Page 38 of When She Loves
Is divorce an option? Unlikely. At least not until Rafaele becomes don of my family too. But there are men who don’t live with their wives. Papà had a capo whose wife and kids lived in a home upstate while the capo had an apartment in Jersey with his goomah.
If I live apart from Rafaele, my life would undoubtedly be better. Maybe I need to be such a pain in the ass that he decides keeping me around isn’t worth the trouble. That shouldn’t be that hard.
“I want my own cell phone,” I say as we speed down the highway.
He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles. “Fine.”
Oh. I didn’t expect him to agree so quickly. “And a credit card.”
He nods. “It’s already waiting for you at home.” He stretches out his arm. “Any other requests?”
“I’m sure I can think of a few…”
He removes a cufflink and rolls up his sleeve. My gaze latches onto his tanned, tatted forearm. Fuck, he’s got sexy forearms. Muscular with thick veins beneath his skin.
“Go ahead.”
I glance up. “Huh?”
He arches a brow as he repeats the same ritual with his other arm. “What else do you need?”
“I need some more time to think about it,” I mutter.
For the first time since I’ve met him, he smiles at me. A real, full-blown tilt of the mouth. How can that tiny movement take him from sexy to undeniably devastating?
Suddenly, the car feels too hot. I wrap my palm around the side of my neck and squirm in my seat.
“Take your time,” he says. “Like I said to you at the rehearsal dinner, I want you to be comfortable. And I think in time, you’ll find that my rules aren’t as restrictive as you think.”
That is my cue to argue with him, but I can’t seem to get my thoughts straight right now. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face the window. I need to stop looking at him.
We get to Rafaele’s house just before dinner. Sabina greets us, shooting me a hateful glare when Rafaele isn’t looking, and then corrals us into the dining room where a feast awaits.
I’m not that hungry after the drawn-out brunch, but I try a few things anyway since the cook went out of his way to make a bunch of vegetarian dishes.
His name is Luca, and he’s around fifty years old. I like him immediately. He introduces himself with a warm smile and apologizes for preparing me steak at the rehearsal dinner even after I tell him it’s all right.
“As soon as they told me you don’t eat meat, I went online and bought a few new cookbooks,” he says. “You will have to give me your feedback so that I can prepare things you like.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I say.
He dips his head. “Enjoy your meal, Signora Messero.”
I freeze at the name. It’s going to take a while to get used to being called that.
When I truly can’t eat another bite, Rafaele stands up and gestures for me to follow him. We take the stairs to a room on the second floor, a few doors down from the guest bedroom where I was locked up until yesterday.
I peek inside. “What’s this?” I suspect I know the answer.
“Our bedroom.”
The room is twice the size of the guest bedroom. It’s decorated in cool blue tones and contains a big bed, a sitting area by the window, and a fireplace. Masculine, but not obnoxiously male. I slip my shoes off and curl my bare toes against the plush carpet. “I want to sleep in the other room. The one I stayed in earlier.”
Rafaele throws his jacket over the back of a chair. “What’s wrong with this one? Do you not like the decor?”
I give him a pointed look. “Yes, there’s this awful talking robot that grates on my nerves.”
His eyes spark. “He’s a permanent feature, so you better get used to it.”
