Page 26 of Brutal Union
"That doesn't change anything," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"No," he agrees. "But you'll read the books anyway. And we'll talk about them over dinner. And you'll pretend you don't enjoy the conversation while your eyes light up discussing character motivations. While your body leans toward me across the table. While you forget, for just a moment, that you're supposed to hate me."
He's right, and we both know it. This routine we've fallen into is becoming comfortable. Familiar. Almost like a real marriage.
"Do you play chess?" he asks, as though he's imagining a real marriage too. One with shared interests.
The subject change throws me, and I picture the ornate ebony and ivory chess board I glimpsed in his office. "My mother taught me."
"Mine too." He pauses. "She used to say chess was the only warfare where both sides start equal."
"That's not true though," I argue, unable to help myself. "White has the first move advantage. It's small but statistically significant."
"Spoken like someone who's studied the game seriously."
"Spoken like someone who got tired of losing to her mother." The admission slips out before I can stop it.
"Did she ever tell you about the origin? The Indian game of Chaturanga?"
I shake my head, oddly captivated by this glimpse of a Marco who discusses literature and chess history over breakfast.
"Four divisions of the army," he explains. "Infantry, cavalry, elephants, chariots. Each piece moving according to its nature, its limitations. The queen—or counselor as it was then—could only move one square diagonally. Weakest piece on the board."
"Until the game reached Europe," I say, remembering now. "And suddenly the queen became the most powerful piece."
"The Europeans claimed it was to honor Isabella of Castile." His lips quirk. "But I think they just understood that underestimating queens is a fatal mistake."
The weight of the statement hangs between us, not quite a compliment, not quite a threat.
"Is that what this is?" I ask. "Chess? Am I a piece you're moving around your board?"
"No," he says simply. "You're a player. You just haven't decided if you want to win or flip the board entirely."
The moment stretches between us, taut with possibility. Then his phone buzzes, shattering the spell.
"Business," he says, checking the screen with a frown that promises violence for whoever disturbed us. "I have to go."
The loss of his proximity leaves me cold and somehow bereft. He moves through the penthouse, gathering what he needs, transforming back into the Don who rules Chicago's underworld. The man who cooked breakfast disappears beneath expensive suits and controlled violence.
"There's more carbonara in the pan," he says, adjusting his cuffs with the same precision he uses for everything. "The books are in the library. Third shelf from the window."
I nod, not trusting my voice. This domestic exchange feels too normal, too much like a real marriage instead of what we actually are.
He pauses at the door, then crosses back to where I stand frozen by the kitchen island. Before I can react, he steps close. Close enough that I feel the heat of his body, smell that damned bittersweet cologne that sparks a tingle between my thighs with just a whiff. His hand cups my jaw, thumb stroking my cheekbone as he leans down. His lips press to my forehead, tender but lingering, and I feel his breath fan across my skin. The contact makes my knees weak, my core clenching with need.
"Have a good day, principessa," he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with the same need I'm drowning in.
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the echo of his tenderness burning on my skin and wetness pooling in my panties.
I don't move for a long moment, hand drifting up to touch where his lips pressed. The gesture was so unexpected, so gentle, so unlike the man who took me at gunpoint. Who is this man?
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the echo of normal conversation, the kind two people might have over breakfast ifone hadn't kidnapped the other. The kind that makes me forget, for dangerous minutes at a time, that this isn't real.
My phone rings from the counter where Marco left it. Alice's name flashes on the screen. He's gone—I could answer freely. But I remember his warning about choosing words carefully.
"Val?" Her voice cracks when I answer. "Oh my God, you actually picked up."
"Hi, baby." The nickname slips out, what I've called her since she was born.
