Page 51 of Nanny to the Mafia

A spark of jealousy lit inside me. I was clearly the outsider in this threesome.

I had hoped getting rid of that sofa, the troublemaker in our marriage, would bring peace and relief to my cock. But Divya’s determination knew no bounds, apparently.

She was a distraction I didn’t care for. Stressful as it had been solving the chaos of a reported shipment, I could not stop thinking about Miss Praan. My relief was immense when we came to an agreement with the feds, fuelled faster than usual by my need to get back home.

Home. Four years in Boston and I had never thought of it as home. Palermo was home or Milan where I had my apartment. Boston was supposed to be work. But now that was where my wife and child waited for me.

I arrived two days ago from my trip in the middle of the night. That was no coincidence. I stopped off at the office for a few hours, hoping I could catch her sleeping in my bed. What else could I do then other than wrap my body around hers?

But she must have been sleeping with half an ear open, because when I came in she was cuddled into the uncomfortable sofa, even though my bed felt warm, and my sheets cradled her sweet smell.

I didn’t like the man she was turning me into. Some kind of pussy who juggled tricks to fuck his wife. I swear if she didn’t allow me to fuck her soon, I was going to find myself a replacement.

I watched her put my little girl on the floor. Cora came crawling over to me, her chubby legs working overtime. At least I got a warm welcome from her. Which was not what I could say of my wife.

I grabbed my little girl and picked her up. I nuzzled her belly with my rough scruff, which made her burst out in a giggle. I repeated it with the same result. Over and over again. Why couldn’t women be like babies?

Cradling her in my arms, I strolled around the room softly telling her all my problems in Italian. The warmth following me around spoke of Divya’s gaze. When I looked, she dropped her eyes immediately, stalking over to the kitchen.

I walked over to the kitchen island to take the bottle from Divya, letting my gruff fingers slide against her soft ones. Cora wasn’t having any of it. Impatient as usual, she grabbed the bottle, spraying herself with half the contents before she stuffed it in her mouth.

“My mother has requested to throw a small reception for our wedding.” I broke the silent battle between us.

She looked up from her cleaning, her brows furrowed in a frown. “Your mother is okay… with our arrangement?”

“She doesn’t know the details. But she’s fine with our marriage,” I lied. As if I cared what she thought of my marriage. “It would be a confirmation if we have a reception.”

She looked at me, deep in thought, teeth biting into her full bottom lip.

The urge to drop her on the kitchen island and bury my dick inside was strong. I muttered a silent curse to myself. Who was I kidding? There was no replacement for this.

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” And more.

Her face was an open display of emotions. Confusion, a bit of joy, a layer of sadness. Why did she have to be so fucking sad to be married to me?

She turned away from me, putting things away. What on earth did she have to do in the kitchen, anyway? I had people for this shit.

I wanted her focus on me.

“I will arrange for a designer to come to you. Any favourites?”

She turned around, surprised. “What do I need a designer for?”

“A wedding dress, of course.”

“Oh.” She stared at me blankly.

“Any favourites?”

“Actually,” she cleared her throat, shuffling her feet and looking down. “I can make my dress.”

Yes, and I came out of my mother’s belly, hitting the bullseye. “This is a big reception with hundreds of people. We Italians have big families.”

“Your point being?”

I don’t want you to make a fool out of yourself.

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