Page 81 of Rosetti Family New York
There is a huge bed, as big as my own, but it doesn’t look quite as unruffled. My eyes linger on it. Is this where he expects me to sleep? It seems too intimate. Too soon.
There is a long dresser topped with expensive watches and a small stack of papers and books. A low seating area sits against one wall. Two armchairs, one dark leather and the other some kind of heavy wool, facing toward each other. A table between, half-covered with a low clutter of half-empty glasses and more papers, some of them in a language I don’t know, Italian I guess. The scene looks like it’s straight out of one of his business meetings.
And he wants me to sleep here?
I tear my eyes from the room and glance at him, confused.
Why is he giving me this much? Doesn’t he have better, more important things to do? Doesn’t he have business meetings to run and papers to sign in blood? The fact that he’s spending his time on me, that he’s including me in his own space, that he’s not taking another call and treating me like a member of his family rather than an outsider—
I shake my head. I can’t think like that. I can’t let myself be foolish and believe I’m anything to him other than a spy.
Stay strong, I remind myself. You have a job to do. Keep him happy. Keep him talking. Do what Baba wants.
“Is this marriage what you want?” he asks.
He stands close, looking at my face instead of my dress. It surprises me.
“I am my father’s daughter,” I tell him. It says more than I intend.
The corner of his mouth lifts. He doesn’t smile. But almost.
“Well, oldest children rarely get to choose their own partners.” He sounds wistful, and I can’t tell if he’s talking about me or about himself.
I’m just stubborn enough to take that as a challenge.
“Business is business,” I say.
“Our business is simple.” The same cold, sure voice. “I get you. Your father gets peace. No one gets love.”
It’s more than I thought he’d say, and I agree with every word. But I also get information, of course, although he never needs to know that.
“Is that all?” I ask.
He closes the space between us, an arm’s length that feels like a mile. I am not used to men taking my fear and turning it into desire, but here we are.
“No,” he says, and I hear the anger beneath his calm. “Not all.”
He puts a hand on my hip. His touch is fire. His attention is like lava. I hold my breath.
He’s watching me with a hunger that makes me lose my voice. And my courage. I find them both again, and I meet his eyes. I’ve learned that men like him, like my father, don’t give second chances. When they ask you to prove yourself, you prove it.
“Where do you want me?” I ask boldly. If we’re going to fuck, I want to at least feel a semblance of control. His heat is overwhelming, and part of me wants to see if I can handle it.
He’s surprised. He masks it quickly, a thin line that I catch just before it vanishes. His voice drops, and he rakes his eyes down my body, inch by inch, then swings them back up to meet mine.
“You’re not ready for that answer,” he says.
A small noise escapes me at his implication. I can barely believe he said it. My skin tingles hot where he touches me. When his fingers dig into my hip, I practically squeak, and the sound echoes between us.
“You’re my wife now, Besiana.”
He’s calm when he says it, too calm, and that’s the worst part. It tells me he’s dangerous enough to be patient.
“Do you know what that means?”
His belt hits the floor with a cold, final sound. I flinch as it lands.
“You share my house.”
