Page 80 of Princess of the Mafia

She gave a shake of her head. “No need.”

I knew she was trying, but her voice lacked the conviction I wanted to hear. “Doing it, anyway.”

She laughed. A thin, nervous laugh. “I’ll fill it up with my junk.”

“Aww Principessa…” my lips trailed her neck. “Your junk is my treasure.”

The sun was going down by the time I managed to pull her out. She was all excited and talked of her plans a million miles per minute. What materials did I want? What colors did I like? Couldn’t give a fuck about it as long she loved it. So I told her I wanted her to make a warm home out of it, and she shone like a falling star.

I locked the door, put the key away, and turned to find her a few feet away, her eyes lingering on my hand. “What happened to it?”

“Why didn’t you ask before?”

She looked away before catching my eyes. “Was too scared to know the answer.”

I frowned. “What did you think it was?”

She shrugged. “A hole in your hand?”

Jesus! I had forgotten the effects of growing up in the Cosa Nostra. Being born a girl. If we had one, I was going to wrap her up in pink fluff and hide her under a white cloud.

“It’s nothing serious.” I unwrapped the thin gauze around it. “Come have a look.”

She frowned but edged forward reluctantly. Her hands gripped mine and a tremble vibrated along my veins. It was still an angry red, but the heart on my hand read clear as day. Daria mia Principessa, sono solo tuo per sempre.

Her wild-eyed gaze lifted to mine. “Told you.” My voice grated on the front porch, in the early evening. “You’re my princess, and I am only yours. Forever.” I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her roughly. “Just so you know, these hands will only ever be on you.”

There was a jitter to her movements, a tightness to her cuddle that wasn’t there before, and I knew I was one step closer to winning her fucking heart.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

DARIA

The air hummed with hot energy. Whiskey tinkled in a glass, and harsh Italian raked the walls. It had been two weeks since he had shown me the house. My house, apparently, and he had proved it by sliding the papers underneath my nose. But that first sparkle of enthusiasm that had ridden my skin shimmered now to a soft flickering heat, like the embers of a fire the day after.

If I closed my eyes, I could see that house like I stood in front of it. Worse. I would see the tattooed words on his skin like it was etched onto my own.

Daria mia Principessa, sono solo tuo per sempre trilled on my skin and crawled all over my veins. Daria, my princess, only yours forever. Equal parts thrill and fear coasted through me. He was making it too difficult. Too hard. I couldn’t keep up. The more I hardened my resolve to memories, the faster he came after me, bringing down one iron-clad wall at a time.

Like a silly, infatuated girl, my mind wrapped around his warm, whiskey-clad voice, rather than the lines of the book on my lap. I hadn’t wanted this marriage, this man, this city. But he was pulling me in with the precision of a fishing rod in the sea, and even though I tried, the tug was too hard to resist.

Just so you know, these hands will only ever be on you.

I had never had a man make that promise. But I had never met a man who let his wife leave home every morning with a pack of books either. The only man who came close was Antonio, but he didn’t really count. The Capizzi men were notoriously different. Softer. Diplomatic. Both traits didn’t taint my husband’s skin. Yet he let me go, even though he didn’t like it. Sometimes, he brought me to college. Most days, he stood across the street to pick me up.

The different types of architecture swam before my eyes. Too difficult. Hot irritation slid down my spine, making it impossible to focus on them. Silent awareness cloaked his office, and I realized his Zoom call had stopped ten heartbeats before. He had dragged me over to his office, saying he had work to do, but for the umpteenth time, I wondered why I had to be a part of his work.

I shifted on his Chesterfield. Awareness, itchy and hot, prickled in the air. I didn’t need to look up to know where his line of sight would be. Why else would my body be flushed hot, like a fever in my veins? I reread the line below me stubbornly. Neoclassicism refers to the renewed emphasis of a classical style in art, literature, architecture, or music. The revival of feelings… I couldn’t concentrate, and before I knew it, I had dragged my gaze to meet his across the room. I couldn’t, with this man. He focused on me and only me with those laser beams that he called eyes. Something electric sparked in my blood, spilled out my pores, and hummed between my legs. I am not Mamma. But despite that, I found myself squeezing my thighs.

“What?”

“Why don’t you come over here?”

I refused to acknowledge that look. Wouldn’t allow myself to. “I have a paper tomorrow.”

“Yeah?”

I frowned. No good was going to come from the dark edges lining his face and the wicked light dancing in the depth of his irises.

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