25

MILLIE
My gaze fixated on the intricate tattoo adorning his chest, right above his heart. It held my attention, a mix of emotions welling up within me. “I know,” I said, my voice barely audible as I tried to swallow the knot in my throat. “But you made me believe that I could place my trust in you, that you wouldn’t inflict pain on me.”
His response came, his tone steady and unyielding, “I never hurt you.”
Did he truly fail to understand the turmoil within me? My breath caught, my eyes reflecting the complex emotions coursing through me. “It pained me to see you with her.”
His expression softened, a hint of empathy breaking through his facade. “Millie, I didn’t sense that you desired an intimate connection with me. I believed you’d welcome my restraint.”
I couldn’t help but feel frustration rise within me. “When did I ever convey that?”
“In the moment I confessed my yearning for you, you withdrew. Disgust was written all over your face.”
A mirthless laugh escaped my lips. The memories of that encounter were painfully vivid. “We were sharing a kiss, and you expressed a desire to possess me more than anyone else. Can you blame me for pulling back? I’m not a pawn at your disposal, to be used whenever it suits you. You’re scarcely ever home. How am I supposed to form any sort of connection with you?”
His frustration was evident, his brows knitting together in a way that seemed almost endearing. It struck me once again how enigmatic these mafia men could be. “What did you expect?” I continued, my exasperation pouring out. “I’ve never experienced anything like this before. You were the first man I’ve ever kissed, and that’s exactly how it was meant to be. You and my father orchestrated it that way. Yet, despite all that, you anticipate me to transition from a place of absolute inexperience to a position of complete vulnerability with you. I wanted to take things slowly, to have the chance to know you before surrendering myself. I desired kisses, shared moments, and more, before I even contemplated sharing a bed.”
Recognition dawned in his eyes, his features shifting as he finally grasped my perspective. He managed a half-smile, teasing curiosity lacing his words. “More, you say? What sort of ‘more’ were you considering?”
My glare conveyed my lack of patience for jests. “This conversation is futile.”
“No, wait,” he interjected, his hand gently redirecting my gaze back to his, only to retract it immediately as if realizing the inappropriateness. A lesson learned, it seemed. “I understand now. For men, the significance of the first time might not compare to what it means for you. At least, that’s been my experience with the men I’ve known.”
My curiosity got the better of me. “When was your first time?”
“I was thirteen,” he admitted, a shadow passing over his features. “My father believed it was time for me to transition into manhood, given my initiation. He thought, ‘You can’t be a virgin and a killer,’ or so he said.” A cold smile touched his lips. “He arranged for two high-class courtesans to spend a weekend with me, instructing me in all they knew.”
I couldn’t help but recoil at the revelation. “That’s a harrowing experience.”
His agreement came in a subdued tone, his gaze momentarily distant. “Yes, I suppose it was. But I was a thirteen-year-old boy, desperate to prove myself. I was the youngest member of the New York Familia, and I wanted the older men to view me as their equal, not a child. When that weekend concluded, I felt accomplished, even if the courtesans likely weren’t truly impressed with my performance. They pretended I was the best they’d encountered. My father probably paid them handsomely for that illusion. It took time for me to understand that not all women appreciate having a man finish on their face during such an act.”
A grimace crossed my features, and he chuckled. “Indeed,” he murmured, his fingers brushing against a strand of my hair, a gesture he often repeated without apparent reason. “Tonight had me quite concerned.”
“Concerned that I’d allow someone else to claim what’s yours?”
He shook his head with conviction. “No, I knew you were loyal. The tensions with the Bratva are escalating, and the thought of them getting hold of you…”
“But they didn’t.”
“They won’t.”
His touch shifted, wandering from my hair to my throat, a gesture I wasn’t eager to entertain. My actions prompted a resigned sigh from him. “You’re determined to make this challenging, aren’t you?”
I held his gaze steadily.
“I regret that you had to witness what happened today.”
“But you don’t regret your actions.”
His frustration seemed palpable. “I don’t often apologize. When I do, I mean it.”
“Perhaps it’s time for you to consider apologizing more frequently.”
He drew in a deep breath, his tone heavy with sincerity. “We’re bound in this marriage, you and I. Escaping it isn’t an option. Do you truly wish for both of us to be trapped in misery?”
He was absolutely right, and there seemed to be no escape from this reality. It was a truth that felt inescapable. And even if a way out miraculously appeared, what purpose would it truly serve? The path my father had set seemed destined to lead me towards a marriage of convenience, a fate where I’d be bound to the next man deemed suitable. Perhaps he would be cut from the same cloth as Leila’s controlling husband, a man whose dominance was suffocating.
Despite my inner resistance, I couldn’t deny the unsettling truth that had taken root within me. The image of Gio, the man I had encountered at the restaurant, had woven itself into my thoughts. It was painful to acknowledge, but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility of feelings blossoming between us. The sight of him with another woman wouldn’t have cut so deep if I hadn’t allowed my heart to entertain the notion. The memory of his tender gestures-the way he had caressed my hair, the warmth of his kisses, the security of his embrace through the night-had kindled a desire to fall for him. A conflicting wish battled within me; I yearned to harbor animosity for him, yet I found myself teetering on the precipice of affection.
Harper’s resolute spirit flashed across my mind, her hypothetical stance that she’d choose a life of bitterness over succumbing to affection for her husband, denying him and our father the satisfaction of her care. With determination, I found my voice. “No,” I spoke, the word a testament to my refusal to play ignorant. “But I can’t feign that I haven’t witnessed you with her.”
His response carried a sense of reason, an appeal for a fresh beginning within the bounds of our arranged marriage. “I don’t expect you to forget, but let’s consider today as the genesis of our union. A clean slate.”
The complexity of the situation wasn’t lost on me, and I raised a valid concern. “It’s far from simple. And what about her? Tonight wasn’t the initial instance of your connection. Is there love between you two?” My voice trembled, betraying the vulnerability beneath my words.
Gio’s observant nature caught the nuances of my emotional turmoil. His gaze bore into me, a mixture of curiosity and puzzlement. My question seemed to hang in the air, a puzzle he sought to decipher. “Love?” he replied, the uncertainty evident. “No, what I feel for Alyssa isn’t love.”
A surge of courage emboldened me to delve deeper, to demand honesty. “Then why do you persist in seeing her? I want the truth.”
The silence held a weight of truth that words couldn’t convey. Finally, his answer cut through, stark in its honesty. “Because she knows how to satisfy desires, and because she excels in the physical aspect. Is that candid enough?”