“I wanted to.”
“You’re getting sentimental.”
I don’t answer.
He lights a cigarette, and I watch as the smoke curl towards me. He catches me watching, and he chuckles. “I know.”
“That thing will kill you one day.”
He shrugs and grins. “I take it this means we’re heading back tonight,” he says dryly.
I glance at him. “Why else do you think I let that meeting end when I did?”
He exhales a plume of smoke, his grin softening. “You miss your wife.”
I don’t deny it. He knows. He’s seen me these past days. I’ve been pacing through hours like they’re too tight around my skin. I’ve been sleeping light, if at all. I haven’t touched another woman since I met her, and I haven’t wanted to. The idea of anyone but her makes my stomach turn.
I drive us back. I'd sent the driver on a different errand earlier. Tomasso leans into the seat, relaxed, smoking his cigarette, content to let silence fill the car. I'm a better driver than him. I don’t bother with music. The only thing I want to see right now is her.
The silence persists as the coastal lights blur past us in muted streaks. We're nearing the estate. I should be tired. We’ve been up since before sunrise. But I’m wired. The kind of wired that sits in your chest and claws to get out. Or the kind of wired that the certainty of seeing your wife brings.
She’s waiting for me. Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she’s regretting getting married to me already.
I don’t know what I’m walking into, and it makes me want to tear the road in half just to get there faster. Tomasso is eyeing me with a quiet deliberation. I pay him no mind.
By the time we reach the estate, it’s close to midnight. The air is cooler, softer. The moon hangs low, fat and golden over the trees. There are no guards in sight, but I know they’re there. Always. They're just better at disguising themselves.
I tell Tomasso to go home, and he doesn’t argue. He's tired anyway. He'll probably relieve himself with one of the whores he keeps handy.
I walk toward the entrance, my footsteps soundless on the stone floor of the garage as I head to the main apartment. The moment I step through the front doors, something in me settles. This place doesn’t feel hollow anymore. It holds her. And suddenly, having a wife to come home to is the most perfect thing in the world.
I take the stairs slowly. My body’s tired but my pulse is erratic. I need to see her. Touch her. Remind myself she’s real.
The apartment is quiet. The staff has retired for the day. The hallway is dim, only one sconce burning low at the far end. Her door is closed. I stop in front of it, my hand hovering just short of the wood.
Will she be excited to see me?
My body stirs at the thought of seeing her again. My Liliana. My wife. I lift my hand and knock, once, twice. And for the first time in a week, I let myself breathe.
The door creaks open, and the air shifts, heavy with lavender and the faint musk of her skin. Liliana stands barefoot before me, her hair wet and clinging to her shoulders in dark, glistening strands. That fucking hair that's enough to bring me to my knees.
A thin robe hugs her curves, the fabric slipping to reveal the delicate arc of her collarbone, still damp from her shower.
My breath snags, my chest tightening like a vise. She’s a vision, a storm I want to lose myself in, and the sight of her sets my blood ablaze, every nerve sparking with need. Dio, she’s beautiful, more than I remembered, and a week without her has been a slow, burning torment.
Her eyes meet mine, wide for a split second, then she lifts her hands to sign. You're back.
She has her aid on. I don't sign back, just mutter “Liliana.” Dammit. I want her. Then, I sign, I couldn't stay away for much longer.
I see surprise, then a flicker of something deeper, a want that mirrors the hunger clawing through me. My pulse pounds a wild rhythm in my throat, my cock already stirring, pressing hard against my trousers.
I’ve carried her with me through every moment of this cursed mission, her face haunting my sleepless nights, her lips under mine in our wedding kiss, soft and yielding yet fierce. Now, standing here, I’m unraveling, my control fraying at the edges.
She steps tentatively aside, and I step inside and close the door, the soft click loud in the quiet room. The lamp by her bed casts a warm glow, painting her skin in gold, shadows pooling in the hollows of her throat. My boots feel heavy on the hardwood, my shirt clinging to the faint sweat of Livorno’s docks.
I should clean up, should give her space, but I can’t. Not when she’s looking at me like this, her lips parted, her breath shallow, her fingers clutching the edge of her robe like it’s her last defense.
“Liliana,” I say again, my voice rough, barely my own. I want to tell her how she’s consumed me, how I’ve dreamed of her every night, but words feel too small.
