If exhaustion had a name, it would be Aurora Achilles. No, not Achilles. Vivaldi.
Technically, Achilles is still on my social security card, but only because both Giorgio and I agreed it made legal matters easier and safer for Tristan, so now I have two last names.
I prefer Vivaldi, though. In my heart and on paper, Giorgio Vivaldi is my husband. I want the world to know I belong to him and he belongs to me.
Concern spears through me when I rise from sleep and find myself alone in the hospital bed. Despite three transfusions, a slew of other medications, and the doctor and nurses doing all they can to make me comfortable, I still feel like death warmed over, but the pain in my body is nothing compared to the angst in my soul when I realize Giorgio isn’t in the room.
I rub the grit from my eyes. Confusion spears through me. There are no IV lines tugging at my arms.
Tristan softly snores from the cot along the wall. The low lighting offers me a vague picture of him lying on his side. I push my hair back from my face and grimace in vain, expecting tangles and grime but finding my scalp clean and locks brushed.
Soft fabric caresses my skin as I struggle to a sitting position. Looking down, I blink in confusion at the pink scrubs covering my body until my brain works.
Snippets of memories flutter through my mind. Giorgio and a nurse gave me a sponge bath and dressed me in clean clothes when my wounds finally stopped bleeding.
I don’t know how long it’s been since then. Pain and fear warp time until I wonder if it was all a dream.
The door opens. Giorgio and Fiero stalk in on silent feet. Other men hover like wraiths in the dark hallway.
Although moving stiffly, Fiero gives no other sign of his injury as he continues across the room toward Tristan. Giorgio flips the blanket off me and swings my feet over the side of the bed.
“Time to go, mia topolina. We’ve stayed here too long,” he says as he tucks shoes onto my feet.
They aren’t my shoes, but they fit.
I wonder why he even bothered when he scoops me into his arms and kisses my temple. My feet haven’t touched the ground since Otello Tempe shot me.
He’s dead. The man I instinctively hated my entire life, who terrorized my mother and murdered mia zia, is dead. Giorgio killed him. I don’t know what that means for my family, but I do know it means Tristan and I are much safer.
The tense atmosphere seeps through my brain fog and slowly clears away my confusion as Giorgio carries me down the hall and through the reception area. Shadows creep along the empty space and fill me with dread.
Several cars’ headlights gleam in the front roundabout. A man dressed in all black opens the glass door and ushers us toward the backseat of the nearest vehicle.
Gunshots sound as Giorgio pulls my seat belt across my lap. He curses, abandons my belt, and pushes me to lie down on the seat while reaching behind himself and tugging Tristan onto the floorboard.
“What’s happening?” I ask as I reach for him, but my husband cups my hip and grabs his pistol from his waistband.
“My uncle found us. Stay down. This’ll be over in a moment.”
He shuts the door and pats the side of the vehicle. The driver rolls forward until the car in front of us shields us from the parking lot.
Tristan lifts his head, but I push him down. He tries to rise again.
“I need to—”
“You need to stay hidden, Tristan. Our job is to be invisible. We can’t be the distraction that gets them killed,” I hiss.
His little body vibrates with fear and fury. I gentle my hand on his shoulder and lean down to whisper in his ear.
“Once Giorgio teaches you the skills you need to survive out there, I won’t stop you, but for now, we’re just a liability. Prove to him you’re smart and stay out of sight,” I say.
He blinks up at me.
“You mean it? You won’t stop me?”
I take a deep breath before responding.
“I won’t stop you. I trust Giorgio, and I trust you, so you should trust me to keep you safe right now. If he thought you were ready, he would have taken you with him, right?”
“Right,” he grumbles.
Time stretches on and on. Each heartbeat feels like a million years, so even though the fighting only lasts a few seconds, my nerves fray and fear pounds in my ears.
When the door opens and broad shoulders fill the frame, I know it’s Giorgio, despite the darkness.
“Are you okay?” I ask without thinking as I search his face and shoulders with my hands.
“I’m fine. Get up and buckle in, Tristan. We’re going home,” he says as he gathers me against his chest.
I soak up his strength as he holds me, and after a moment, an uncomfortable suspicion creeps into me, but he lifts me into the center seat and slides in beside me. He shuts the door and commands the driver into motion.
“What happened? Where’s Fiero?” Tristan asks.
“Following my uncle.”
“He got away?”
The incredulity in Tristan’s voice reveals how deeply he looks up to Giorgio.
“You let him get away,” I say.
He gives a slight nod.
“Why?” Tristan asks.
I connect the dots.
He’s using his uncle as bait for whoever is behind the cyberattacks.
“What’s important is that he and my father are no longer a threat. They have no power anymore,” Giorgio says into my hair before lifting his head and directing the rest of his words toward Tristan, “so we just need to focus on settling you into your new room. Capisci?”
Tristan nods before going ramrod straight.
“Wait, you have a room ready for me?”
“I do, but you can change anything you want,” Giorgio says.
“But you just said I could live with you the day before yesterday,” Tristan argues.
I chuckle and squeeze Giorgio’s thigh as I speak the truth.
“He’s a man of his word. When he invited you to live with us, I bet he was already readying a room for you. When did you start prepping for us to move in?” I ask.
“The moment I realized you wouldn’t leave the Achilles household without him,” Giorgio responds. He pulls me tighter against his side and tilts my chin up.
“You’re not gonna kiss, are you? Because I’m still an impressionable little kid, you know? I—”
“Precisely. Watch and learn, mio ragazzino. Worshipping what you love is the joy of life and your biggest strength, not a weakness,” Giorgio murmurs as he lowers his lips to mine.
Every cell in my body wakes as he invades my mouth, filling me with delicious heat and turning the pain of my wounds into a tantalizing sting. I squirm in my seat and hiss when the movement pulls my bandages tight against the torn flesh across my shoulder blades. Giorgio lifts his head with obvious reluctance and wraps his hand around my throat to prevent me from chasing him.
“Not yet, mia topolina. You need to heal.”
I sigh and curl up against him as his words drain my excitement to a low simmer, allowing my fatigue to take center stage. When he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, I study my husband’s face in the passing streetlights.
Tristan said Giorgio made his declaration the day before yesterday, so I slept for almost three days in the clinic. Did Giorgio sneak away and get a vasectomy like he threatened? Certainly not, right? He wouldn’t do something like that without discussing it with me further, right?
Except, as I study his face, the pain bracketing his eyes tells me otherwise.
I sigh again as I realize how stupid I’m being.
Of course he already followed through on getting snipped. He was dead serious when he said he’d do anything to protect me.
It’s partially my fault for being so weak. Hell, I slept for three days. He had three days of staring at my pale and pathetic ass lying in the hospital bed to solidify his convictions.
Too many emotions hide within the realization, so I tuck it all away for later and wrap my arms around him, careful to avoid his bandages, and rest my ear over his heart.
He ghosts his fingers over my hip and cups the side of my face, holding me to his chest as though I’m the most precious thing in the universe. Tears gather on my lashes.
Less than two weeks ago, I planned to run away with Tristan and live the rest of our lives hiding from my mafia family, but now, I cling to the most dangerous and ruthless mafia don in New York City.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
***
Nervous flutters fill my stomach as I study my reflection. The simple sundress looks nothing like the floor-length gown I’ll wear next month at our fancy-shmancy ‘official’ wedding—which I’d happily skip. But Giorgio insists he must ‘show off his beautiful bride’, which just means he wants to stake his claim over me in public—which I’m oddly not mad about—but despite both dresses being comfortable, this one feels more like me.
Which is absolutely terrifying. The fancy gown is a persona. A shield.
This dress is me. I’m exposed, and not because of the sleeveless top or the hem teasing just above my knees.
The colorful pattern and simple cut fit my personality. It represents the true me. The sibling Tristan relies on, the sister-in-law Serenity adores, and the woman Giorgio loves.
I take a deep breath and relax my fingers before I crush my bouquet.
The door opens behind me.
I meet Giorgio’s eyes in the mirror and twirl around.
“No. Out,” I demand.
He quirks a brow as I stalk across the room and attempt to straight-arm him toward the door.
“Yes. In,” he counters.
I gasp when he grabs my wrist and twirls me around. With my bouquet in one hand and the other stretched across my body and trapped in his grip, I have no choice but to stumble forward as he guides me to the vanity with his bulk.
He doesn’t stop until the edge of the counter digs into my upper thighs. An inferno rages in my core as he slips his free hand into my dress and cups my breast.
“What is this?” he growls and flicks his thumb over the nipple cover.
I wriggle and stop myself from biting my bottom lip just in time to save my lip gloss.
“I can’t wear a bra with this dress,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I like it,” he murmurs.
He kneads my breast with his massive hand.
I squirm just to enjoy his hard cock rubbing against my back and respond in a breathy voice, “I also can’t flash all our friends and family.”
“But these don’t seem very comfortable. Let me—”
He pinches the patch between his fingers.
“Don’t you dare.”
The breathy quality of my voice should embarrass me, but our reflection is more arousing than any porno I’ve ever watched. He towers over me in his delectable suit. I look so delicate and vulnerable in his arms. He could do anything to me, and I wouldn’t be able to stop him.
I squeak when he rolls the patch between his fingers. My nipple hardens and pulls the pasty tight around my areola.
“What will you do to keep these?”
His suggestive tone and burning eyes melt me to my core. My knees wobble as he rolls my nipple again.
“Anything,” I whisper, but I don’t care about the nipple covers.
I want him.
“Spread your legs and lean forward, mia topolina. It’s been too long,” he snarls.
My insides throb. I’m still sore from two days ago, but my need exceeds my discomfort, so I shuffle my heels farther apart and lean forward.
He releases my breast and wraps his fist around my throat from behind before sliding his feet between mine and forcing them further apart. I squeak when he steals my balance, pinning my wrist between my thigh and the counter while holding me above the vanity so I don’t squash my bouquet, and he flips my skirt up onto my back.
His appreciative groan skitters across my flesh and pebbles my nipples, causing a chain reaction in my core and clit. He hooks his digit under the string of my thong and pulls it away from my ass, tightening the fabric against my pussy. I whimper and writhe. The counter digs into my thighs.