Page 41 of One Savage Union

I halfway expect to find the bedroom locked before I remember he instructed me to meet him downstairs. Outside the bedroom, my senses perk up. There’s a sea breeze fragrance flowing throughout the beautiful villa. A landing is located right outside the main bedroom, providing a 360-degree view of the entire second floor. I can also look down from the balcony and see straight through to the first.

He decorated the home in wonderful pale shades of white, sand, and gold with blue accents. There are numerous plants, rock accents, and seascapes on the walls. This isn’t a placeI’d expect a harbinger of death to live. This home is full of life and every good thing that God provides us on earth. The contradiction is unsettling.

I head down the stairs, following the unmistakable smell of garlic and tomatoes. My mouth waters, and my stomach growls. His cook must be making some sort of pasta. Maybe he’s in his office or something, and I can chat with his cook before dinner. I could use a few more moments before facing him. She may give me more information about my enigmatic spouse.

I put on a bright smile and walk into the kitchen, expecting to find an elderly Italian woman cooking up a storm. Instead, I find my husband wearing a tight white T-shirt and gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He’s stirring the pot of sauce in time with the Hazel Scott piano rift, blasting from his speakers. His muscles flex as he stirs, and his hips sway slightly to the beat. I stay quiet and enjoy a rare look at my husband unbound.

I clear my throat. Then he turns around and flashes me a smile.

A fucking smile.

It’s genuine. The kind that reaches his eyes. It’s the first one he’s given me since we met. He’s relaxed and in his element. This place must be his real home.

I run my hands along the spaghetti straps on my dress, suddenly self-conscious as he peruses me from head to toe. I need to speak, or I’ll spontaneously combust from his heated stare alone. He must have taken a shower because his hair is still damp, and the thick black strands are curling. The man is sex on a stick, and I need to distract myself before I jump on said stick.

“I love Hazel Scott.” I blurt out.

He smirks, turns back around, and places a top on his sauce. He wipes his hand on a dish towel hanging on the stove before turning back around to lean against it and face me.

“I know you do. That’s why I’m playing her music for you.”

Is there anything this man doesn’t know about me? With his resources, he probably has an entire dossier on me. What else does he know? My phone password? My guilty pleasure of ordering pralines from that Savannah Candy shop - I love it. The type of porn I watch when I’m lonely at night? The last thought causes my cheeks to heat. That would be a disaster.

He chuckles. “Relax, Lucia. It was a lucky guess. You’re a concert pianist. It only makes sense that you would love one of the most prolific female pianists of all time. I didn’t break into your Apple Music playlist.”

A small sigh of relief escapes my lips. I take a seat on one stool at the bar across from him. The kitchen is as stunning as he is. It’s an ode to white and gold marble. Even the appliances are a soft champagne gold color. He must have had them custom-made. I look down at the white and gold granite of the bar and smile at the amount of sparkle. I look up at Rocco as he studies me with curiosity, and I clear my throat once again.

“I didn’t think you paid attention to what I do or love.”

He shrugs. “I’m not a monster.”

I throw him an incredulous look, and he raises his hands in surrender.

“Ok, I’m not atotalmonster. Just a bit monstrous.” He shrugs and turns to pop a cherry tomato from the counter in his mouth. I don’t know how he made a gesture so simple, sexy as hell, but he did.

“But Lucia, I have no desire to be that way with you. You’re my wife, and if you’re a good girl for me, I think you will find me a very generous lover in every sense of the word. So yes, I pay attention to you, and I admire your skill on the piano.”

I shift my stance and cross my arms to eye him warily. “You’ve heard me play?”

He runs his hand over the five o’clock shadow covering his face.

God, even his scruff is sexy.

“I may have looked up a few of your performances on YouTube. You’re good.”

I blush. “I’m alright. There are so many more pianists who are better than I am. Before I was… taken. They ranked me in the top fifty worldwide.”

“There are not forty-nine musicians better than you, wife. And I’m not just saying that either. I know more about the piano than you think. At one point in my life, I held recitals all over this country. I even played in the orchestra pit of Teatro Massimo for a performance of Aida when I was fifteen years old. My mother was also a concert pianist before she died.”

My jaw drops. This can’t be real. There’s no way this man plays the piano at that level. If he did, why the hell is he in the mafia now?

What happened to him?

He laughs. “Close your mouth la mia piccola palla di fuoco. Am I such a Neanderthal? You can’t believe that I was an accomplished musician? Do you think I was born a criminal?”

I shake my head. “No, that’s not it. If you say you were a concert pianist, then you were. You’re not a liar. You’ve been very honest with me about my circumstances, and I appreciate that.”

He gives me a funny look before turning away and stirring his sauce.

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