Page 35 of Married to the Mafia Devil

We settle back on the sun loungers, the air between us charged. It's comfortable, familiar, and yet there's an undercurrent of something more, something deeper.

“We need to go back tomorrow,” I say. “Something I’ve got to do.”

“Anything important?”

“Not sure yet. We’ll see.”

“You know,” she replies, her tone casual but her eyes searching, “I've been thinking about what happens when the six weeks are up.”

The question hangs between us, laden with implications. “And what have you decided?” I ask, my voice steady despite the turmoil her question stirs within me.

“That I want to stay,” she says simply, her declaration cutting through my defenses, reaching a part of me I thought was long buried. “But only if we're on equal footing. I can't be just another one of your possessions.”

Her words strike a chord, a reminder of the delicate balance we've been navigating while on honeymoon. “You think you’re just a possession,” I reply.

“You give me orders and I obey them. You tell me to submit and I do, but that’s not possible for a whole lifetime, not in the way you might want. What if I don’t like one of your choices? What if you start telling me what books to read?”

“I would never do that. I know how much reading means to you.”

“That’s why we’re talking now. Before it’s too late. Can you trust me to look after myself?” Her challenge is clear, a direct confrontation of my deepest belief—that to maintain control is to protect, to prevent pain for myself and those under my care. “If I went to college, would you be breathing down my neck the entire time? I love you but I have to have space on my own, time to myself. I’d suffocate otherwise.”

The question forces me to confront the possibility that my need for control, for unyielding power, might be the very thing that could drive her away. “It's not that simple,” I find myself saying, the words a feeble defense against the truth she's laid bare. “You’re asking me to stop caring for you.”

“It’s not caring to do everything for me. You might as well have a sex doll. I’m capable of independent thought. I’ll stay as long as we do this together as a couple, husband and wife, not owner and pet.”

“If Petrovitch is dead, I have no enemies and you are in no longer in danger. That’s my condition. He must die before you have the freedom to do whatever you choose.”

“That suggests you won’t let me go if I choose to leave.”

“You can end the marriage but you’ll keep your guards until he’s dead. It won’t be long now. I have plans in progress.”

“What kind of plans?”

“It’s better you don’t know. Focus on what matters.”

“What’s that?”

I pull her to me, my lips finding hers in a kiss that's meant to bridge the gap between us, to silence the doubts and fears. The kiss deepens, fueled by the myriad of emotions churning within me—passion, fear, hope.

But as we break apart, the reality of our situation settles back around us, heavy and inescapable. We're at a crossroads, caught between the pull of our connection and the barriers we’ve both erected over the years.

“I don't want to lose this... lose us,” I admit. I could never speak like this at home. It would be pounced on as a sign of weakness.

“Then don't let your fears dictate our future,” she whispers, her words a plea for a leap of faith, for the chance to prove that together, we're stronger than our doubts.

“Petrovitch must die first. I couldn’t bear the thought of him causing you a moment’s discomfort.”

She wraps her arms around herself, a barrier against the cooling air, or perhaps the distance she feels growing between us. I notice her shiver, the subtle cue compelling me to close the space between us, offering my warmth.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she asks suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes reflecting the turmoil of the crashing waves below.

“Doing what?” I'm genuinely confused, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in her demeanor.

“It's like you're fighting a war within yourself, and I'm caught in the crossfire,” she explains, her voice laced with frustration and a hint of sadness. “You cling to your control like a shield, afraid of what might happen if you let anyone get too close. Even now, you act like you want me but your mind is elsewhere, I can tell.”

Her words are a mirror, reflecting back my deepest fears—fears that my need for control, for dominance, could ultimately drive her away.

“And what about you?” I counter, unwilling to be the only one laid bare. “Are you no longer afraid of what happens if you stay? That my world will consume you? You want your freedom and to run everything in your life at the expense of accepting help that will resolve all your problems. You want your father to live when he’s the reason you’re in this mess at all.”

---