Page 28 of Married to the Mafia Devil

“You hate giving up control. So does he. You want my opinion, based on a multitude of classic romantic fiction, and zero successful relationships?”

“How could I not with that kind of expertise?”

“You’re falling for each other but you’re both scared of losing control. But you’re not losing control. You’re sharing it with each other. It’s all about choice. You’re choosing to let him take you around Europe, he’s not forcing you.”

Her words hit closer to home than I'm willing to admit. “Maybe. This world he lives in, it's not like anything I’ve ever known. He’s had mayors and politicians meeting him when we’ve rocked up places, cars waiting for him, everyone knows his name. I'm so far out of my depth here. It scares me. My apartment, the job. I knew that. It was safe. This isn’t me.” I sigh, turning away from the view. “What if he gets bored of me?”

“What if he doesn’t?” Her laugh is a warm hug through the phone. “Just enjoy the ride, and who knows? You might just find six weeks becomes six years, becomes sixty. There must be something going right. You sound genuinely happy. It’s wonderful to hear.”

I'm about to reply when a message pops up on my screen. “I've got to go. He wants to meet me down at the casino.”

“The casino? What are you now, a Bond girl?” She laughs. “Remember what I said, okay? And call me with updates! I need all the juicy details. How big it is, how many times. How far up he goes. I need to know everything.”

“I can tell you now. Big, not a lot, a blowjob.”

“No sex yet? Really?”

“Not yet. I told him I wasn’t ready.”

“You’re not ready?”

“To be honest, I’m scared that it’ll tip me over the edge into loving him.”

“Honey, you’re already there. I can tell from your voice. Now go get him and tell him to ride you into the sunset, like a horse in a Western. With his cock.”

“Beautiful image, thanks for that.”

“You’re welcome.”

I hang up and head out of the penthouse, catching the elevator down, looking at myself in the mirrored wall. I’m in the dress he bought me, the makeup he says looks best. I’m not even sure who I am anymore.

I promised to submit for six weeks. The first two are already over. Time is racing by. I’m the most relaxed I’ve ever been and that’s a big problem. Because I can’t stay with him. I can’t hand over control to someone else, can I? Not for all time. Who would look after Amelia? Who would keep my dad out of trouble?

The elevator opens and I step into a cacophony of sounds and a kaleidoscope of lights. Each casino table is a universe unto itself with its own laws of chance and fortune. I weave through the crowd until I spot him sitting at a roulette table.

It’s immediately apparent that he's not like the other patrons. The staff treat him with a deference that borders on fear, their nods subtle but unmistakable, their smiles a touch too tight.

It’s a mixture of respect and fear I’ve gotten used to over the last couple of weeks, an intriguing cocktail that has me studying him more closely. Is this the real him or the man who wraps around me and sends me off to sleep with whispered words every night since we got together?

He beckons for me to join him at the table. I sit in front of a sleek, polished wheel that feels miles away from the seedy gambling dens in movies. “You ever play?” he asks, his voice smooth as he hands me a stack of chips.

“Sure, I’m in here all the time,” I reply, trying to match his ease, but the weight of the chips in my hand feels wrong. “They call me the high roller.”

He chuckles, a low sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “Let’s make it interesting then. Pick a number.”

I hesitate, scanning the table. My gaze lands on 19, Amelia’s age. “Nineteen,” I say more confidently than I feel.

He places a bet for me. The wheel spins, a blur of possibilities, and for a moment, I'm caught up in the thrill of it all. But then, as the ball finds its home, it’s not on 19. I laugh, the sound lighter than I’ve felt all evening. “So much for beginner’s luck,” I say. “How much did I just cost you?”

“Only five thousand,” he says, his eyes glancing past me. “But I’ve had more than my fair share of luck recently.”

I glance past him and notice a man in a white suit watching us closely. I lean in so I can whisper in Matteo’s ear. “He’s back.”

He doesn’t move. “The guy from Paris?”

I nod. “Who is he?”

“An irritation that’s gone on long enough.” He frowns. “Excuse me,” he says, getting to his feet and walking straight up to the man.

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