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My ex-wife loved the needle more than me. More than Bellamy too, and that’s what broke my heart. But that was a lifetime ago.
Over the years, I eventually tried women again. I dated casually, but I never liked it. I never connected with anyone. Women see a widower, and a single father at that. And no matter of status or power or money, they want to mother you. They want to nurse you back to life. I don’t need nursing, and I never did. I needed to feel alive again. But I’m not sure I ever did after that.
My job helped me of course. Rising to the position I’m in now has made my blood run hot. It’s given me purpose in my life; a hunger to strive and to build higher. But the feeling has never come from a woman. Or it never did until this very night. Until Katrina walked into that conference room.
I turn to my laptop. I bring up the home security cameras. I need to distance myself, not fixate. But I can’t stop myself. I watch her in the kitchen. She eats her omelet slowly. When she’s done, she brings her plate to the kitchen sink. Pierre stops her with a smile. But she insists on rinsing her own plate. She puts it in the dishwasher, and I smile.
The cameras, and me, follow her upstairs. My eyes follow her steps down the hallway to her rooms. They follow her inside, too. My house, my domain.
Katrina leaves a light on and changes for bed: I see everything, shamelessly. I see every curve, and every hollow. I see every shadow. I see smooth skin and tempting pink nipples. I see the curve of her tight ass before she slips into pajamas. I groan, and my cock hardens. I grip myself again, squeezing tightly. I feel my length and my thickness throbs in response.
I crave her. I want her. Icouldhave her, and I should. She’s going to be my goddamn wife for fucks sake, like it or not. There’s no faking it, either. That’s happening. If Don Salvatore and Don Bernardo deem it so and agree on it with Anton, it’s happening.
I tell myself it’s for the good of the family. It’s a calculated business move, no different than being ordered to take out a rival. But it is different. The angel on my screen slipping into bed isn’t a rival I’m meant to take out. She’s just a girl that I want totake.
But she’s twenty years younger. She’s a Korolyov. I’m walking a very thin line with her in this house. On one side, duty. On the other side, lust. I need to tread carefully, or I’m going to fall.
The lights turn off in her room. I’m still fucking hard.
I pour another drink. Then another after that. Finally, I force myself to go to bed, though the wheels are still turning. At some point, I finally fall asleep.
I remember wondering if I’ll dream of Katrina. Instead, I dream of fire.
6
Katrina
I wakein the morning to my phone buzzing. I look around the room and smile. My uncle’s house is large and rich. But these quarters really are something else altogether. The huge canopy bed seems to surround me. Soft white curtains drape down, filtering the morning light. The entire room is polished white marble, silver accents, and soft light.
It’s like a princess room. I might have been sold into this. I may be a bargaining chip, to settle a debt. But for the very first time in my life, I do feel like a princess.
Teases of the dream I’ve just awoken from flicker through my head. I blush as the flashbacks play out again. I dreamt of him; Michael, that is. And in that dream, he was a savage. In my dream, he tore the clothes from my body. And I wanted him to. I yearned for the aggressiveness. In last night’s dream, he didn’t make love to me. He claimed me. He made me his.
I blush, feeling warm under the sheets. God, there might be something very wrong with me.
I reach for my phone. I frown when I look at it though. The buzzing is a text from my uncle. Instantly, the forbidden warmth from the dream fades. The text simply says “Make him happy. There will be consequences if you do not.”
I tremble under the soft white sheets. Micheal has seemed nothing but kind so far. Perhaps cold. Certainly distant. But not the monster that my uncle has claimed he is. But I also remember the story my uncle has told me about Micheal’s first wife: the one who didn’t please him. She’s dead, and more than just my uncle has eluded that it was Micheal who’s responsible for it.
I chew at my lip. I try and make the connection between the cold but kind man who brought me to his home last night, and the selfish mafia-boss killer I’ve been warned about. I know perfectly well that Anton is a very capable liar. But Michealisthe head of the entire Scaliami crime family. He’s hardly a Boy Scout.
“Make him happy. There will be consequences if you do not.”
My eyes read the text again. I still haven’t decided if I should believe anything my uncle has told me about Michael. But either way, Iamhis now. Iamto be his wife. It wouldn’t hurt to hedge my bets.
My mind drifts back to the fever dream. I blush darkly before I shake it from my head.
Half an hour later,I’m showered and dressed in a skirt and a cute, strappy top. It’s classy and fancy, but not too fancy. Pierre smiles when I enter the kitchen and hands me the tray of food I called down about earlier. It’s quite early in the morning. But I’ve always been an early riser. Luckily, so is Micheal’s chef.
“Monsieur Genovese does enjoy a good eggs Benedict,” he winks. “A very good choice.”
I smile back. “Thank you, Pierre.”
Perhaps taking my clothes off in front of Michael was too… something. Maybe it was too bold, or too crude for a man like that. Whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t impressed. But a good wife does more than take her clothes off, right? I can still please him in other ways.
I carry the tray of breakfast upstairs. I sit on a table in the hallway outside his room and turn the knob. I bring it inside his quarters and walk quietly towards his bedroom. The door is ajar, and I push it open. My eyes widen.
Micheal’s quarters are even more opulent than the ones I’m staying in. The decor is much more masculine, but it’s like walking into a king’s chamber. It’s all dark slate and wood tones and black iron accents. His huge bed dominates the entire far wall of the room.
