Page 49 of Vow to Corrupt You
“Good morning, Mrs. Romano,” Cecilia greets me with a polite smile, her hands full of silver trays. “Do you need anything?”
“No, thank you, Cecilia,” I respond warmly. I’ve asked her at least a hundred times to address me by just my name, but she always refuses, saying that the wife of Mr. Romano deserves no less. “Is my husband in his office yet?”
Most of the time in recent days, Nikos has been either in his office working and planning the next move in the ongoing war with the Castros or away, putting the plan into motion and attending business meetings.
“I’m here.” His low voice reaches me from behind and sends chills down my spine.
Suddenly, my body freezes like an ice statue, and I cannot turn and face him. The ice melts and turns to fire when his hot breath brushes my neck while he whispers against my ear.
“Were you thinking of me when you were pleasuring yourself this morning?”
I hardly swallow. How the hell does he know?
My jaw tightens, but I hold my chin high. “Are you stalking me?”
A scoff escaping his mouth causes goosebumps in its wake on my skin. “Were you expecting anything less from me, baby?”
My heart skips a beat at the way he calls me baby. Not by my name or the annoying nickname he gave me the first day he saw me, but baby with a hint of mischief and a touch of desire.
Still, without turning to him, I mutter angrily, “Are you implying you have cameras installed in my bedroom?” It’s easier when I’m not facing him, and my gaze follows the staff, readying everything for lunch.
He tucks my hair away from my neck, leaning closer, his lips brushing my earlobe. “In every corner.”
My body shudders with every heavy inhale and exhale. “How naïve of me to believe you’d actually have some decency to give me some privacy.”
A trail of slow, warm kisses causes my muscles to tense. “Yes, how naïve of you, wicked one.” His husky voice blurs against my skin. “So tell me, were you thinking of me?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Romano,” one of the maids interrupts, breaking the invisible tension between Nikos and me. “Lucio Conti and his family have arrived.”
Saved by the bell.
Nikos nods, and the maid scurries away like she’s afraid of staying in his presence for too long.
As we wait for my family in the foyer, my heart sinks a little. Considering the circumstances of my marriage, the evening might turn eventful, to say the least. Caterina and Papà walk in first, their expressions carved from stone. They exchange curt nods with Nikos, who greets them with forced pleasantries before Gianna and Valeria join. My gaze searches for Salvatore until Gianna whispers that he’s not coming.
I could’ve expected that.
Or maybe it’s for the best?
“And where is Salvatore?” Nikos immediately notices the absence of my twin brother as well.
My father’s brow furrows into a forbidding grimace. “He didn’t exactly want to dine with a man who cut and burned his flesh, broke his fingers, and suffocated him to near death with a plastic bag over his head while he was fully restrained.”
An uneasy, unpleasant chill passes through me, and I’m unsure whether it’s caused by the disturbing image of what my brother had to endure, or by the fear of Nikos’s potential reaction to my father’s not-so-subtle provocation. But this is it. A reminder of what kind of man Nikolaos Romano actually is. A ruthless monster.
“Lucio,” Nikos says, his lips twisting into a mocking grin. “That was before he was my brother-in-law. He’s family now. Why hold a grudge?”
My father’s eyelid twitches, and I know if I don’t do something now, they’re going to kill each other.
“We should eat,” I blurt out, trying to prevent the impending, perhaps inevitable eruption. “Before it gets cold. You’ll love all the food, I’m sure.”
“Agree,” Nikos says lazily.
Side by side with my husband, as if we were an ordinary, loving couple, we lead everyone to the table, pretending the horrendous exchange hasn’t just occurred. As if my family and husband don’t mutually despise each other.
We gather around the table, and despite the delicious aroma of food filling the room, no one appears eager to eat. The conversation is forced and awkward, interrupted by uncomfortable silences only broken by cutlery clinking against the porcelain dishes.
But it’s not until dessert—an absurd selection to choose from—that the tension becomes so thick you can cut it with a knife.
