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We take our seats, then order drinks. A vodka for me and Syrah for her.
As the crowd around us grows and becomes louder, I watch my wife. She sits with her back straight, head held high, sparing a polite smile for everyone who stops to say hello. She even sips her wine like a goddamn queen.
For the first time, I fully realize who she is in our world. She’s smart, strong-willed, and not afraid to speak her mind. She’s mafia royalty, the daughter of a don, a powerful woman in her own right.
And I stole her under the guise of upholding an agreement that we both know was broken and buried. But that hasn’t changed her. Even with a suit-wearing thug for a father, she radiates pure class. She’s become more refined since spending time with Roman’s mother, Isabella De Luca, the matriarch of Manhattan high society.
In contrast, I’m the son of a gambler and a whore. I was born into this world destined to be a nobody. No wonder she looks at me like I’m trash.
My fingers ball into fists and I glance away from her, only for my eyes to be drawn right back to her profile. She’s impossible to look away from for any length of time.
The crowd around us goes wild as the fighters enter the ring. They’re announced, and then the fight begins. Normally, my full attention would be on the combatants, looking for their tells, sizing them up, but not tonight.
Tonight a lead weight has settled in my gut and suddenly I’m conflicted. The differences between Arianna and me seem more vast than before. I’ve never been comfortable in a suit, or among sophisticated people. Hell, I should be in that ring right now, covered in sweat and blood, not here in the front row, and certainly not the owner of this venue.
Deep down, I’m just a fighter. Always have been, always will be. I let my knuckles do the talking.
This goddess beside me deserves more than that. She should be with a man who’s her equal in every way, and for the first time, I’m beginning to doubt that man is me.
Having her for myself is probably a temporary reality, one that’s not going to last. She already knows she’s too good for me. Instinctively, I know that too, but I refuse to admit it to myself. So why is this coming up now?
Then it hits me. It’s because she doesn’t fit in here with this blood-thirsty audience. Her beauty clashes with this crass, brutal environment. I never should have brought her here. She already thinks I’m a brute, this further supports her bad opinion of me. Damn it.
It’s not like I can change who I am.
But you also don’t have to force her into your ruthless world. I sigh, hating that nagging voice in the back of my mind.
I glance back at the ring just as one fighter slams the other against the cage’s wall. Arianna gasps and clutches my arm. The fact that her immediate response is to hold onto me for safety sends a thrill up my spine.
Of course the moment is ruined when she releases her grip, like touching me burns her skin.
But… her reaction, to turn to me in the first place, gives me hope.
Dangerous fucking hope.
I can’t help but smile.
Round after round, Arianna kept her eyes glued to the cage as if she couldn’t look away for even a moment. I can’t tell if she was horrified or enthralled. Maybe a bit of both.
Silence weighs heavily between us in the back of the car on our way home to the estate. I brush a stand of hair from her shoulder and she shivers.
“You were a good girl tonight,” I praise her. “Maks will drive you to work on Monday, as I promised.”
Her gaze finally finds mine. “Thank you.”
She’s so distant and polite, it grates on my nerves. I prefer her fire, the way her eyes flare when she argues with me, over this superficial façade she puts on. But we also can’t be arguing all the time. It’s counterproductive.
“I have another reward for you, too.” My chest tightens, hoping she’ll like the gift I bought for her.
She lifts a perfect eyebrow, and her cheeks grow pink. “Oh?”
Her reaction makes me suspect that she’s thinking dirty thoughts. I search her gaze, trying to read her mind and how she feels, but I come up empty. She leaves me off balance all too often. I can’t tell if I’m making progress with her or if she hates me more with each passing day—she’s just getting better at hiding it.
I clear my throat. “It’s at the house, in my office.”
“What is it?” Her tone’s wary.
“You’ll see.” I rest my hand on her thigh and she tenses before angling away to gaze out the window. The small rejection tears at me, just like every other time she’s acted like I don’t fucking exist when I’m sitting right here.
