“I want to sleep on the couch,” I insisted.
“No.”
That was it.
No.
And his tone brooked no argument.
Too bad for him that I was always up for one.
“Yes. I was comfortable,” I insisted even if I was wondering how to get the crick out of my neck.
“You won’t be sleeping on the couch.”
“Why not?” I asked as Primo’s arms held me tighter as he started up the stairs.
And it didn’t feel a little bit good.
I repeat: it did not feel good.
But if it did, it was only because it had been a long, long time since I’d felt a strong man’s arms around me.
“You are my wife. You will sleep in my bed.”
“Why? No one is here to see me sleeping on the couch.”
“My men come and go at all times when they need me.”
“So, you care about appearances?” I asked, rolling my eyes at him. “That’s pathetic.”
“In this life, Isabella,” he snapped, and I tried not to notice the unique way he said my name—Issa-bella instead of Is-abella, “appearances matter. It is why we dress well. It is why we have codes and rules. Anytime you stray from the appearances that outsiders come to expect from you, you open yourself up to speculation, you make yourself weaker. A man whose wife does not share his bed is weaker if other men find out. And this room is bullet-resistant,” he added as he lowered me onto what would be my side of the bed.
“Wait, no,” I said, sitting up on the bed, watching as he walked around the foot of the bed. “You don’t just toss around phrases like that and not expect follow-up questions.”
“What questions could you have, baby? How bulletproofing works?”
“I’m not an idiot. And Terzo explained the steel and kevlar thing.”
“Then what is the question?” he asked, taking off his watch while standing on his side of the bed. Next came the cufflinks. And I was pretending not to notice that it was a very intimate thing to see a man going about his nighttime routine.
“Why would I need to sleep behind a bulletproof wall?” I asked.
“Because, whether you like the situation or not, you are now a mafia wife. No, more than that. A boss’s wife. A mafia queen. You are a high-value target to anyone who wants to fuck with my Family.”
“Gee, that’s just what a girl wants to hear right before bed,” I said, shaking my head.
“You asked,” he reminded me, reaching for his belt.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asked, removing the belt, then rolling it up in his hand and securing it before putting it in the dresser.
Then, ah, well then, he started to unbutton his shirt.
And I couldn’t seem to make myself look away as he slipped off the black fabric and exposed the strong back beneath.
The strong back criss-crossed with scars. Old scars, faded to nearly skin tone with age.
What the hell had happened to him?
There was a tattoo on his upper arm that I spotted as he started to turn, but I couldn’t quite make out what it was.
Then, well, then there was the whole front of him to see.
I knew he was strongly built thanks to being yanked against him for our wedding kiss and then being carried against his chest. But I don’t think I was fully prepared for just how well built he was under that black suit of his. He had a lean build, but his eight-pack was something that could make a woman cry. And that Adonis belt, that deeply-etched V that disappeared into the waistband of his pants, that was the kind of thing that graced the covers of men’s fitness magazines.
I didn’t want to be impressed by his body.
But there was no mistaking the sheer perfection of it.
“Like what you see, baby?” Primo asked, making my stomach drop at being caught gawking.
“What is that tattoo?” I asked, trying to sound casual, unimpressed.
Primo’s other arm lifted, rubbing over the tattoo. “Family crest.”
“Family crest,” I repeated. “Didn’t you, you know, murder your father with a steak knife?” I asked, not understanding the idea of having a symbol of family pride on your arm if you went around killing members of said family.
“I will slit the throat of anyone not worthy of carrying the family name,” he said, calm, casual.
The only kind of people who could pull that off were psychopaths.
And I was married to one.
Before I could say anything else, though, he was undoing his pants and letting them drop down his legs, leaving him in nothing but a pair of tight black boxer briefs.
My gaze slid away, not wanting to be caught looking at that particular part of his body. He might get the wrong idea. I didn’t want to push him to test his belief in being the kind of man who didn’t force himself on women.
He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, brushing his teeth, making me all-too-aware of the fact that I didn’t have one of my own.
“What?” he asked when he walked back into the room. I guess my gaze must have been on him, but my mind was far away.
“I don’t have anything,” I told him.
“Anything,” he prompted, standing off the side of the bed.
“Clothes, personal care items, anything. I don’t have anything.”
“My men will get your old things eventually,” he said, shrugging. “But you can shop tomorrow. Dawson and Dulles will take you.”
“I thought I wasn’t a prisoner anymore.”
“You’re not. You’re my wife. Which means you need guards,” he informed me.
“Oh. Okay.”
“They will take you anywhere you need to go. You can get whatever you need. And then you will meet me for dinner.”
“For dinner,” I repeated.
“Yes. Food. Eating…”
“I know what dinner means,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Then why are you repeating the term like it makes no sense?”
“I didn’t realize we would be spending so much time together.”
“An hour out of your day is so much time?” he asked, yanking back the blankets on his side. “The community needs to see you, get to recognize you.”
“Why?”
“So they know you’re mine,” he said, getting into the bed, flicking the covers over himself. “Are you done with the questions?” he asked.
My gaze moved forward, looking at the godawful painting across from the bed.
“One more.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Can I buy art?” I asked.
“Art?” he asked, turning his head on the pillow to look at me.
“I really hate that,” I told him, waving toward the monstrosity across from the bed.
And to that, I got a low, rumbling noise that might have been Primo’s version of a laugh.
“What?” I asked as he reached into the nightstand, grabbing something.
“It’s not art,” he said, making me aware he’d grabbed a remote when he clicked the button and made the ugly red screensaver disappear. “You can switch the image if you hate it so much. But to answer your question, you may buy whatever you want.”
And with that, he flicked off the light, and it seemed like the conversation was over for the night.