Page 85 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

Accompanied by a little icon that has a circle, indicating water, and three wavy lines above it.

I frown. “What’s that?”

“You’ll see.”

I’m still angry at Marco, and I don’t want to ask him any follow up questions. So instead, I stare out the window and try to see if I can figure it out myself.

When we finally pull up to a mostly empty parking lot and a rocky lake, I finally give up. “What the hell, Marco,” I snap. “Where the hellare we?”

“I told you it was a surprise.”

He starts to unload the car, and I hop down. My feet are in boots, which I am glad I chose, because the cold seeps in through them. I look down at the lake, noting the ripples in the water…

Wait.

This high up, at this time of year, this lake should be solid ice. Completely frozen.

But it’s not frozen.

On top of that, it’s steaming…

“A hot spring?”

Marco’s smile makes something in my chest loosen. “I knew my smart girl was in there somewhere.”

Mygirl?

The comment leaves me momentarily stunned, and I watch Marco grab a bag of towels, with a wrapped package that looks suspiciously like a wine bottle, and head toward the spring.

Dumbfounded, I follow.

The spring is stunning. The mountains around us are hush, quiet with a blanket of snow. There’s no one else here, and I have no doubt there won’t be. To access this road, we practically had to use a car that can go over nearly any terrain. Not a lot of people will be able to follow us, not in the winter.

Plus, it’s starting to snow.

A couple of flakes drift down, evaporating once they hit the heat of the water. Marco uses a rock to set up a little tent, covering a space so the snow doesn’t fall on it. He places ourbag there, keeping it dry and free from snow, then starts to pull off his shirt.

I stare.

Marco De Luca is a beautiful man. I’ve always known that. But the number of times that I’ve seen him without a shirt are few.

And now, I can see a lot.

Dense muscle rolls over his broad frame. Marco is shorter than his brothers, but definitely packed with the type of muscle that looks like it’s from another time entirely. He looks like he should be lifting a broadsword or straddling a destrier.

Not flexing those biceps, casually, to pop the top of a champagne bottle.

His skin is a very deep olive color. In the summer, I know that it bronzes, absorbing the sun like a sponge. His tattoos aren’t prolific like some men I’ve seen, but he has enough to make me want to touch them. The span of his broad pecs is covered in hair, but he’s somehow tamed it so that it looks… groomed.

Sexy.

Like I want to scrape my nails along it.

Marco takes his pants off next, and I instinctively turn. He laughs.

“I’m going in. There’s champagne for you here on the ledge,” he murmurs.

I peek, I will admit, as he moves toward the spring.

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