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All I want is to find some way to convince her that we can have a normal, even pleasant life together, that it doesn’t have to be like this all the time, the two of us always battling, always at each other’s throats.
I want this trip to show her the better side of what our life can be.
* * *
She looksevery bit as gorgeous as I could have hoped, dressed up for the gala tonight. It’s chillier in Moscow, even in late spring, and Caterina is wearing a deep green velvet gown, off-the-shoulder, with a neckline that curves beautifully over her breasts. It nips in at her waist and flows over her slender hips, stopping just above the black heels that she’s wearing. There are diamonds at her ears and neck and wrists, and I can’t help but lean in as I escort her out to the car, my mouth very close to her ear.
“You would look even better dripping in emeralds tonight.”
“I don’t own any,” Caterina says, her voice cool and smooth as she darts a glance my way, sliding into the dim leather interior of the car.
“Perhaps I’ll have to give you some.” The banter surprises even me; after Vera, I’d told myself I wouldn’t spoil a wife again the way I’d spoiled her. But something about seeing Caterina looking so beautiful tonight, her hair swept up and pinned up with pearl-tipped gold pins, her face so lovely that I can’t help but think every man there will envy me, makes me want to give her things I never have before.
We could be so good together if only she’d stop fighting me. And tonight, I want her to see that.
The gala is being held at the Kremlin, and I see Caterina’s eyes widen when the car pulls up. She seems a little stunned by the grandeur of it as we step out of the car, and I smile at her, reaching for her hand. “This is the heart of Moscow,” I say simply, as we start to ascend the steps.
I don’t come here often. Usually, I send some of my trusted men, Alexei or Mikhail, to handle the shipments. It was requested that I come and personally oversee this one. It’s not necessarily an unusual request. Sellers sometimes like to be reminded of exactly who they’re selling to. Especially shipments like this one, that contain several very valuable girls.
It’s a reminder, being here tonight, of how far the Andreyev family has come. There was a time when my grandfather could only have dreamed of being inside a place like this, of attending a gala with a woman like Caterina at his side. She, as much as anything else, represents the power that our family has built. Once upon a time, the Rossi family and the other members of the Italian mafia spit on us.
Now I demand their princess, and they hand her over.
I wondered at first how Caterina would handle the gala. She doesn’t speak Russian, of course, although most of the people she will meet tonight speak English, as well as several other languages. But she’s made her distaste for Russians, and Bratva especially, more than clear to me. I wonder if her stubbornness will persist, if she’ll be angry and sullen, refusing to play the part she’s meant to.
If that’s what happens, I’ll have no choice but to punish her. I’ve been given a spirited filly, and if I have to break her, that’s what I’ll do. But that’s not how I want tonight to go.
Caterina surprises me, though. From the moment we enter the crowded gala, and I begin introducing her to business associates and their wives—a few of them mistresses—she’s charming and pleasant, her hand tucked in the crook of my elbow as she talks about our recent wedding, my beautiful home, my lovely daughters. To hear her speak, you’d never know that just this morning she was lashing out at me on the private jet here, tight-lipped and resentful. There’s not a trace of that in her face or voice, only the perfect, smiling wife that I’d hoped I’d married.
She’s doing exactly what she was born to do, taught to do since she was young. It both impresses and turns me on—not least of which because in the moments in between guests, I can tell that she’s more than a little intimidated. I can read people well, and I catch her gaze flicking around the room, singling people out, the quick tensing of her mouth when someone approaches us. All through dinner, she stays poised, making small talk between bites and smiling her way through the meal. I’ve shared enough dinners with her now to know that the way she’s picking at her food is a sign of anxiety, that this entire night has her on edge.
And yet, she’s playing her role to absolute perfection.
“I’d like to have this dance with my wife,” I tell her when the band starts to play, a slow song reminiscent of the one that played for our first dance at our wedding, though it’s not exactly the same. Caterina stands up gracefully, her hand in mine, and I lead her towards the dance floor, her palm warm against mine.
“I hope you’re pleased,” she says, her gaze cool as my hand slides against her waist, my fingers laced through hers as we start to dance. I’m acutely aware of how little space there is between our bodies, how close she is to me, the scent of her perfume and her hair, and I can feel my cock starting to stiffen, ideas of what I’d like to do to her when we get back to the apartment tonight flooding my head.
“You’ve been a model wife tonight,” I tell her sincerely, swaying across the dance floor. “Everything that I could have hoped for, truly.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.” Her tone is still biting, but there’s something softer there, something that I find myself wanting to latch onto.
“You were made for this, Caterina,” I tell her, pulling her closer as the music intensifies. “if you would just see my side of things, trust me, we could be so good together. This could be a real marriage, one of equals, if you wouldn’t fight me so.” I pause, my gaze fixed on her dark eyes, her perfect, delicate face. “I wanted you because you were raised as a mafia princess. You were born to do exactly this, to stand at the side of a man like me. Not cowed, not broken, not behind the way Franco wanted you. You were meant to be elevated one day to be someone’s queen.”
“And you fancy yourself a king?” Caterina’s tone is lightly mocking, but it’s more teasing than anything. I don’t hear the condescension that’s so often been there. I grab onto it, hoping that she’s beginning to soften, to relent.
“I’m a king of my own territory,” I tell her with a smile, spinning her and then pulling her back into my arms. I hear her soft gasp when her body brushes against mine, and my cock throbs, my suit trousers too tight and uncomfortable to get an erection here. “I wantedyou, Caterina. I want you to be more than a broodmare, as you said, more than a glorified nanny. I want a wife.”
Even as the words spill from my lips, I’m not entirely sure where they’re coming from. I had told myself exactly the opposite when I’d gone to bargain with Luca and kept telling myself that—that I wanted a mother for my children, an heir, and nothing more. Not an equal, not a love match, not a partner. Not a woman that I couldn’t keep my hands off of, who drove me mad with desire.
A marriage of convenience. A deal to be brokered and kept through whatever means necessary.
Not a marriage of passion.
I’ve seen how that ends.
But what can I call the feelings I’ve had for Caterina, the way I’ve desired her, the way I desire her right now, if not passion? I want nothing more than to take her out of this room, back to my flat, and strip her bare before we even get to the bedroom, to cover her pale skin with kisses and taste the sweet core of her, to bring her pleasure again and again until I finally thrust myself into her and take my own pleasure, until we’re both sated and exhausted.
I don’t want a cold bed or rote coupling. I want Caterina, and all her fire and stubbornness, bound to me. I don’t want to withhold pleasure from her, and I don’t want to pretend.
