Page 16 of Cruel Tyrant

“Okay, now this is weird,” she says, walking around very slowly. “I’ve heard of open floor plans for the downstairs, but this—” She stops and stares at where her bag’s propped up against the bed. “Are you really serious about this whole sharing a bedroom thing?”

“I’m serious about making this marriage work, and sharing a bedroom is a very normal part of a relationship.” I gesture past her at the rest of the house. “And there’s also no other bed, let alone bedroom.”

“Except we’re not really in a relationship, right?” She’s staring down at the floor, her face a cloudy mask of emotions. I can’t tell if she’s angry, sad, exhausted, or some combination. “We’re doing this for our families, but that doesn’t mean we need to actually go through the motions.”

“I don’t want to go through the motions,” I say, approaching her slowly. I think of her legs spread, her mouth gagged with her panties, and the strangely protective and tender feelings I’ve been having for her. Those confusing damn emotions I don’t know what to do with.

“Then what do you want? Because from my perspective, we’re only married so that our families can have some weird business deal.”

I’m seething because I don’t know how to answer that. What do I want? There are a million things I want: more money, revenge against my enemies, enough guns to put a bullet in every bastard in this whole city. I want to calm the anxiety I feel rolling down my spine every time I step inside a house, and I want to quiet the screams I hear in my head every time I close my eyes.

“I want you to sleep in my bed,” I tell her since that’s about as simple as I can make things right now.

She looks over her shoulder. “Doesn’t seem to be any other alternative unless I want to sleep on a weightlifting bench.”

“It’s not very comfortable and it smells like sweat. You’re better off with me.”

“We’ll see about that,” she mumbles, and I’m about to show her to the third floor—it’s exactly like this one, but mostly used for storage—when I hear my mother’s voice downstairs calling my name.

Which means chaos is coming.

Stefania looks confused and a little uncomfortable, and I gesture at the stairs.

“My mother,” I explain. “And the rest of the family will be close behind. Ready to meet them?”

She laughs like I’ve lost my mind, but since I’m not kidding, her face slowly gets serious. “Can I get changed first?” she asks. She’s in sweats and a baggy shirt. Comfortable travel clothing, but probably not what she pictured she’d be wearing when she meets her in-laws for the first time.

“Yes, but the longer you make them wait, the worse it’ll be. I’ll hold them off.” I slip past her, and before I go downstairs, I look back at her and reach out to grab her waist. She’s surprised when I lean forward and kiss her neck. “You’ll be fine,” I whisper in her ear.

Then she retreats into the bathroom, dragging her suitcase after her, and I head downstairs.

My mother is in the kitchen setting up the electric kettle and whistling to herself. Freddie Bianco is a fit woman in her sixties with short hair and an impeccable sense of style. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything but slacks and a silky blouse—what my older brother Simon refers to as the rich lady uniform.

“Where are you hiding her, darling?” Mom asks using a sing-song voice. She gives me her trademark smile, one of the warmest looks I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’m instantly put at ease. That’s her super power—no matter who’s around, she manages to make them feel comfortable.

I’m not worried about Stefania meeting Mom. That’ll go just fine. It’s everyone else I’m nervous for.

“We just got off a plane. She’s getting changed before you animals paw at her like she’s a pig in a petting zoo.”

“Oh, you’re too hard on us, dear.” Mom puts out three mugs and drops a tea bag in each. “We’re just excited to meet your new wife, that’s all.”

“Go easy on her. This is a lot.”

“She’s from a family like ours, isn’t she?” Mother’s eyebrows raise. “That means she’s probably used to it.”

I have to admit that she has a point, but I’m feeling strangely protective of my wife and don’t want her getting overwhelmed in her very first hour in her new house. It’s bad enough that my living arrangements are very unconventional, and she’ll have to get used to how open everything is, but now she’s getting thrown to the wolves.

Mom’s not concerned though, and once the water’s boiled and poured, Stefania appears in the kitchen doorway looking absolutely immaculate.

I have no idea how she did it, but she put on a pair of jeans and a simple button-down shirt with a chunky belt, and she somehow looks as if she stepped out of an Instagram model’s most recent post. Her hair is thick and dark and hangs in waves around her shoulders, and even though she didn’t have time to do anything with it, I swear it somehow shines brighter in the kitchen lights.

My mother rushes over to greet her. They hug, exchange cheek kisses, and Mom steers her over to the island where the tea’s waiting, and proceeds to pepper her with questions. She asks about Stefania’s family, about her parents and siblings, about her job at the law firm, and they immediately hit it off. Mom makes Stefania relax, and I’m grateful that she came over first, though I’m willing to bet Dad’s keeping everyone else away so Mom can lay the groundwork.

And on cue, the rest of the animals come storming into my house without so much as knocking. Simon’s first, my tall older brother with his square jaw and angry eyes, followed by Elena with her jangling bracelets and her shoulder-length hair. They greet Stefania happily, while Laura lurks on the edges of everything, my petite youngest sister decked out in black and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Dad brings up the rear. He’s in his sixties like Mom with salt-and-pepper hair and a hard stare that never fails to make people feel like he’s peeling off their skin and inspecting their insides. Stefania’s passed around to everyone and I step back away from the conversation to stand with Laura near the couches.

“You’re married,” she says, arms crossed over her chest. “Should I say congratulations?”

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