So much of this is inevitable. Marriage to him. Having children. Solidifying the Rossi family by extending branches on their family tree. I know all this, and a part of me really, truly longs for a child. One look at Nicolo’s soft curls and sweet, chubby cheeks, and I could feel my need to hold a child of my own growing.
But a child with a man I barely know…
I’ve long since given up illusions of having a child with a man I loved. I close the door on that thought before it grows to fruition.
“C’mere,” Tavi says, rolling me over to him. He takes his tee and cleans me with it lazily. It’s warm and smells like him, and his touch is so gentle my throat gets a little tight.
“Thanks.”
“Of course.” He props pillows up in the bed and whips the dirty tee into a hamper by the door. “I’m fucking exhausted and this was one long day. Let’s order food.”
Ah, right, he sent his staff away. In this small, remote part of Tuscany, the selection of food to order is slim, but there are a few options, all of them very good. But it isn’t necessary.
“I can cook,” I offer helpfully. “I mean, as long as there’s food. I’m actually not bad.”
It’s a massive understatement. I studied cooking from the greatest chefs my fathers hired, and I love it.
He quirks a brow up at me. It’s adorable. “That’s right. You can cook?”
I nod. “Yep. You picky?”
He shrugs. “No, but I watch my macros and shit. Eat high protein. Starting a lifting regimen with Orlando.”
“But you own a pastry shop?”
“Eh. Cheat days. I lift enough I can burn off the cannoli.” He flexes his bicep, and I reach my fingers to stroke it. His skin’s taut over smooth, firm muscle. Yum.
“That you do. And mmm. Cannoli.”
“You bake, too?” A breeze flutters through the window and ruffles my hair. Wordlessly, he tucks it away from my face and behind my ear.
I like this gentle side of Tavi. I wonder how I can make him stay.
“Sadly, I do not. I leave baking for those more skilled than I am.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I give him a sidelong glance, and my mind immediately conjures up an image of him dressed in nothing but an apron with powdered sugar on his nose. Hel-lo. “Do you?”
“I can and did, but usually hire people to do it for me. No time.”
Of course he doesn’t have time. He’s the damn Underboss.
A little voice in the back of my mind wonders… will he have time for me?
I look at the setting sun outside his window. “Ah, but time slows in Tuscany, doesn’t it?”
His gaze follows mine outside the window. I watch as he lets out a sigh and tucks his hand behind his head. “It does, Elise.”
Men like him are married to their work. I’ve never seen any of them actually care about a wife for a purpose other than show. It’s a very common theme in mob life: the wife runs the home and solidifies family bonds with children and outward support, but the mistress pleases him in bed.
God, I hate that. I hate it so much.
The Rossis, though… the Rossis seem to have defied the mob’s expectation of married life. At least, to a certain extent. One could hope, I guess.
Orlando dotes on Angelina. He’s exacting and borderline controlling, but she also has him wrapped around her little finger. I don’t know Romeo and Vittoria as well, but one can spot a happily married couple a mile away.
I look around me. Tavi’s room is nicer than the guest room, bigger, and somehow more masculine. Whereas mine is adorned in soft, white, feminine curves, his is bedecked in solid wood furniture with gorgeous hardwood floors, but it still has the Tuscan flare. I could imagine someone standing just outside this window with a canvas, painting against the stunning backdrop of rolling hills.
“Let’s see what we’ve got for food here,” he says.
After all we’ve been through, after all we’ve done, it’s almost funny to me how pragmatic it is to obey the call of my appetite. I yawn and stretch my arms up over my head, which apparently is an open invitation for him to bend and kiss me.
“Next week,” he says softly, before he brushes his thumb over my cheekbone.
“Next week what?” I know exactly what he’s going to say, but I want to hear him say it.
“You’ll marry me.”
“But your mother,” I say, teasing him because I know if he wants to marry me that’s exactly what’s going to happen. “She’ll have a fit.”
“I’ll call her right now.”
“Right now?” I gasp and bring the bedsheet up over my naked breasts.
He bends and reaches for his pants on the floor to extract his phone. “Put the sheet down. I’m not doing a goddamn video chat.”
My fingers grasp the edge of the sheet. I want to disobey him. It’s a lot easier to submit to him when I’m horny.
But when his eyes flick to me, narrowed in warning, before they flick to his belt that dangles on the edge of the bed, I remember that Tavi isn’t just a dominant in bed. And I drop the sheet.
I like the way his eyes rove over my body while he makes the call. It’s warm in here, and I’m so comfortable I could nap if my stomach wasn’t growling with hunger.
“Mama. Did I wake you?” Oops. It’s like eleven o’clock at night in Boston. “Oh, good.” I watch as his brows knit in concern. “Marialena okay? Alright, I have no idea what that means, but I trust you. Listen, we need to talk.”
When he reaches for my hand, I lace my fingers through his. I roll over and lay my head beside his shoulder. He rests our folded hands on top of his chest, right over a seriously kickass tattoo with an eagle and a moon entangled in roses. I circle the ink with my index finger.
“I don’t want to wait four weeks to get married. There’s no need to wait. The only reason we were was so you could get the big wedding you wanted, but can you make it all happen sooner?”
He flinches at Tosca’s high-pitched scream and holds the phone from his ear, then gives me a thumbs-up. I feel my eyebrows rise incredulously. Ah, that didn’t sound like a thumbs-up.
They talk over details, but he’s quickly “mhming” her to death until he finally says, “Listen, we’re starving and need to eat dinner. I’ll follow up with the girls tomorrow, okay? And anything you need, Mama. I’m right here in Tuscany and can pick stuff up and send it home. Yeah, of course we’ll do the cake. Okay. Yeah. Night.”
Without a pause, he hangs up the phone and calls Romeo.
“Rome.” He gives Romeo the same spiel as he did Tosca, but Romeo needs far less explanation.
“No, haven’t knocked her up. Not yet, anyway,” he mutters. I feel my cheeks flush pink, but it passes quickly. I should know better than to expect anything short of crass references to sex with the Rossi men. God.
I pick up my own phone and text Angelina, but she doesn’t answer. She’s probably asleep in between nursing sessions with Nicolo. I send her another text.
Call me tomorrow. We’ve got to talk.
I turn my attention back to Tavi, who’s moved from the wedding to talking to Romeo about what we saw today at the morgue. All semblance of sadness or emotion have fled. He’s one-hundred-percent business.