Home > Machiavellian (Gangsters of New York, #1)(35)

Machiavellian (Gangsters of New York, #1)(35)
Author: Bella Di Corte

“Reclusive,” she whispered.

“You have a watch like mine, but it’s newer in style and more feminine. You can change the bands out to match your clothes, if you want. You’ll find it on the table next to the bed. But only the seven of us know, Mariposa. No one else.”

“Understood,” she said. She was playing with her hair. Agitarsi. Fidgeting. She was nervous.

“Vieni,” I said, guiding her away from the banister. “Let me show you around.”

This time as we toured the house, she was more animated, her eyes bright, absorbing instead of trying to figure out where she’d fit in. Her body relaxed, just as it had done the night at The Club when I had moved her in a slow rhythm. That night, her heart beat so frantically that I could feel every one of her pulses racing to keep up.

When I showed her the second master, she nodded and said, “Really nice. Is this where I’ll stay?”

“That’s up to you. Part of our agreement was that I’d give you time to get used to me.” I’d purposely made the second master bland compared to the master suite for my own selfish reasons.

She started playing with the beading on her dress the closer we came to the room. When we got there, she peeked her head inside, almost wary about entering.

“The big bad wolf is out here.” I grinned. “You’re safe.”

“For now,” she mumbled, finally stepping in.

She ran a hand along the huge bed, all of the furniture, even the walls. She moved to the bathroom, her eyes shooting straight up to the mother of pearl ceiling, her birthstone, the massive shower and clawfoot tub, and then at the floor made of the finest Italian marble.

She stopped when she came to the entrance of the closet. It was a room inside of a room. It had a hallway, and on each side, glass doors that housed clothes and shoes and places to store jewelry. She had one side. I had the other.

“Not to sound rude,” she said, about to rip a pearl off of the dress. Her eyes were glued to a shelf stacked with tennis shoes in all different colors, most of them Italian-made. “But whose clothes are these? I know one side is yours, all of the suits, but what about the other side?”

I almost laughed at how subtle she tried to be. “No other woman has ever been here before.” I moved to stand behind her. When I breathed out, my breath fanned against her back and goosebumps appeared on her skin. “Everything is new here. That’s why it still smells of fresh paint. All of these things are yours.”

“I didn’t buy these things.”

“You didn’t. I did. We’ll see how well I know you soon enough, ah?”

It took her a moment, but she nodded. It was overwhelming for her. Even though this was a deal, it was hard for her to go from nothing to everything without feeling like it was too much. I’d pushed her into the deep end without her knowing how to swim.

“I see how you’ve been spending money, Mariposa, and we need to work on your skills.” I didn’t keep tabs on her to see how much she was spending. I kept tabs on her because nothing she craved would go unanswered. If I had to order every fucking item on the menu so she could figure out what she liked best, I’d make it happen. And it would take that. She had a lot of catching up to do.

“This is too—”

“We had a deal,” I said. “You’re holding yours. I’m holding mine. I’m not doing this to be kind and you’re not accepting because I did. We have an agreement.”

I took a step closer to her, running a finger along her neck, tracing a “C” along the perfect skin there. She trembled, and my dick twitched and hardened. “Soak in your tub, Mariposa.” My voice was low, rough, almost shredded. “Wear your clothes. Grab a bite to eat. Watch some TV or listen to some music. Bocelli to get your mind straight. Read a book.”

Rosaria had invited her to join her and the other wives—Rocco had three brothers—to enjoy their girl nights. They discussed books, knitted and crocheted, and did whatever else it was that women do. So I bought her a reading device, along with hundreds of paper and hardbacks. When she had walked into that room, she had said, “What, no coloring books or journals?”

I refused to take away from what she had given herself over the years, so no, she wouldn’t be getting those things from me. She had been surprised that I thought of it that way. There were things that were still special to me, even though the world fell at my feet, and unlike a coloring book or journal, no one could replace them.

“Get a good night’s sleep. The first of many. Make yourself at home, Mariposa. Because this is your home. Per sempre.”

“Wait.” She turned to me. “Where are you going?”

“To work.”

 

 

It had been close to two hours since I left my wife to roam around her house and get comfortable. I sat at the desk in my office, looking over all of the monitors and trying to place the different smells slipping in. A cake baking. Lasagna. Popcorn.

An hour later a knock came at the door, and before I could answer it, she opened it and came in. She had showered. Her hair was damp. The scents of pistachio, almond, caramel, and sandalwood invaded the room. Instead of wearing one of the many items I had bought for her to sleep in, she wore my robe. It was three times too big. Her hands were lost in the sleeves, and it practically hung on her body.

She held a plate in her hand. As she set it before me, her wedding ring peeked out from underneath the fabric. “There must be over a hundred cookbooks in the kitchen. I found a recipe for wedding cake. We have all of the ingredients, and a million other ones, so I tried to bake.”

“Tried.” I looked at the cake. I picked up the fork and stabbed it. It was as stiff as a board and darker than a white wedding cake should be. Maybe it was supposed to be chocolate. “Seems like you did.”

She scrunched up her face. “That’s debatable.”

I cut a piece of it with the fork and stuck it in my mouth. I paused before I really started to taste it. I looked up at her and she looked down at me, making the weirdest fucking face, like a puffer fish.

“What do you think?” She tucked her lips in. She was trying not to laugh.

I forced myself to swallow. If I knew what a cardboard cake tasted like, I was sure it tasted better than that one. “That the first time you baked a cake?”

She nodded. “Very first.”

“Good.” My voice was strained.

She pointed at me, full-out laughing. “You are a terrible, terrible liar, Capo!” She laughed even louder.

“You must’ve forgotten a few things. Like milk, eggs, and butter. What did you do, just add flour? You got any water in the pockets of that robe?” My voice had turned rough from the tightening in my throat and the dry thing she called cake.

She laughed herself out of the room, coming back with a bottle of cold water for me. I chugged it while her wild laughter turned into a satisfied grin.

She walked around the room, studying all of my equipment. “What’s all of this?” she finally asked.

“I do private security on the side.”

“You creep on people.”

“You could say that.”

“Do people pay you to creep?”

“Some of them.”

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