“Si, Boss.”
I hung up and threw the phone onto the kitchen counter, hanging my head between my arms. I had to figure this shit out, fast. I’d just lit a fire under my ass by marrying Aria. Piero and Callum would ramp up their hate club against me now. This wasn’t just about business anymore. I’d made it personal. But fuck them. The traitor dockworker, Simone, was still in a coma in Naples. Damiano would never be found. The shipment investigation was likely to collapse any day, and no fucker they questioned who knew anything important would talk to them, because they valued their lives. They had nothing on me.
My biggest problem? Making my wife fall madly in love with me.
There was no doubting her attraction to me. She wanted me physically, though she hated it. I’d heard the words from her lips, with God as our witness in that confessional. And I could work with that. Her body and desires were already mine. But it was her trust and her heart that I needed to earn. That would take time, and patience had never been a strength of mine.
I opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of champagne, and grabbed two glasses. Then I strolled back to the bedroom. The bathroom door was still shut, so I shoved it open without knocking.
I found her lying in the unfilled, standalone bathtub, her glowering face submerged in a cloud of lace and tulle.
“Ever heard of knocking?” she snapped as I closed the door behind me and padded barefoot to the bath. “Why isn’t there a lock on the bathroom door?”
“My home. My rules.” I popped open the champagne and poured us both a glass each, ignoring her adorable glare, which I presumed was supposed to scare me away.
“I want to be alone. Are you telling me there is no room in this house with adeadbolt where I can avoid you?”
“Not one,” I said, offering her the glass. She narrowed her eyes, but the alcohol was too tempting, and she took it from my hand. I lifted one leg into the bath, shifting the puffy skirt out of the way as I climbed in.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, shuffling back from me as I sat on the opposite side of the tub, forcing my legs around her hips and relaxing back. “What part of ‘I want to be alone’ don’t you understand?”
“Boundaries aren’t part of my vocabulary,” I said, balancing my arms on the sides and smirking at her flustered face. “It’s our wedding night. Taking a romantic bath together is expected, no? Though we should probably take off our clothes, add some water, and feed each other chocolate-coated strawberries before we make sweet love.”
“Read the room. Nothing about this is romantic, Santino. It’s psychotic. And so are you.”
“Psychopaths tend to be emotionally detached and cold, feeling no guilt or empathy for anyone. They are highly calculated, but they hide behind their charm and charisma. Does that sound like me?”
“Yes, it does.”
I chuckled, shaking my head.
“Alright, you’re a sociopath, then. An emotionally reactive, impulsive, and erratic person with limited empathy for specific people?”
“That sounds more likely.”
“I want a divorce.”
“No, you don't.”
She didn’t respond. Just kept staring, as if she were trying to figure me out. We both sipped our champagne, getting lost in each other’s eyes. For the first time today, I saw the fight in her falter. She didn’t relax, not entirely. She just looked tired. As if she couldn’t physically keep up the bravado anymore.
“I don’t understand you,” she finally whispered.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why are you doing this? Going to these lengths to…” she searched for the word before giving up. “I don’t know.”
“Have you?”
Her eyes snapped to mine.
“Do you believe in soulmates?”
She scoffed. It was obviously the last thing she expected a sociopath to say. “No. I don’t.”
Ouch. Well, that hurt.
I set my champagne glass on the bathroom floor and sat up, leaning forward to close the gap between us. Her chest rose a little faster with each breath as I lookedinto her eyes.
