“Well, I would prefer not to have to witness how you conduct your business,” I told him as a brave server finally started to approach the table.
Her hands trembled as she showed us the wine.
“That is good, yes,” Primo said, nodding, barely sparing her a glance.
“Thank you,” I added, giving her a soft smile that she couldn’t quite bring herself to return. “See? That poor girl is terrified of you,” I told him as she rushed away.
“Fear is good,” Primo said, reaching for the wine to pour me a glass, then one for himself. “You should look at your menu.”
“I’m suddenly not very hungry,” I said, tone a little petulant, but it wasn’t a lie. The blood still had me a little queasy.
“You’re going to eat,” he informed me.
“You might be used to getting your way, but not even you can command my stomach not to feel sick,” I told him, watching as his gaze slid to me.
“Sick?” he repeated.
“I don’t like blood,” I told him.
“Blood, small spaces, any other irrational fears I should know about?”
“They’re not irrational.”
“They are.”
“Just because you don’t have the same fears doesn’t make my fears irrational,” I shot back, reaching for my wine because my nerves were frazzled and I knew the alcohol would help at least a little bit.
“No, the irrationality of your fears is what makes them irrational,” he informed me, so damn smug when he said it, too.
“I have my reasons for being afraid of small spaces.”
“No, you likely had one experience with small spaces that triggered an irrational anxiety response to it that you’ve never worked on since then.”
“So, what, you’re a boss and a shrink now? Where did you get your degree, Dr. Esposito?”
“Careful,” Primo said, tone low. If I wasn’t so riled, I might have called it scary.
“Or what?” I snapped, rolling my eyes. “Are you going to bang my head against the table and break my hand too?” I asked.
“I told you I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said, almost sounding offended.
“You said you wouldn’t rape me,” I reminded him. “There are other ways to hurt me.”
“I won’t strike you. I figured that went without saying.”
“Gee, I feel so much better,” I drawled. “I have to share a bed with a violent psychopath, but at least he won’t hit me.”
“Are you always so difficult?” he asked, sighing.
“Yes. Maybe you should have stalked me for a little longer and learned that about me before you decided to force me to marry you,” I suggested, shooting him a saccharine smile.
He hissed something under his breath right then. It was too low to make it out. But it sounded frustrated and annoyed. And I felt a little thrill inside at getting the better of someone like him. Even in such a small way.
“You know what,” I announced, mostly to myself as I picked up the menu. “I think I just got my appetite back.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Primo
It looked like she’d opened up a department store in my apartment. And judging by the names on the bags, she’d spent a small fortune acquiring it all. I almost didn’t want to check my statement.
Not that the money mattered.
When you made millions each month, even if the shopping spree set you back a couple hundred grand, it wasn’t going to hurt your bottom line.
I’d underestimated Isabella.
It was something new for me.
I was typically a pretty good judge of character.
But I hadn’t expected as much defiance as I’d gotten from my new wife. And make no mistake, that was what the spending spree was. Defiance. Because, as she kept accusing me, I had watched her for a bit while I’d made my decision on which woman to choose. And in doing so, I’d seen her shop. Never once at any of the stores whose bags were scattered around my living room, though. So she’d gone to the designer stores just to stick it to me.
There was a flaw in her plan, though.
I liked that she was willing to do that. I appreciated her spirit. I even admired her fearlessness in doing something that no one else would feel safe doing.
Hell, it had all been worth every penny when she walked into that restaurant in that little black dress that hugged her soft curves just right.
It was masochistic of me to feast on her like I had when I knew I wasn’t going to be able to touch her. But feast I did.
And so did every other man in the restaurant.
Which was fine.
I didn’t mind if they looked, if they admired what was mine, if they envied me.
But they did not get to touch.
Ever.
The rage had been immediate. It was familiar in one way. I’d always had a temper. But it was unfamiliar in some ways too. Because I’d never felt quite as possessive as I had at that moment.
I would have killed that man.
And good riddance to him.
But I was never that out of control.
He absolutely would have lost his life if Isabella hadn’t stepped in right when she had.
Then, this woman had the audacity to be pissed at me for defending her. For punishing a man for touching her without permission.
I didn’t begin to understand her.
But, still, I found myself impressed with her balls. Because not many men in the damn mafia would stand up to me like she had, would have spoken to me like she did. It was impressive. And despite all her attitude and comments about how she thought I’d chosen wrong, I knew down to my core that I’d made the right choice.
She was the right woman to be my wife.
She had what it was going to take to live in my world.
Whether she’d accepted that yet or not.
“What is the word?” I asked after we got back home and my brothers showed up.
Isabella had stormed upstairs as soon as we’d walked in the door. Judging by the sound of water splashing on the tile floor, she was taking a shower. It took a fuck of a lot of self-control not to imagine her up there, stripping out of that dress, taking off her bra, sliding out of her panties, and stepping under that spray.
Fuck.
Apparently, it took more self-control than I possessed.
It was going to be more difficult than I realized to wait for her to get to a point where she was willing to sleep with me.
Maybe I shouldn’t have married someone I was so fucking attracted to. I mean the woman had me hard and desperate as a teenaged boy when she’d climbed over me in her sleep. I felt ready to bust by the time she woke up and realized what had happened.
I don’t know what compelled me to be so set on viewing my vows as sacred. Hell, I snubbed my nose at plenty of the other shit the bible told me not to do.
I guess maybe it stemmed back to watching my old man cheat relentlessly on my ma, and watching her shrink away little by little each time until there was nothing left of her.
As much as possible, I wanted to do things differently than my old man did. So when it came to settling down, getting married, and starting a family, that meant I had to be loyal to my wife, regardless of if our sex life existed or not.
It meant that I wouldn’t scream at her or beat her. And while, of course, my mother never told her sons about such abuse, I had no doubt my father was the sort to force himself on my ma too.