Chapter 6: Kira - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

The heated bathroom tiles burn deliciously beneath my bare feet as I stand in front of the mirror, wiping steam away with the heel of my hand.

I make a face at my reflection. The woman in the mirror looks as frustrated as I feel. It’s been exactly eight days since the wedding. Seven days since my husband taught me how to make myself come.

And true to his word, he makes me touch myself for his viewing pleasure every night when we go to bed. Which, I can admit, I’m getting addicted to. But getting off isn’t the goal here. Dad said I needed to sleep with my husband for the deal to be complete.

Then again, he also said the ridiculously seductive lace outfit was a sure thing. Either he was wrong, or I don’t know how to put it to use. Because Domenico still hasn’t fucked me. And it’s not from a lack of trying on my part.

Every night, I make a fool of myself with how eager I am. No matter how much I try, I wake up alone most mornings. Which is another problem.

Since my first night here, when I ran into the red-haired man, I haven’t liked walking around by myself. Not when it’s dark, anyway. During the day, it’s easier. At least Donna’s here. She’s Domenico’s housekeeper. Or, as I call her in my head: the all-around woman.

Seriously, she cooks—well, at least sometimes, organizes the daily cleaners, makes sure the fridge is stocked, and that the official chef has what they need. I’ve seen more people working here than I’d ever imagined would be needed in a penthouse apartment.

Sighing, I run a comb through my damp hair and watch the dark strands stick to the fabric of my oversized gray t-shirt, leaving wet spots that spread like inkblots. My reflection in the mirror is pale, freckles standing out like scattered punctuation across my nose.

I look younger than twenty-one like this.

Or maybe I just feel younger, stripped down to the girl who used to hide in the church choir room reading books when her dad was drunk. Either way, I don’t look like Mrs. DeLuca. I look like Kira Adams, who is in way over her head.

Which I am in so, so many ways. Not only am I now married to my former fiancé’s dad, but said man killed his former wife, and he continues to reject me. Yeah, I keep mentally coming back to all these things.

Because… damn it. How did my life end up being such a scary mess?

Ugh, and now I have to walk out there and sit across from my husband while pretending I don’t offer myself up daily like a sacrifice only for him to tell me he doesn’t want me. And… ugh… what does that mean for me? I can’t just let him cast me aside when I’m fairly certain that would mean dying.

I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles turn white. “You’re still here,” I tell my reflection. “Mom is still getting her treatments. That’s what matters.”

The pep talk doesn’t help much since both the me in and out of the mirror are aware we don’t actually know what’s happening. We’re both just hoping for the best. And that’s good enough to get my feet moving.

I open the bathroom door and step into the bedroom. The bed is still rumpled. Rather than heading straight for the kitchen, I take my time making the bed. Mom did this every day, always saying a good wife knew how to keep a tidy home. So it’s the least I can do.

And since I’m still not ready to face my husband, who’s waiting for me this morning, every minute of procrastination counts.

Once I’m finished with the bed, I pull the curtains aside and open the windows just enough to let some fresh air in. I grab my canvas sneakers from the floor, shoving my feet into them without socks. The worn rubber soles are comforting against the penthouse floor.

The hallway stretches long and quiet as I walk toward the kitchen. The morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long rectangles of pale gold across the floor.

Every morning, it’s the smell that hits me first. Dark roasted coffee, rich and bitter, threading through the air like a rope pulling me forward. My stomach growls despite my nerves. While living with Dad, breakfast was a luxury I only partook in when there was a spread at the church. But after one week with Domenico, my stomach’s hooked.

I round the corner into the kitchen and stop to take it all in. The black stone countertops look like they’ve been sliced from something ancient, brushed brass fixtures catching the light, wide-plank oak underfoot that’s so clean I can see the grain.

It’s beautiful in the way a museum is beautiful. Not a place where people actually live.

Domenico sits at the table near the windows, a coffee cup cradled in one hand, a tablet in the other. He’s wearing a charcoal suit, fresh and pressed, the shirt beneath collarless and black.

His salt-and-pepper hair is damp and brushed back from his face, apart from a few errant strands that are defying him by hanging down his forehead. He looks devastatingly handsome with the way the light cradles his face, creating natural contours and highlighting the five o’clock shadow on his jaw.

Before I can say anything, Donna looks up and smiles. It’s so warm and genuine that I can’t help but return it. “Mrs. DeLuca,” she says, wiping her hands on a towel. “I heard you coming, so I have your coffee ready.” Her voice is gentle, maternal without being pushy.

Even after seven days, this is hard to get used to. “Thank you so much,” I reply warmly. When she goes to place it on the table, across from Domenico, as every morning, I stop her. “I can carry it.”

“Sit,” Domenico says. He doesn’t look up from the tablet he’s reading, his thumb scrolling slowly across the screen.

I’m glad he doesn’t look up, because when he does, I fall under the spell of his icy-blues. Seriously, this man—my husband—can hold me in place with his eyes alone.

I walk to the chair and pull it out. The legs scrape against the oak, the sound too loud in the quiet room. As soon as I’m seated, I wrap my hands around the mug. It’s hot, burning my palms through the ceramic, but I don’t let go.

Donna places a plate in front of me—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast with butter already melting into the bread. Simple food. Good food.

“Enjoy.” She beams. “And don’t forget to let me know if you ever want anything else.”

I look at her with softness in my eyes. Donna always exudes serenity and no-nonsense in equal measure. It’s a talent I’m sure she’s spent most of her forty-six years learning. I wasn’t going to ask her age, but the first day I met her, she told me.

“Thank you, Donna,” I say softly.

She smiles again, nodding, then retreats to the counter where she’s arranging something in a bowl. She’s present but unobtrusive, like furniture that breathes.

I pick up my fork and push the eggs around. Domenico takes a sip of his coffee, the movement fluid and controlled. He still hasn’t looked at me directly. The silence stretches between us, thick and vibrating.

Toast crunches between my teeth as I take a bite. Even though I’m hungry, it tastes like cardboard. I keep my eyes on my plate for a long moment, watching the steam rise from the eggs, then I set my fork down and force myself to look up.

“Do you not like the food?” Domenico asks as soon as our eyes meet. “We also have—”

“The food’s fine,” I interrupt, immediately feeling bad for doing that.

“So, what’s the problem?”

I frown at my husband’s choice of words. Why does there have to be a problem? Can’t I just be overwhelmed, confused, and so far out of my depth I struggle to eat? Out of the corner of my eye, I see Donna leave quietly. I don’t blame her.

“What do you expect from me?” I ask instead of answering his question.

“Expect?” he echoes, arching an eyebrow.

I roll my lips between my teeth and bite the tender flesh. “Yes,” I confirm with a nod, wrapping my hands around the mug in front of me to give them something to do. “I mean…” I struggle to come up with the words. “We weren’t expected to marry, but we did. So what do you expect from me? It’s been a week and all I do is sit around. Is there something you want me to be doing?”

Domenico slowly sets his cup down as he leans back in his chair. The tattoos on his forearms peek out from beneath his cuffs.

His expression is carved from stone. “It’s up to you.”

The answer is so vague, so maddeningly open-ended, that I feel my fingernails dig into my palms. “That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is.” He smirks. “You need to learn to use your words, Kira. Ask exactly what you want to know. Don’t dance pointlessly around the subject and open yourself up to vague answers.”

With a huff, I pick up my coffee and take a sip that scalds my tongue. I swallow and set the mug down with more force than necessary. “How am I supposed to spend my time? What do you want me doing while you’re off being… whatever you are?”

“Whatever I am,” he repeats, and there’s a hint of dark amusement in his voice. He unfolds his hands and picks up his own fork, taking a bite of eggs. He chews slowly, watching me, making me wait. “What did you do before we got married? Were you in college?”

I don’t know what surprises me more: that he doesn’t know, or that he isn’t giving me orders. Or maybe he already knows and is testing me. God, I need to stop overthinking everything.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I worked at Saint Benedict’s. The church where we…” I gesture vaguely, indicating the wedding. “… my mom used to be the communications manager, and I assisted her. Since her accident, I’d taken on more of her responsibilities. I also did some secretary work and sang in the choir.”

He nods as though the information is confirmation rather than news. “And do you want to continue this?”

“Yes,” I reply without hesitation. “I mean, if you’ll let me.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. The morning light catches the silver at his temples, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones. He is terrifyingly handsome in a way that makes my heart beat as if I’ve run a marathon.

“You’re not a prisoner, Kira.” His tone suggests that should be obvious. “You can do whatever you want.”

I’m not? That’s the first time he’s told me that.

He takes another sip of coffee, his eyes dropping from my face to my body. It’s a brief pass, unimpressed, moving from the neckline of my oversized t-shirt down to the faded band logo.

I’m suddenly glad I’m sitting down so he can’t see the torn knee on my jeans, or the scuffed canvas sneakers. When his eyes return to mine, there’s a distinct lack of approval in them.

“Stand up,” he orders as though he heard my thoughts.

“Why?” I ask, fighting the urge to lower my eyes. I won’t make myself an easier target by hiding from him.

“Because I said so,” he states dryly, pushing back from the table.

I can’t help scoffing at that, but instead of fighting it, I do as he says. I stand from the chair and move closer to him since I already know what he wants. The second I’m within reach, Domenico catches me by the hip and pulls me between his spread knees.

My breath catches as his hand warms my skin through my t-shirt, his fingers spanning my side as though touching me like this is perfectly normal. Maybe to him it is.

It definitely isn’t to me. Not yet. Not when he keeps rejecting me.

“Turn around,” he commands, swirling his long index finger in the air as he speaks.

When my back faces him, his hand settles on my lower back. Without warning, he adds pressure until I have no choice but to bend over the table.

“What the—”

I’m interrupted by a low, angry growl coming from my husband. “What the fuck is this?” I try to look over my shoulder, but before I succeed, he kicks my feet further apart and moves them behind me so he’s using his body to pin me in place. “There’s a fucking hole right here.”

Before I can ask where, I feel his finger pushing against my flesh just below my right butt cheek.

“I didn’t know,” I immediately defend. “I swear I didn’t know, Domenico.”

He doesn’t answer, but I feel him moving. Then he barks, “Vinny? Yes. I need you to bring the phone up and get some clothes.”

Who’s Vinny? What’s going on? I hope he isn’t the red-haired guy I saw on my first night here. That man scared me.

“Yes, for Mrs. DeLuca.”

When there’s a pause, I realize he’s on the phone. And when I listen intently, I can hear a low voice that doesn’t belong to Domenico, but it’s too low for me to make out the words.

“I don’t know… something simple.”

Pause.

“Yes, make it fast.”

With that last barked command, he puts the phone down near my face. Instead of standing back up, he rests his arms on either side of me and brings his mouth to my ear.

“I’m choosing to believe you didn’t know,” he rasps, his breath fanning across the shell of my ear. “Because if you try to leave like that and show what now belongs to me, it won’t end well for you or anyone who sees.”

Fear slivers down my spine, making me shudder against him. Oh God, is this what his former wife did? Is that why he killed her? But… then why did he make me wear that wedding dress? It hid a lot less than these jeans, even with a hole in them.

Shaking my head, I whisper, “I promise I didn’t know.”

I feel his teeth close around my earlobe, and he doesn’t let up until I let out a low hiss. “Good,” he says.

When I nervously shift my weight from one foot to the other, I feel it. His hardness digging into me. It shouldn’t please me, especially not right now when he’s just threatened me. Yet it does. It means he isn’t as unaffected as I thought.

As he moves back and lets me stand, he tells me he’ll arrange for me to go shopping within the next couple of weeks. For now, though, someone named Vinny’s bringing me some clothes. I just nod as I sit back down, accepting the fact I won’t even get to decide what I’m wearing anymore.

Thoughts run rampant through my head as I try to make sense of what just happened. Domenico said I’m not a prisoner. He said I can do whatever I want. Except wear my own clothes and be comfortable in my own skin, apparently.

I look up at him, at this man who is my husband, who owns me because he paid for me, who decides when I’m wanted and when I’m dressed appropriately.

While he seems completely at ease, sipping coffee like he didn’t just threaten me, the few bites of toast I had sit heavy in my stomach, a stone where hunger used to be.

Domenico stands, the movement fluid and commanding. He buttons his jacket with a quick, practiced motion and looks down at me, still seated, still wrapping my head around the fact that my favorite jeans have been deemed insufficient.

Before I can formulate a response to the shopping edict, the elevator dings from down the hall. The sound is subtle, a low chime that seems to vibrate through the walls of the penthouse. Domenico doesn’t look surprised as he gestures toward the hallway with one hand.

“Come on,” he says.

I push back from the table and follow Domenico down the hallway, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the floor. The morning light has shifted, becoming sharper, more insistent through the windows.

We reach the living area just as the elevator doors slide open and a man steps out. He’s around six feet, athletic build filling out a dark tailored suit, clean-shaven with short dark hair.

He’s holding a paper bag in one hand. “Boss,” the man says, nodding at Domenico. Then his eyes shift to me, and something in his expression softens—not by much, just a fraction, but it’s there. “Mrs. DeLuca.”

“Kira,” I correct.

Domenico moves to stand beside me, close enough that his arm brushes my shoulder. “Kira, this is Vinny. He’s part of my security team. From now on, he’ll be with you whenever you go anywhere.”

I look up at him, confused. “I don’t need security.”

“You do,” Domenico says flatly. “You’re a DeLuca now. That comes with certain risks. You don’t go anywhere without him.”

The words land like bricks. I stare at Vinny, who’s still holding the bag. He’s watching me with an expression that’s professional but not cold.

“Either you take him with you everywhere, or you stay inside these walls,” Domenico declares, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Those are your options.”

I swallow hard. The reality of what I married into crystallizes in this moment—not just the man, but the life.

Before I can even attempt to form a response, Vinny steps forward and pulls a box from the bag, which he extends toward Domenico. “The new unit, Boss. Gio assured me it’s already been encrypted and geo-tagged to the security system.”

Domenico takes it and turns to me as he sets the box on the table near the elevator. Then he pulls out a phone—sleek, matte black, still gleaming with factory freshness. He powers it on with a thumb press, waits for it to boot, then holds it out to me.

“This is yours. You need to keep it on you at all times,” he says. “It’s already programmed with my number as well as Vinny’s.”

Call it intuition or whatever, but I already know there’s no arguing this. Not if I want to do more than just sit around and wait for Domenico to grace me with his presence. So, even though it feels like a tracking collar, I shove the phone into my jeans’ back pocket.

“Okay,” I agree.

At the same time, Vinny hands the paper bag to Domenico, explaining that my clothes are in there. I’m not surprised when my husband tells the bodyguard to wait here before making me follow him into the bedroom.

While I close the door behind us, he strides over to the bed and pours the contents onto it. He holds up each item, inspecting every single one with the level of scrutiny I’d expect a Mafia Don to reserve for, well, whatever it is he actually does.

Certainly not for clothes inspection. Again, I feel the need to point out how ridiculous it is, considering the wedding dress he forced me to wear.

As he drops a black, long-sleeved shirt with a very modest V-neck, I snatch it along with the dark gray pants he already deemed fine. I kick off my shoes and move toward the bathroom when his voice halts me.

“Where are you going?” I bristle at the amusement in his tone.

Turning around, I face him. “I was going to change,” I explain, puzzled as it seemed obvious to me.

“I’ve already seen you naked, Kira, and felt you come on my hand. You might as well get changed in here.”

My cheeks burn, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of averting my gaze as I shrug with forced nonchalance. I pretend not to notice him staring as I slip out of the t-shirt and replace it with the new black one.

I smile at how soft it is. Then I shimmy out of the offensive jeans before stepping into the new gray trousers. There’s a full-length mirror on the back wall, which I use to make sure the clothes fit me as well as I think they do.

If I’m honest, I don’t really need to since I can feel the fabric hugging me the right way. While I’m busy twisting this and that way, Domenico steps up behind me. Despite being close enough to touch, he keeps his distance.

“Is this okay?” I meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Yes,” is all he says.

Nodding, I lick my lips. “Can I go to the church now, then?” I ask, hopeful.

“As long as you take Vinny,” he reminds me. “And text me if you go anywhere else.”