Page 104 of Runaway in the Mafia
“What?” I croaked.
“Not running away from your husband.”
Husband. Mine.“I didn’t.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I’ll make a deal. We’ll get some maids here…”
I frowned. “Thought you hated having people around.”
“I do. But I like you here, and if you can’t be alone, I’ll let some of Mamma’s maids in.”
I tilted my head, trying to get a read on him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “But I want them to scatter the moment I step inside.”
“Scatter?” I grinned. “Like marbles?”
His lips twisted, and we shared a private moment. More intimate than him buried inside me.
“Okay?”
His question was more than one.
“Okay,” I agreed softly.
He pulled out and drove into me again. Slow and steady, like he’d taken me this morning. I held him tight because now I knew he had a piece of me. Too big for me to ignore. Too big for me to walk out on. The truth had to come out. One day soon, I had to tell my family. And hope the damage wouldn’t be extreme.
Outside,the world moved on. Inside, we lay on the sofa. Him on one side, bare torso, slacks open. Me on the other end, wearing his shirt. If my world ended now, I’d die melting into this happiness.
The back of his hand ran to the sole of my foot. From toes to heel. From heel to toes. “You know I can’t live in that house, right?”
“Because of your father?”
His gaze shifted. Avoiding mine. Watched his hands tracing invisible paths on my feet.
“What did he do?”
A bitter laugh twisted his face. The type that came from the hollowness of nightmares and covert traumas. A few heartbeats passed. I let him take the time he needed. “What didn’t he do? Or who didn’t he do? In front of his wife and his children.”
I let it settle in. No wonder he’d left such pain behind him. A man who did that to his wife and children...
“Did he love Ada?”
His nostrils flared, and the grip on my heel tightened. It pinched my skin painfully. He didn’t even seem to notice it. “He fucked any pussy he could find every damn day. No, he didn’t love Mamma.” He glared at me. His tone vibrated with an open warning. “Men like us don’t love, Ahana. We fuck. That’s what we do.”
No. You don’t.
My gaze moved to his forearm with his inked words. “You’re nothing like your father.”
Unlike before, he didn’t dispute it. That itself I took as a win. He rested his head on the arm of the sofa and said something. But distraction pulled at me. I pushed his hand off my foot and crawled over to him. I grabbed his forearm, my eyes reading raw words. “This is new.” There was a fresh tattoo there. I would know. I’d seen him naked enough times. My fingers traced the lettering underneath his tensed arm. The skin was still red. Tender beneath my fingers. “What does it say?”
“Nothing,” he muttered.
“Sono tutto quello che Ahana desidera,”I read out in my awful accent. “There’s a word in Italian with my—” I caught his glance and stilled. He looked like I’d have to choke it out of him. “What does it mean, Vitale?”
He was silent. Hummed with quiet anger.
“Fine. I’ll Google it.” I was halfway up before he yanked me down.
