“Ow!” It hurts like the crack of a whip.
“I’ll give you mood swings.”
“Apparently you will!”
I narrowly dodge another whipping slash of his towel.
“So what is it about The Little Prince?”
“Oh, just the whole piccollino thing. It’s cute.” I reach for the sheets, navy blue with small stars on them. “I used to read that book when my father was—” I stop myself mid-sentence, clear my throat, then continue. “Occupied.”
Damn it. That was too close for comfort. Way too close for comfort. I almost told him about my real father, Angelina’s father, the drug dealer who neglected me and left me to my own devices, not the mafia lord that ruled the real Elise’s family with an iron fist. “All stars are a riot of flowers,” I say softly.
“That from The Little Prince?”
“It is.”
“I like that. You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Go, take your shower, then we’ll head downstairs.”
I take a quick shower, the entire time turning over every possibility. I’ll get Marialena to take me shopping and sneak out when the guards aren’t looking.
Yeah, no. Orlando will likely insist on coming with us.
I could…go for a walk by the garden and sneak away? Or…cause a distraction and run?
I can’t call the police, that much I know. I can’t call Elise, she’s overseas and I can’t have her worry.
Or maybe I could…maybe I could make him fall in love with me. If he fell in love with me, he wouldn’t hurt me.
Would he?
He’s distracted on the phone when I finish getting ready. I reach for the drawer as he turns to me.
“Something in there you want, Elise? Did you see something that interests you?”
I swallow hard. “Uh, yeah. I saw lots of things that interest me, but they kind of scare me, too.”
He takes my hand and with his other, squeezes my ass. “I know. But we have a baby to make. We’ll have lots of chances to try everything you want, and maybe a few things you don’t know you want yet.”
“And if I don’t like something?”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Right. This is hardly a consensual little foray into BDSM.
Why does that appeal to me? To lose total control to a man like Orlando? He’s got a mean, steely edge to him that scares the shit out of me. But underneath that hard, toughened exterior…my fingers trace the skulls on his knuckles as we go downstairs.
“What do they mean?”
“What?”
“Those tats.”
“Initiations,” he says without hesitating.
“What…kinds of initiations?” I wonder at Mario’s earlier admonition not to ask questions, and I wonder how close I’m skirting to the edge of what’s allowed, what I should know if I am who they think I am.
“Things I did to earn my rank. I don’t want to talk about it, piccola.” His features darken, and he frowns as we walk down the spiral staircase to the dining room. “Not now.”
I drop the subject.
If I were to make him fall in love with me, what would that look like?
The dining room’s positively bustling with activity. Servants bring in trays of baked goods that make my mouth water, and Tavi’s pouring tea from a carafe into delicate espresso cups.
“May I have one?” I ask timidly, because for some reason I feel as if he’s suspicious of me.
“If your husband allows it,” he says. I laugh, but he doesn’t even smile.
“And…why would my husband not allow it?”
His lips thin ever so slightly, as if barely annoyed at my pestering questions. “In case you’re pregnant.”
My jaw drops. “We were married two nights ago.”
He shrugs, and his scowl deepens. “Yeah, it only takes one.”
Ew. Crass. I give him a hard stare and think about what to say, then remember I ended up over Orlando’s knee for disrespecting him in front of his Don.
Probably not a good idea to challenge Tavi right now either. Still. Jerk.
Marialena waves me over. “Come, sit with the girls and let the men plot world domination,” she says pleasantly, but with such ease, I wonder if she’s only half-joking. She’s sitting beside Vittoria, and a little girl about six or seven years old sits beside her.
“You’re pretty,” she says, as she butters a scone.
“Ah, thank you. My name is—” Oh my God. I almost said my real name. I laugh to cover my fumble. “Elise. And what’s yours?” Marialena turns her head to the side and talks to Vittoria. I think she may not have heard my blunder.
That was too close. Too close.
“Natalia. My Mama is Rosa. I think I’ve seen you before?”
My heart races, and I grip my coffee cup harder.
“Oh. Yes, yes of course! How could I forget? You were so much littler.”
She smacks her lips. “Yup. I’ve sprouted up, Nonna says.”
“Is your mother here?”
“Soon,” Natalia says. “She’s in Italy but I’m here with my nanny. I didn’t want to be in Tuscany.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring. Plus, I like being here. I like the food and I don’t have to go to school.”