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Chapter 22
“The bride doesn’t look excited,” I comment, looking at the dark-haired woman in her early twenties sitting next to Rocco. Instead of looking happy, she’s sitting with her head lowered and eyes focused on her hands which are folded on her lap. “Arranged marriage?”
“Kind of,” Salvatore says next to me. “Her brother has a gambling problem. He spent everything they had and then borrowed money from Rocco. He spent that, too.”
I inhale sharply. “Rocco took her as a loan repayment?”
Salvatore nods once. “Yes.”
The groom sits next to his bride, talking to a man on the other side of the table and laughing as if the marriage will be the best experience of both their lives. His arm is resting on the back of his wife’s chair. There is no missing the way she is leaning forward as if she’s trying to move away from him as much as possible.
“That’s sick,” I say.
Rocco’s handsome, so why force a woman who obviouslydoesn’t want to be anywhere near him into marriage? There must be a reason why she looks so . . . scared.
I move my eyes away from the newlyweds and scan the room. Yup, people are still staring at me. From the moment we arrived, I felt like some exotic animal in a zoo—people looking at us constantly. I expected some stares since it’s the first time I was meeting members of the New York Family, but I didn’t anticipate seeing fear in their eyes. Most of them have kept well away from where Salvatore and I are standing, but they haven’t stopped gawking at us. Or, more specifically, at Salvatore’s arm, which he’s kept around my waist for the entire event. No one has approached us except for Arturo. And he only came by to share some confidential information with Salvatore.
“I like the dress,” Salvatore says and places a kiss on my bare shoulder. “Goes well with the bracelet.”
“It seemed shameful to let it lie unseen in a shoebox under the bed.”
“You’re keeping the bracelet in a shoebox? Under our bed?”
“Where the fuck should I put the million-dollar thing?” I whisper. “You won’t let me use the safe.”
“There is only one place where it deserves to be, Milene.” He traces the tip of his finger along my neck and down my arm to my wrist.
The intensity with which he looks into my eyes feels like a living thing, and a slight shiver passes me.
I’ve watched Salvatore interact with his men. He doesn’t talk much. And while he listens attentively as they speak, he also seems to keep the rest of the room in sight. This, theway he’s looking at me now, is different. It’s both alluring and frightening to be the sole focus of a man like Salvatore Ajello.
“Time for the fireworks!” someone shouts from the other part of the room.
A collective cheer fills the room, and from the corner of my eye, I see guests heading toward the exit. Salvatore doesn’t move from his spot but continues tracing my forearm with the tip of his finger. His left hand cups my cheek, thumb caressing the skin below my eye.
“You forgot to put your glove on,” I say, not taking my eyes off his, and lift my hand to cover his. At first, he was only removing it after he came home in the evenings, but now, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him wear it.
“I don’t forget things, Milene.”
The first explosion booms outdoors as colorful lights flash against the inside walls, the brightest of these accentuating the hard lines of Salvatore’s face.
I tilt my head to the side, leaning further into his touch. “I thought seeing your hand bothered you.”
“It does.” He bends his head and places a kiss on my neck, below my ear.
The bangs of the fireworks continue, but my heart is beating even louder. Burying my hands in Salvatore’s hair, I crush my lips against his. He takes a step forward, and then another, forcing me to move back until I’m pressed against the cold surface of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the garden.
“Why has no one approached us this whole evening?” I ask, then shudder when I feel his hand on the inside of my thigh, inching upward.
“Because I made sure they all knew I didn’t want anyone coming near you.”
His hand reaches my panties and deft fingers pull them to one side, exposing me.
“Why?”
“I wasn’t in the mood”—his finger teases my clit and moves to my entrance, while his amber eyes stare at me with the intensity of a bird of prey homing in on its next meal—“for sharing your attention with anyone.”
“You’re so unbelievably self-centered.” I smile, then suck in a breath as his finger enters me.
