on this planet fucking.”
“There were also women cooking, frozen in place for all eternity in a position of servitude.” I manage some sass even though he continues to disarm me in such close proximity. “They deserve respect.”
“Because they died? Have we not already established everyone dies?” His fingers curl around a lock of my hair and pull ever so gently. Heat shoots through me. “I will not take you here.”
“I never said you could have me.” I level my gaze with his to display the remaining shards of my breaking defiance.
His gaze runs from hot to humor. He laughs heartily and kisses my forehead. I have never in my life wanted him to kiss my lips hard and real and deep this badly.
“Come, Violetta. We have much more to see.”
And see we do. The king knows how to travel. We tour wineries, cathedrals, orchards. Every day is a new adventure full of wine and food and immaculate scenery.
He kisses me gently at each stop, like christening each stop in our travels. As the days progress, I want more. I don’t want gentle. I don’t want a kiss on the forehead and hands laying respectfully on my shoulders or over my clothes.
I want to be owned. I want to be pleasured. I want my body to slow its fucking roll.
Every morning, he walks out onto the back patio with pajama pants slung low around his hips. Here in Italy, he doesn’t swim at night.
He stretches and does his laps in the morning, before drinking his coffee and reading the paper—for once—on the day it’s printed.
