Page 22 of Satin Empire

“Your place. Might as well see my new home.”

He grunts in reply and moves to the door. “I’ll tell Renzo and get the car started. You good here for a few minutes?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Totally fine.”

He pauses. Then he turns again and marches over. “Here.”

I blink in surprise as he grabs my hand and shoves something into it. Then he turns and storms out again like he hated every second of that.

I look down and there’s a ring in my palm.

A very simple gold band.

Nothing special, no diamonds, no rubies, just a ring.

When I slip it onto my finger, it fits.

Chapter 11

Carlo

My new wife isn’t chatty on the drive to my apartment.

I have a place in South Philly, right in the heart of our territory. It’s an apartment building the Famiglia owns, and the top two floors are all mine. Only Ms. Romano lives down below, an old Italian lady who lost a husband and two sons to the war with the Russians and the Irish. I keep an eye on her, bring her meals, help tend the little garden she set up in the back yard, and basically try to make her life as comfortable as I can. She dealt with enough tragedy already.

“Kitchen and living room downstairs,” I say, giving Alana the tour. She trails after me, not speaking. Which is fine: I don’t have the brain space to deal with banter right now.

That kiss shook me to the fucking core.

I don’t know why I did it. I guess I thought it’d be a good way to break the ice since we’re stuck together and no amount of complaining will change it. And she looks gorgeous in that simple dress with her hair down, minimal makeup, simple jewelry, dressed in gray like she’s headed to a casual party and not to her own wedding.

But I like her that way. Not ornamented, not painted, not done up in some elaborate fucking gown that sparkled and weighed a ton.

Just Alana, looking fucking gorgeous.

“Uh, Carlo?” She’s frowning into the home gym, and then into the office. “There’s no second bedroom.”

“I live alone. Never needed one before.”

“What about guests?”

I give her a look. “I don’t have houseguests, and the ones that do come in here don’t need another bed.”

Her cheeks turn red. “Right. Got it. You’re a manwhore.”

I put my hand over my heart. “You wound me.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re not wrong, but come on, you’re not some saint, are you?” My eyebrows raise when she doesn’t answer immediately. “Fuck, don’t tell me you’re a virgin?”

“No, asshole,” she snaps at me. “And if I was, I’d be out on the street selling my V-card to the highest bidder just to deprive you of the pleasure.”

“Banging a virgin isn’t exactly my kind of pleasure,” I say with a grimace at the thought.

She glares pure death at me. “My sexual life is none of your business and doesn’t even matter. Where the hell am I sleeping tonight?”

“In here.” I show her the master. It’s a big space with a solid walk-in closet, everything new and modern. “I helped redo the place myself.” Which I’m proud of, because I had to learn it all on my own with a little help from the mob-associated trades guys.

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