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“That’s an arbitrary number.” It’s hard for me to keep my voice calm, not to snap at him. “And not enough time for her to know her own mind, not with things as they are—”
“Which is why you’ve taken on this responsibility, to know her mind for her, and what will be best.” Fontana’s voice is calm, even, and it’s hard to argue with him when, just last night, I had the same thought, trying to convince myself of why I had to leave her in her room alone. “Look them over, Alessio. Let me know your thoughts. Next week, let the girl meet them. We will proceed from there.”
I keep my teeth gritted and my face calm until he leaves, letting out a long and frustrated sigh the moment I hear the door shut behind him. I have no doubt that this is less out of his own concern than because the other families are pressuring Fontana and the other elders to have their sons considered, all leaping over one another for the chance to marry the Mancini daughter, the only obstacle between them and all that she has to offer.
And, of course, rather than push back, they’re bending to the pressure.
I’ve never had a great amount of respect for the old Family or the old ways. In that, Giacomo and I were alike. I know that he wouldn’t have bent to this—but he had more power, more influence, more sway than I do. I might hold his title, but I’ve been gone too long and occupied a place for too long that keeps me from having that sort of respect. If I had stayed on as his heir, perhaps. But I forfeited that, and I don’t have the ability to bend the Family to my will.
Cursing under my breath, I flip open the portfolio that Fontana left. There’s a list of names to begin with—six of them.Marco Fazini. Antonio Lombardi. Matteo Barone. Carlo Bernardi. Giorgio Russo. Tommas Lombardi—two of them, I realize, must be brothers, or cousins, perhaps. Both of them old enough to vie for Gianna’s hand in marriage.
And the thought of any one of them touching her makes me burn with resentment that I know is wholly and entirely inappropriate.
I’m not looking forward to telling her about this new development, especially after the night she just had, but there’s no point in delaying it. It won’t be good no matter when I explain what Fontana wanted to her, and he wants her to meet them next week. If anything, the more time she has to prepare and brace herself, the better.
And the same for me.
I send her a message after lunch, when I’ve had a chance to thoroughly look through the portfolio, opting to eat lunch at my desk to avoid the conversation any sooner than necessary. Gianna has gotten to know me fairly well over the past weeks, and I have a feeling she would pick up on my mood and not relent until I told her what was going on. I want to tell her on my own time, when I’ve had a chance to think about what to say. And I want to do it somewhere that might soften the blow a little—out to a nice dinner, perhaps—and temper her reaction.
She hasn’t been out of the house since the funeral, and neither have I. I reason that if I’m going to deliver bad news to her, it might as well be softened by a night out.
I send her a text, letting her know that I have plans for us to go out to dinner, and to wear something nice. It’s only after I send the message that I hope she won’t misinterpret the invitation as a date. Surely, I’ve made it clear enough, I think, as I try to focus on my remaining work for the day, trying not to think about the possibility of her misinterpreting it. I bury myself in any distraction that I can until seven p.m. rolls around, sending my driver a message.
She knocks on the door a few minutes after I send her a text asking her to meet me in the office, an odd flush on her cheeks when she walks in. “Is everything alright?” she asks as she sinks down into the leather chair opposite my desk, and I let out a slow breath.
“Don Fontana came to see me.” It’s not exactly an answer to her question, but I don’t fully know how to answer it.No, everything is not alright. You’re going to have to be engaged in six weeks if I want to have any say in who you marry, unless I agree to marry you myself. Right now, it’s taking every godforsaken bit of self-control I have not to take you downtown and put a ring on your finger.
But I can’t say any of that, so I go with avoiding the question as best as I can. “He’s decided to take a stronger hand in choosing your husband. That is to say—he’s given me a list of candidates for you to meet, and he has a—timeline in mind.”
Gianna’s face pales. Whatever burst of color there was in her cheeks fades entirely. “What kind of timeline?” she whispers, and I wince at the look on her face.
I let out a slow breath. There’s no point in lying to her, or even in beating around the bush. She’ll find out soon enough, and delaying it helps nothing. “Fontana wants us to hold a dinner party next week for you to meet them. He expects a choice to be made and an engagement in place within six weeks. Eight at the most, he said.”
Gianna’s mouth drops open. She sits there for a moment, trembling, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. “I can’t—”
“I know,” I tell her gently. “Which is why I will do all I can to help you make the decision. Things are difficult for you right now, and as sheltered as you’ve been—”
“That’s exactly why I asked you to explain things to me!” Gianna bursts out, her lower lip trembling. “Why I asked you those questions—how to—how to please my husband, how to keep him from…” She swallows hard. “Finding other women to sleep with. I don’t know what I’m doing, I hardly know anything about it, and—”
“I’m sure your future husband will find it charming and be delighted to teach you how—”
Her face is set in stubborn lines as she interrupts me. “I wantyouto teach me,” she says, meeting my gaze with as much determination as I think she can muster, even though her cheeks are beginning to blush pink again. “You can make me marry someone, but I can make it difficult. I’m only going to go along with this ifyou’llteach me how—”
“Gianna.” I try to keep my tone as calm as possible, in the face of the preposterous thing she’s suggesting—a suggestion that has all the blood rushing to my cock in an instant at just the thought of being the one to teach her about pleasure, about sex, about everything that a man might want her to do in bed. “Even as innocent as you are, Iknowthat you know the importance of your virginity in all of this. That extends to—other acts, as well.”Fuck.Just the mention ofother actshas me rock-hard, throbbing against the fly of my suit trousers. What I wouldn’t give to teach Gianna how to touch a cock, how to—
I need to think about something else, but it’s impossible with her sitting there in front of me, blue eyes wide and pleading, asking me to tutor her on how to please her future husband.
“Just theoretically.” Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and I feel dizzy. “I know I can’t—touch you. But you can show me. How things work in the bedroom—you can explain. If you do, so I don’t feel so lost…so I can feel like I have someone I trust to explain it all to me—then I’ll go along with this. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
God.She has a way of saying exactly the thing that makes me hard without really meaning to, every time.Whatever you ask.I can think of so many things to ask of her, so many ways that I would teach her exactly what a man—whatIwant.
The look on her face is impossible to deny. I can already feel myself reasoning it out, telling myself that a little theoretical instruction won’t hurt, that teaching Gianna how to please her husband can only make her transition into being someone’s wife easier. That, as the person in charge of her future and happiness, it’s myresponsibilityto do this for her, to set aside my own frustrations and make sure that she feels as comfortable as possible.
What harm could come of explaining it all to her? Of letting her know what her husband will expect and want?
My cock throbs, reminding meexactlywhat harm could come of it. If I lose control—
She won’t tell me no. She wants me, and if my taking her virginity meant that I would be her husband instead of one of the six boys in that portfolio, I know she would happily allow it. It doesn’t matter that I’m convinced it’s a product of her grief-addled mind or that I think she would come to regret the decision in time—Giannathinksshe knows what she wants, and she thinks that it’s me.
