When She Loves: A Dark Mafia, Arranged Marriage Romance (The Fallen Book 4)
When She Loves: Chapter 30

I wake up to sunlight glaring directly into my face.

God, why is it so bright?

I groan and try to dodge the light by turning away, but my arm is weighed down by something.

It takes me a second to process that something is my wife. She’s here, nuzzling against my chest instead of lying on the other side of the bed. One of her legs is slung over my hips, her curly hair is tucked beneath my chin, and her arm is wrapped around my waist.

A satisfied smile tugs on my lips as images from last night come flooding back in. She finally gave in to me. Finally begged. Finally came to terms that she’s fucking mine.

It’s enough to make me forgive her for hiding her father’s plan from me for two weeks. She probably tried to talk herself into going against me, but in the end, she couldn’t do it. In the end, she realized that she belongs with me.

I tug Cleo closer and drag an absentminded hand down her bare back. Her skin is so smooth. She shifts against me, her leg brushing against my already hard cock.

I want to fuck her again.

And again.

Hearing her moan my name sounds like a perfect start to my day.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I bite back a groan and reach for it, doing my best not to disturb Cleo. It’s an incoming call from Nero. Ugh. I have to take this. I texted him after Cleo fell asleep and told him to replace Garzolo. I wanted that cockroach in my torture room before the sun was up so that I could give him exactly what he deserved. Carefully, I untangle myself from my sleeping wife, duck into the bathroom, and close the door.

“Did you get him?”

“Garzolo is gone. No one’s seen him since he left the dinner.”

Fuck. I grip the phone tighter. “His driver?”

“Garzolo drove to Ferraro’s on his own. His guards were a few blocks over in his penthouse, but he never returned. He must have been afraid Cleo would tell you what he asked of her and thought it best to skip town.”

Damn it.

I should have set Nero on Garzolo as soon as Cleo told me about his plan, but my head was somewhere else. That was a stupid move. I should have known that Garzolo was a flight risk. This is going to turn into a mess once his family starts asking about his whereabouts.

“If we can’t replace him in a few days, I’ll need to step in to stop this from escalating.”

“How are you going to explain this to his family? They might suspect foul play.”

Of course they will. Their don disappears right after sitting down with me and Ferraro? Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

If Nero had caught Garzolo, I would have roughed him up and demanded he tell his capos he’s taking his retirement early in exchange for his life. He’d do it, the fucking coward. I’d have given him a few weeks before I disposed of him for good. But with him just gone, this becomes more delicate. If the Garzolos think I killed their fucking don, his capos might turn on me.

“The family is mine. They all know I’m Garzolo’s successor, and now that I’m married to Cleo, no one will dare question my right to assume command if he’s skipped town.”

“If you move in too soon, it won’t look good.”

“Let’s give Garzolo five days to come back and face me like a man. If he doesn’t, schedule a meeting with all his capos so that we can get this moving.”

“Got it.”

I hang up and rake my fingers through my hair, feeling irritated. What was I thinking? All of this could have been avoided if I’d set Nero on Garzolo quicker. I roll my shoulders, trying to get rid of my building unease.

Last night, I wasn’t acting like myself. I was too fucking focused on deflowering my wife. Well, I’ve done it now. Bloody sheets and all.

Does that mean my life can finally go back to business as usual?

I thought getting what I wanted from Cleo would free me from this obsession. But where’s the relief? Where’s the mental clarity I was hoping for? It’s not here, that’s for fucking sure. Even now, after I’ve just screwed up with Garzolo, my head’s still preoccupied with Cleo. A part of me wants to skip work and stay in bed with her all day.

Jesus. Fuck.

I open the tap and splash some cold water on my face.

When I imagined myself with a wife, I always had a clear picture of what that marriage would look like—comfortable companionship with some sex sprinkled in. I’d appreciate her, and she’d respect me. We’d put on a united front in public and keep a healthy distance from each other in private.

After all, nothing good comes from getting too entangled with another person. Especially for someone in my position.

But this? This is not that picture, at all.

I need to figure out how to stay in control of myself as far as she’s concerned, or one day, I’m going to do something really fucking stupid. Something far worse than giving Garzolo a twelve-hour head start.

Maybe I just need a few weeks to fuck this obsession out of my head.

I drag my thumb over my bottom lip. Yes, that’s it. I’m going to fuck her until I tire of her. Until I can evict her from the space she’s inhabited in my head like an illegal squatter. Now that our game’s done and she’s spread her legs, the intrigue is gone. It won’t take me long to get back to safe ground. I’m sure of it.

I take a cold shower. It helps. By the time I start toweling myself off, my mind is firmly back on work matters.

I need to divert some resources from Albany to New Jersey so that we can do a proper search. Garzolo could not have gone far. No doubt he’s only retreated so that he can come up with a new plan to get rid of me. He’ll need allies for that, which means we need to put tails on all his closest buddies. Eventually, he’s bound to pop up somewhere.

I pull on some clothes and return to the bedroom. Cleo is up, her red hair tousled and messy, and her lips fixed in an adorable, sleepy pout.

I walk over to her and kiss her. It’s meant to be a peck, but before I know it, my tongue is in her mouth, she’s sucking on my bottom lip, and her fingers are playing with the buttons of my shirt. I break the kiss with a frustrated groan and take a step backward.

Work. I need to work.

She gives me a puppy-eyed look. “Where are you going?”

To shoot myself in the head, because that’s apparently the only way I’m going to be able to get her out of it.

I tug on my collar. “Your father is gone.”

This jolts her awake. She sits up, holding the sheet to her chest. “What?”

“He fled during the night. We’re looking for him now.”

“He must have realized I’d tell you the truth eventually,” she mutters as she slips out of bed, naked as the day she was born, and heads toward the closet. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to drag her back to bed.

She comes back out dressed in a black silk robe. “I can write down all the places he might be hiding.”

Surprise flickers through me. “You’ll help me hunt down your father?”

“He wants to kill you. He’s my enemy as much as he’s yours at this point.”

A tight fist squeezes around my heart. She’s trying to protect me? That’s not her job. That’s never been anyone’s job. Ever.

She walks across the carpet until she’s standing right before me and tips her head backward to look me in the eye. My nape prickles. Can she see how she weakens me? How she makes me waver in my convictions?

Her arms slide around my waist, and she pushes up on her tiptoes. The inches between us disappear as I lean down and kiss her. Again, it turns into something more. Something that makes my chest feel light and heavy at the same time. Emotions swell under the surface, threatening to burst out, and even though my gut is screaming “Danger! Back away!”, I don’t listen to its warning.

It’s only when I jerk her against me and she gasps in pain that I remember myself. I break the kiss. “Are you sore?”

Her lips are swollen and pink. She shifts her weight between her feet and winces. “Yeah. A bit.”

“Go take a bath. Relax. I don’t want you going to Loretta’s today.”

“It’s the weekend.”

“Right.”

She sighs and looks down at my tie. “But you have to go,” she says, sounding disappointed.

Don’t make this harder than it already is.

I cup her cheek and give her another kiss. “Send me that list. I’ll see you in the evening.”

I walk away from her, one painful step after another.

That night, Cleo is already in bed when I come home covered in blood.

Her eyes widen. “Oh my God.” She springs out of bed and rushes over to me. “We need to call Doc.”

I shake my head, exhaustion pulling on my eyelids. “No. It’s not mine.”

She halts, and I brush past her into the bathroom where I quickly take off the bloody shirt.

It was a bad day.

We went to all of Garzolo’s usual spots, and no one’s seen him since last night. Then Nero and I went back to Il Caminetto and talked to the staff again. By that point, I was sure it was Garzolo who ordered the hit on us.

One of the band members saw us come through the door and took off. Nero and I caught him a few blocks away and took him to one of my warehouses, where he broke immediately and confessed he’d been on Garzolo’s payroll ever since the restaurant opened up, acting as his eyes and ears. He heard Garzolo disappeared and freaked out as soon as he saw us appear, sure that we were onto him.

We got the confirmation we needed, but I wasn’t in a forgiving mood. He had a slow death. Then we got a call that a few Bratva thugs were trying to rob one of our restaurants outside the city. Nero and I raced over along with a bunch of our men, but we got there too late. The owner was dead, as was his daughter. It took us four hours to hunt down the fuckers that did it.

Unfortunately, the things we did to them didn’t help the owner and his daughter.

“What happened?”

I look up, meeting Cleo’s gaze in the mirror. I hadn’t even realized I’d been leaning against the vanity for the last few minutes, staring at the sink.

“Later.” My voice is a hoarse whisper from shouting commands at my men.

I push away from the sink, take off the rest of my clothes, and walk into the shower. The water runs pink as I wash off the blood that managed to leak through my shirt. I’m so fucking drained that I can barely replace the energy to scrub myself with the soap.

The girl was only sixteen. She was helping her dad at the restaurant after school, bussing tables and doing dishes. Rage simmers inside my gut. Those Bratva fuckers are too bold. The pakhan doesn’t seem to care how many men he loses in these reckless raids. This truce with Ferraro needs to become public soon. A strong show of a united front will go a long way in scaring the Russians off.

When I come out, Cleo’s sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for me. She stretches out her arms. “Come here.”

I do. I walk into her embrace and lean forward to capture her familiar scent. I’m too tired to do anything, but when she pulls me down on top of her and opens up her thighs for me, my cock grows hard. She’s wearing just a nightgown, no panties, and sinking into her is the easiest thing ever. She takes a sharp intake of breath.

My chest clenches when I realize my mistake. “Fuck. I’m sorry. You’re sore.”

“I’m fine.” She tightens her hold on me, her pussy gently clenching my stiff cock. “Just go slow.”

I kiss her and roll my hips, drawing the motion out until she relaxes. Her eyes pierce through me, flickering with concern and arousal and something so vulnerable that I can’t bear to hold her gaze. I bury my face against her neck and suck on her skin, leaving bruises on her. Marking her as mine.

She moans a short while later, and when I reach between us and strum her clit, she unravels beneath me. The sounds she makes are enough to take me over the edge with her.

After we get cleaned up, she cuddles up to me and asks again what happened. I try to replace the words. Try to come up with a way to say it. But all I can see is that girl lying in a pool of her father’s blood, her eyes wide and glassy. There’s a scratch at the back of my throat. She didn’t deserve to die. But deaths like hers happen all too often. A tithe to the gods that rule our brutal world.

I count to ten and push the feelings away. Lock them up in a box, hide it under my childhood bed. That’s where they belong—the same place I used to hide when I was scared and weak. I’m not that boy anymore.

“Bratva attack,” I say gruffly, tucking Cleo’s head under my chin. “Go to sleep.”

She stills, the air around us growing cold. I fall asleep, knowing I disappointed her with my dismissal.

And knowing that I’ll disappoint her again.