64

MILLIE
Despite the passing days, a lingering ache still coursed through my shoulder whenever I moved my arm too abruptly. The doctor had meticulously removed the stitches just yesterday, assuring me that the pain would progressively wane. With a tentative touch, my fingers brushed against the crimson scar nestled beneath my collarbone, its sensitivity a constant reminder. This mark, still fresh and raw, marked my inaugural journey into the realm of scars.
Unbeknownst to me, Gio approached, his towering presence casting a shadow over my own. A head taller, he reached out, allowing his hands to rest gently upon my shoulders. His stormy gray eyes, usually so intense, now simmered with an undertone of anger as they fixated upon the newly formed scar. We stood there, both of us stripped bare, our bodies exposed to each other just as our vulnerabilities were bared. Scars, countless and intricate, adorned his body in a tapestry of resilience. I found myself studying his visage, pondering if my altered state somehow disturbed him, if the erosion of my flawlessness unsettled him. For Made Men like Gio, scars embodied bravery, a testament to their sacrifices; Gio’s bravery had never been doubted. But I, I was a woman, a possession exchanged for beauty and power.
A hushed whisper escaped my lips, a reference to the doctor’s assurance. Gio’s eyes met mine in the mirror, his dark brows knitting together in contemplation. With a decisive motion, he turned me around, his touch elevating my chin. His voice, a low growl, resonated with the intensity of his emotions. “Millie, I couldn’t care less if that scar fades or not. What does bother me is the stark reminder that you jeopardized your life for someone like me-someone who doesn’t deserve it in the slightest.”
Unwavering, I met his gaze, unyielding in my resolve. “I’d do it all over again,” I asserted, conviction shaping my words.
In one swift movement, Gio’s hands encircled my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the washbasin’s edge. His proximity intensified, his face mere inches from mine. His eyes radiated fiery anger, a gaze that might send most retreating, yet I held my ground. “No,” he commanded, his tone as unyielding as his grip. His frustration hung palpable in the air. “Do you understand? That’s an order.”
The soft protest slipped from my lips like a sigh. “You can’t dictate such things to me,” I countered, my voice gentle but firm.
A sharp exhalation escaped him, his irritation tangible. “I can, and I am. As your Capo and as your husband. You won’t put yourself in harm’s way for me again, Millie. Swear it.”
I looked up at him, my gaze unwavering. It seemed he believed this was as simple as issuing an edict. Gio was accustomed to wielding control, his authority bending others to his will, yet even he had to acknowledge the limits of his power, the fact that some things were beyond his dominion.
His name was on my lips as I cupped his neck, my fingers threading through his raven-dark hair. My lips brushed his gently, an almost ephemeral connection. “No,” I whispered.
His gaze intensified, incredulous. “No?” he echoed, the word laden with a mixture of disbelief and challenge.
I teased, a lightness in my tone as I recited the words that had been mine on our wedding night. “Haven’t you heard that word before?”
A flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I hear it more often than you’d think.”
A genuine smile lit up my face, in contrast to the lingering darkness in his eyes. “Gio, I’m serious.”
His forehead met mine, a soft collision of our souls. “So am I, Millie. I won’t allow you to slip away because of a reckless act of love.”
“You won’t lose me,” I promised, my palm pressing against the Famiglia tattoo inked over his heart-a symbol of his allegiance.
Born in Blood. Sworn in Blood.
Though my pledge might not have been sealed in the same way, the ties that bound me to him ran deeper, bound by something more potent than any oath. Love was the adhesive that held us together. “I’ll stand by your side always,” I affirmed.
The rigidity in his expression began to melt. “Then let’s embark on our honeymoon next week,” he proposed, his voice now tinged with a warmth that had been absent.
A surge of surprise engulfed me, leaving me momentarily speechless. “Really?” I responded, my voice tinged with a mixture of disbelief and growing excitement. The notion was exhilarating, especially considering the circumstances. Our marriage, initially rooted in convenience rather than love, had only spanned two months. Throughout this time, the topic of a honeymoon hadn’t surfaced, partly due to our pragmatic union and later due to my assumption that Gio’s commitments held precedence.
Concern creased my brow as I raised a valid point. “But what about the Bratva? Aren’t you worried about another attack?” The recent assault on the Merante mansion in the Hamptons lingered in my mind; an attack that exacted a heavy toll, claiming the lives of several of Gio’s men, and nearly taking my own. The memory of losing my childhood guardian, Enrique, was vivid-a gunshot to the head etched into my consciousness. The somber duty of composing a letter to his grieving widow and orphaned children had shattered my heart.
“They will strike again, that’s certain. Yet, they’ll require time to recover from the loss of Aldo,” Gio explained with a measured tone. His gaze held a steely determination, a reflection of the responsibilities he bore. “I cannot be absent for an extended period, but my men are capable. Sebastian commands considerable respect, almost akin to mine. He can oversee affairs in my absence.”
A grin slowly spread across my lips, unable to contain my joy. “Where are we going, then?”
Gio’s lips met mine in a tender kiss before he straightened up, his expression mirroring a rare, affectionate smile reserved solely for me. My heart swelled, a surge of affection coursing through me at this private, intimate connection we shared. “My father owned a yacht, docked in the Palermo harbor. Now, it’s mine,” he divulged, his voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and pride. “How about a week of sailing along the Mediterranean?”
I studied his features intently, searching for any signs of grief over his father’s recent passing. Remarkably, Gio’s countenance remained unburdened by sorrow. Agatone Merante had commanded fear, but not respect or fondness. My lack of connection to the man precluded any genuine sorrow, had I known him better, which I sincerely doubted.
“That sounds incredible,” I replied after a moment, envisioning the unexplored beauty of Sicily and embracing the chance to delve into Gio’s familial roots.
He inquired about my prior experiences in Italy, drawing me back to the conversation. “Have you visited Italy before?” he asked, a curiosity flickering in his gaze.
“Just once,” I confessed wistfully. “My father took us to Bologna for his uncle’s funeral, though our stay was brief before we journeyed to Turin and Milano. It left me longing for more. But my father, always engrossed in his role as Consigliere, never allowed us to return without his presence.”
Gio’s decision was made. “Then it’s decided-a week to ourselves.”
Anticipation rippled through me, and I breathed, “I can hardly wait.” Our lips found each other’s, a shared hunger evident. I clung to him, emotions intensifying as his touch set me alight. Memories of my injury lingered; Gio’s care had marked our previous intimate encounters. Yet, this tenderness persisted as he moved to intimate caresses, an almost unbearable gentleness as he explored. As he entered me, the sensation of fullness overwhelmed me, our mouths locked in a passionate rhythm. His measured thrusts were deliberate, each movement deepening our connection. Tension coiled in my core, desire building, and Gio’s voice, husky with need, urged me on. “Come for me, love.”
I moaned softly, my breath hitching as he expertly adjusted the angle of his thrusts. In that moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to the sensations coursing through my body. His lips found mine once more, and a tangle of tongues ensued, an intimate dance that sent shivers down my spine. Amidst the haze of pleasure, his penetrating gray eyes locked onto mine, holding me captive.