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"So," I widen my legs, trying to make myself more comfortable, "what kinds of clothing would you rather wear?"
She firms her lips, "Doesn’t matter."
I frown. "Tell me," I insist. "I want to know."
She blows out a breath, then shoots me a sideways glance, "I’d rather stitch my own clothing, if you really want to know."
"You would?" Then I nod, "Of course, you would, you are a tailor."
"A fashion designer."
"A seamstress."
"I’m a couturier, you ass."
"What-fucking-ever," I mutter. "You want to create your own clothing; I am sure we can arrange that."
Half an hour later, I watch from the comfort of yet another couch that I have draped myself on in a corner of a well-known fabric shop that also carries any tools she may need for stitching her wedding dress. I had my men talk to the owner, who was only too happy to shut down the shop to the rest of the public so my woman could shop in privacy.
Holdonasecond. Did I just think of her as my woman? I drag my fingers through my hair. Shit, shit, shit. When you start slipping up like that, and your subconscious mind insists on playing tricks on you, then you know you’re really in trouble.
I follow her with my eyes as she literally vibrates with excitement as she examines the fabrics in front of her. Shades of black and gray, and a blue so dark that it could be mistaken for black in low light, a green so deep that it calls to mind the depths of the sea, a purple on the spectrum of—you guessed it, black. Doesn’t the woman like any other color?
Her dark hair dances about her shoulders as she leans in closer to the man behind the counter. She says something to him and he nods. She lowers her head to examine the cloth, whispers something else and he bursts out laughing. He whispers something back to her, eliciting a smile, before he pivots, heads inside the shop, only to appear moments later with an armful of ribbons and fabrics in shades of— See if you can guess. Yes, black.
Together, they examine the cloth. The man glances at her bent head, a positively adoring look on his features.
Something hot stabs at my chest. Damn it, I knew it had been a bad idea to let her off the island.
It’s only a matter of time before everyone else sees what I already know. She’s special. She’s different. Nothing, and no-one else, can hold a candle to her. She is unique, a magnificent creature who seems to breathe life into everything around her. There is something so luminescent about this girl, I wonder how has she survived this far without anyone else recognizing how unique she is?
I had, of course, from the moment I had spotted her. I haven’t been able to let her go since, and look where that has gotten me. Skulking about in the periphery, stalking her like a creepy-ass motherfucker, while nursing a bad case of blue balls, and all because I can’t bring myself to own up to just how drawn to her I am.
I had taken her with the intention of making her pay her father’s debt. I had realized her links to the Seven make her a key asset. I should go through with my original plan of killing her… Instead, here I am, contemplating marrying her. Except, I can never allow for that to be real. If, for one second, I allow myself to think of how it would be to really be married to her… Hell… My groin hardens and my heart begins to race. I’d never be able to let go of her. I’d, forever, have handed over my power to her… And that, I cannot allow.
I am my own man. I built up the authority I wield with great effort and I cannot let anything or anyone get in the way of the empire I have envisioned for myself. It’s all I have —the promise I made to myself that I will be the most powerful of all the Five Families—and I can’t stop until I have achieved that.
I rise to my feet and stalk over to her. I loom behind her, and she glances up at me, "Hey, Michael," her face lights up, "this is incredible. The warp, the weft, the velvets and the chiffons... They are gorgeous. Look at the sheer variety of these decorative ribbons. And this lace—" She holds up a length of an antique, cream-colored mesh-like fabric, "It’s incredible. It’s so old, there are very few of this left anywhere in the world, and Roberto, here, is happy for me to have it."
I glance from her to the middle-aged man who watches her with stars in his eyes.Testa di cazzo!I can’t stop the growl that rumbles from my chest.
Roberto pales; his throat moves as he swallows. He looks up at me, blinks rapidly. "Signor Capo," he mumbles, "I am more than happy for the Signorina to have whatever she so desires."
"The Signorina desires that you wrap up everything—" I rake my gaze across the heaps of fabric, and the various other sewing tools and other odds and ends that she's chosen. "—Everything that she has liked so far, and have them delivered to my place on the island." I jerk my chin toward the door, "Now, get out of the shop and leave us alone."
"But," he glances down at the heaps of fabric, then back up at me, "Signor, Capo…" He swallows, "Uh, the payment."
"Oh, for fuck’s sake." I shove my hand in my pocket, pull out my credit card and hand it over. "Charge the whole damned thing, and anything else she’ll need for creating her trousseau, to it."
"Yessir." The man grabs the card, turns to Beauty and smiles, as I fight the urge to bash his head in. He nods, “Signorina,” then scampers off. The door shuts behind him as Beauty whirls on me.
"What the hell are you thinking? You gave him your credit card?"
"So?"
"And you’re not going to check what he’s charging to it."
"He won’t dare pull a fast one on me. Besides," I smirk, "it’s just money."
