Adriano was eatingchocolate cereal in an almost overflowing bowl when I walked into the sitting room the next morning.
I’d slept well, better than I had the night of the wedding. Perhaps the nightmares of torture had been replaced with nightmares of my asshole husband’s rules and regulations, but at least the look on his face when I’d said I was fucking Matteo had soothed me to sleep.
Milan Lucca was terrifying, but pushing his buttons when Adriano was around was…cathartic.
“You look like you’re thinking,” Adriano said around a mouthful of his cereal.He was slouched on the couch in his usual casual home attire, the TV on low in the background, his laptop resting precariously on the couch’s arm.
It was peaceful with him here, warmer.
I yawned loudly, slumping onto the couch beside him as I teased, “You look like you shouldn’t be eating in here. There are very strict rules we have to abide by in this jail, Adriano.”
Adriano rolled his eyes playfully, handing me the bowl and spoon as the loud rumble of my stomach alerted the entire universe that I was starving. “Still can’t believe you won thatfucking poker game.” He shook his head, laughing quietly as he turned to his laptop.
I shrugged. “Still can’t believe he didn’t say thank you.” The ‘he’mentioned didn’t need any further explanation; there was no other devil that I worried could be summoned by their name.
“He didn’t?”
“No way,” I slurped around the spoon of chocolatey milk. “He chewed me out for sleeping with Matteo instead. Ungrateful asshole.”
“Areyou fucking Bonafede?”
I smirked. Adriano was a deviant little gossip, it seemed.
“Absolutelynot.”I faked a gag. “He’s like my brother, and besides—” I stopped myself before I slipped anything about a certain relationship. Adriano had already seen too much at the wedding.
The Consigliere opened his mouth, definitely ready to ask all the questions he shouldn’t, but a creak in the floorboards had our attention turning to the door.
Milan stood there with the loudest scowl I’d ever seen, but that was the least of my problems.
He had no shirt on, andfuck me, was hemuscled.
Ripples and rings of taut muscle stretched beneath his skin, and I thought his body would never end as I raked my gaze up and down his tall figure, but it finally did at the waistband of a pair of sinful-looking gray sweatpants.
My eyebrows rose; gray sweatpants never left much to the imagination, but my mind filled in the blanks. His cock washuge,and I couldn’t help but imagine what he would look like sitting in my studio as my model.
“Good morning, Milano,” Adriano said with a curt nod.
Milano.That nickname again.
I’d heard it once, on the balcony after the shooting when Milan became lost in himself. He’d repeated that one phraseover and over again, compulsively, repetitively, like it haunted him.
You are capable, Milano.
It sounded like praise, but I didn’t think it was.Was Adriano to blame for it?
Milan stayed silent for a moment before he strolled into the lounge and stiffly sat on the cream armchair opposite us, his unblinking stare never leaving my face.
“Why’re you naked?” I asked suddenly to break the tension, wanting to poke and probe whatever awful mood he’d woken up in today.
“I amnotnaked.” He jolted like I’d slapped him. “I am showing an equal amount of skin as you are in those strange pink pajama shorts.” He shuffled in place, still remaining rigid. “Why are you discussing Matteo Bonafede in my home?”
I slurped a spoonful of milk from the bowl, watching in satisfaction as he winced. “Because I was thinking of inviting him over for dinner, obviously.”
Adriano choked on his laughter.
Milan frowned at him as he said firmly, “That is not permitted.”
“So, whoispermitted then?” I shrugged, feigning my curiosity. “You said I can fuck?—”
