Page 92 of Mafia Bride
I can’t disagree. But last night I hadn’t thought of getting into the pool with him because I still had it in my head that sharing a swim was sharing too much. I couldn’t say why that changed, except that the change was subtle and tricky.
“I wanted to cool off tonight.”
He moves closer.
“Not because you wanted me to kiss you.”
“No.” Now he’s said the words and every ounce of resolve turns to salt that melts in the pool water.
“But you want me to kiss you.”
I barely get the words out as a whisper. “I do.”
He almost moves in slow motion until our lips finally touch and the entire world erupts around me. My chest feels heavy and then weightless on the turn of a dime. His mouth is both merciful and domineering, gentle in its ownership, as if it can listen and speak at the same time.
If I wasn’t in the water, my knees would have collapsed.
Santino pulls back and places a kiss on my neck. It is now I understand why they say orgasms are little deaths, and I haven’t even come.
“I want to worship you with my body, my Violetta. I will never take what you don’t offer. But you will offer it. You will spread your legs and offer me your whole body. Your tits, your cunt, your ass. All mine. My name will be written all over you.”
I can barely breathe at the thought of it. I want him to mark me so badly I make a hundred excuses in my mind why I should. It’s expected anyway. I can hold my heart fast while surrendering my body. I can use sex to get him to release me. I can let him fuck me until he’s bored and lets me go.
We’re nose to nose, and I’m about to say yes to everything, when he kisses me once, tenderly and says—
“But not tonight.”
He gets out of the pool.
I’m left there, feeling like a woman breaking all her promises to herself.
25
VIOLETTA
Father’s Day.
Every year, I say a prayer for my dad over breakfast. I’ve never missed one, even after all these years. Zio encouraged me. He never wanted to take the day away from my actual father. The one who never hurt anyone or did anything, and was murdered in the streets anyway.
The one who sold me into slavery for a truckload of oranges or the rent on his store. Maybe I was worth a few things in the deli, or ten billionlire. Whatever debts he incurred, he pinned to me for the rest of my life.
Today, I hate the holiday. Today, I want to burn it all down.
At dinner that night, I try to put on a happy face and act like this hasn’t bothered me immensely, that it hasn’t kicked up old worries and fears, that I’m not currently drowning in a life I didn’t ask for—no matter the perks. That I’m totally fine with being ripped away from my goals and dreams to be married to this cold, attractive devil who confuses me more as each day passes.
“Something is wrong,” Santino says in a way that it isn’t a question, it’s dinnertime commentary. Spinning my fork in the center of my spoon to spool fettuccine, I don’t like that he knows me well enough to make such statements, or that I have a compulsion to tell him the truth.
“It’s nothing.” I’d helped Celia roll out the pasta and season it with herbs, butter, and a dusting of Romano—just the way I liked it—but it tasted like lead.
“Lies do not become DiLustros.”
I’m a Moretti. Always.
“I don’t remember signing any paperwork to legally change my name.” I’m feeling like a grumpy asshole and I don’t care. “AndLiarseems to be your middle name.”
“I have never lied to you,” he says seriously, taking no offense, which makes him even harder to deal with. “I have always told the truth.”
“Whatever.” I drink wine as if I’m an old, miserable wife, not an underage girl.
