Married With Malice: An Arranged Marriage Romance
Married With Malice: Chapter 6

Three days after my wedding it occurs to me that the worst thing about being a mafia wife is also the best thing.

The job of a mafia wife isn’t a new concept to me. All my life I’ve watched my mother submissively perform her role without complaint. She knows nothing of the constellation of Barone business holdings and turns a blind eye to both the lawless reality of my father’s activities and the long list of women he always keeps on the side.

Now I’m no different. I’m an accessory. I’ll never be consulted and I’ll always be kept out of the loop. I’ll be trotted out for certain social occasions in order to enhance the image of my husband.

However, there is a silver lining. A mafia capo is more of a lifestyle than a job, which means most of the time Luca will be off doing dirty business and I’ll be left the fuck alone.

That’s where I am right now, alone on a tranquil beach with my Kindle and a bag of salted chickpeas amid the soundtrack of gentle waves teasing the shoreline. It’s downright heavenly. Best of all, there’s no husband in sight to ruin my good mood.

Luca has been gone since yesterday morning. He dropped a comment about a business meeting in Miami and then took off.

I do not know when he’ll be back and I do not care.

Having the entire suite to myself last night was wonderful. I’m hoping Luca stays elsewhere until it’s time to leave next week. A repeat of our first night here isn’t something I’m looking forward to.

Maybe I should remain here in the Keys alone indefinitely. Luca is free to return to New York and wave a gun around and play gangster games. That would be the ideal arrangement.

We’re not going to get along, not ever. Perhaps Luca is rational enough to understand that his life will be far less unpleasant if we’re living in separate states.

I wonder if he really did have a business meeting in Miami. He went to law school there. He must still have a lot of connections in the area. Perhaps there are one or two old girlfriends just waiting around for him to call so they can suck his dick.

A sudden flash of irritation strikes. It feels pretty close to anger.

How strange.

There’s no reason why I should be bothered by the idea of Luca getting his kicks with some (possibly imaginary) side piece.

Even if I wanted him for myself, which I absolutely DO NOT, men like Luca Connelly aren’t faithful. None of them. Not my father, not his uncle, not the unending network of capos and underbosses and soldiers populating the mafia realm.

I don’t know, maybe they’re in danger of getting their macho cards revoked if their cocks stay in the marriage bed.

Anyway, it’s entirely possible that while I’m sitting here chewing on salted chickpeas and staring at the crystal clear ocean water, Luca is buried inside some South Beach supermodel.

Why should this feel so shitty?

Whether she exists or not, he’s all hers. I’d rather crawl over a bed of staples than admit that my pride has been vaguely wounded.

So what if he doesn’t want me? He can’t have me anyway.

It’s so very confusing, this business of being married to your enemy. Zero out of ten stars.

An outbreak of laughter nudges me out of my thoughts. There’s a couple in the water. She’s blonde and wearing a red bikini. He’s dark-haired and stacked with strapping muscles. If I squint, he looks too much like Luca. His hands are all over her and he’s kissing her neck.

A wave splashes into them and she lets out a squeal. He lifts her up. Her legs wrap around his waist. They exchange heated stares.

My eyes stay glued to them as I fish around in my bag for the complimentary tin of butter mints left by housekeeping. I pop two mints into my mouth.

They’re kissing now. It’s real hard core tonsil hockey. Another small wave collides with them. They don’t even notice.

Though they are technically in public, there’s no one else on this segment of beach except for me. I’m starting to feel a tad voyeuristic. And more than a little turned on.

The butter mints get crunched into chalky bits between my teeth. The couple wades out of the water, hand in hand, so completely wrapped up in each other that they fail to notice the creepy lady in oversized sunglasses ogling them from an Adirondack chair. They’re so close and so preoccupied that I could probably trip them.

Not that I have any desire to trip them. They’re adorable and they’re in love. It’s possible this is their honeymoon. I’m sure they are enjoying all the crazy sex and feeling like the luckiest two people in the world because they get to spend forever together.

Meanwhile, my honeymoon is spent with butter mints, an empty cellophane bag and uncharged electronic devices while the ‘husband’ I never wanted is out there cavorting with unknown women in Miami.

It kind of fucking sucks.

The lovebirds suddenly turn around.

“Sorry, did you say something?” the girl asks. She flashes a friendly smile.

The words ‘fucking sucks’ that had been bouncing around inside my head somehow found their way out of my mouth.

I shake the empty bag. “I just said I’m out of snacks.” Then I try to smile at her because she’s happy and sweet and I don’t want to ruin her day.

She laughs. Her husband, or whatever he is, laughs along with her.

“I know how that feels.” She waves. “Take care.”

They pick up the pace, eager to get back to their room and hump each other into oblivion.

Good for them.

At least someone is enjoying paradise.

I stare at their backs until her red bikini disappears amid the tropical green foliage between the beach and the main resort buildings.

My phone, which clings to one percent of its battery, pings with an incoming text. I brace for the possibility that the message is from Luca. Any message from Luca is bound to be exasperating.

But the text is only a photo from Daisy. She and Big Man Bowie are expanding their mobile food business and buying another truck. I had some of my own money stashed away from the years of teaching lessons at the ice rink. It’s no great fortune but it had been meticulously saved in the hopes of breaking free from my father’s control someday.

Now that my plans have been altered, I lent the money to my sister. The photo shows the two of them posed in front of their new purchase, a used former taco truck that will be transformed into another Big Man Bowie’s Burgers. There’s a yellow flower in Daisy’s hair. Big Man Bowie wears board shorts and the ends of his sunny blond hair stick out of his backwards baseball cap. His arm is slung over her shoulders. She hugs his waist. Everything about them screams that they are blissfully in love.

The sight of my sister’s smiling face makes the state of things feel a little less bleak. It’s not the end of the world if I’m sitting alone on a beach on my honeymoon. I’d have a lot more complaints if Luca was right here hovering over my every move.

Knowing that Daisy is safely in the arms of her loving husband makes the sacrifice worthwhile. And Sabrina called this morning. She’s fully recovered and excited that she gets to stay in video game school.

I’m happy for Brina, happy for both of my sisters. We can’t all get what we want all of the time. I’ll play along with this bogus mafia marriage until I come up with a better idea. Or until I drive Luca Connelly stark raving mad. Whichever comes first.

My phone flickers and dies. I did not bring a portable charger but it’s time for a scenery change anyway. I’m tired of the beach and all my entertainment is out of batteries. As I pack up and brush the sand off my legs, I’m annoyed with Luca again.

I don’t miss him. I don’t want him around. Yet the pesky pride factor remains. The word is bound to get out that Luca couldn’t even wait a week before he started bed hopping.

What does that say about me?

It says I’m totally not-sexy. It says I can’t even keep my own husband interested until the end of the honeymoon.

There are a lot of problems with this conclusion, including the fact that I have no wish to have lunch with Luca, let alone have sex with him.

This makes me feel no better.

And it’s a bad time to remember his devilish grin. I also remember the brief feel of his weight on top of me and the unwanted tickle of desire.

Okay, more than a tickle.

Way more.

Closer to a tidal wave that left me biting my tongue out of fear that I’d do something insane, like wrap my legs around his waist and stick my tongue in his mouth.

Why can’t Luca be ugly? Or at least mediocre?

It’s just one more element of unfairness in this whole arrangement.

I tuck my floppy hat under my arm and shake my long hair loose as I step into a pair of flip flops and start trudging through the sand. My room is on the far north end of the sprawling resort, away from all the noise and with an exquisite waterfront view.

There’s still a whole lot of time left in the day with zero plans on my calendar. Last night I ordered room service and reveled in the solitude. There’s nothing to stop me from doing the same tonight. Somehow this doesn’t sound as appealing as it did yesterday.

As much as I try to sell myself on the idea of relaxing in luxury forever and never lifting a finger, I’m feeling restless. I miss working. I miss the feeling of accomplishment when one of my young students completes a jump for the first time.

It’s depressing, having no purpose, but my father’s warning rattles uneasily around in my head.

Dismissing this thought, I swipe the card key to my suite and step inside.

The first thing I notice is that the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony are wide open. A light sea breeze ripples the gauzy drapes. The second thing I notice is that there is water running somewhere.

The suite is huge with a large living room area and two bathrooms. The nearest bathroom is empty and nothing is out of place. The noise is coming from the other bathroom, the one attached to the bedroom.

Housekeeping has been here. It’s possible the water was left running accidentally.

Dropping my beach bag on the floor and kicking off my flip flops, I move to the middle of the bedroom and stop cold.

The bathroom door is open and the shower is on. There’s a neatly folded pile of clothes on the vanity.

Dark, man-type clothes. Luca’s clothes. That’s his duffel bag on the floor.

Fuck.

How nice of him to give me a heads up that he was returning from his Miami party. Now he’s showering out in the open as if this room belongs to him alone.

I’m not ready to deal with another round of marriage wars. All I need to do is grab my charger and a change of clothes. He’ll never even know I was here.

This is no permanent solution but it’s a solution that might give me an hour or two of breathing room.

The charger ought to be on the nightstand where I left it this morning. Walking to the far side of the king-sized bed means that I’ll pass very close to the bathroom. If Luca happens to glance up in the midst of washing his dick, he might see me. The best way to avoid this is to climb over the bed.

I sink one knee into the mattress. The slight creak is sure to be drowned out by the shower noise. This stupid bed is enormous. I crawl forward and there’s an even louder creak. I’m paranoid enough to worry the sound will carry.

Easing down to my belly, I stretch out my arm. My fingertips brush the table. The charger should be plugged into the outlet at the base of the table lamp. I stretch harder and mouth a curse.

The shower abruptly switches off.

There’s the sound of the glass door sliding open and Luca steps into view.

He’s naked. He’s glistening. He’s ridiculously gorgeous.

At the moment he’s facing away, giving me a clear look at his entire backside. Every inch of him is sculpted muscle. I’ve been to Rome and admired the ancient statues of flawless marble men. They are all inferior to Luca Connelly. His body is just a whole other dimension of pure excellence.

There’s a fluffy white towel in his hand and he’s casually rubbing the water from his skin. I have no idea how I will extricate myself from my current awkward position. Yet before I can tackle this project I need to figure out how to look away from Luca’s naked body. My eyes don’t want to cooperate. They don’t even want to blink.

“Are you trying to take a nap?” Luca says.

Weird as it sounds, I need a few seconds to understand he’s speaking to me. My brain is temporarily scrambled. I’m still sprawled across the bed on my belly. And I still don’t have my charger.

Luca turns around. The towel in his hand hides a very vital part of his anatomy. I wish the towel would disappear. I hate myself for wishing this.

He smirks as if my thoughts are being broadcast in a cartoon bubble over my head.

In this prone state I’m feeling rather disadvantaged. Mustering a scrap of dignity, I push up to a sitting position.

Luca’s green eyes trail slowly over my body. This yellow bikini isn’t exactly substantial. Then again, neither is his towel.

I swing my feet around to the floor and stand. “I’m not taking a nap. I’m just here to get my charger. And a change of clothes. You should try wearing some too.”

He mulls this over. “You want me to wear clothes?”

“Civilized people usually do.”

“Okay.” He drops the towel.

And I’d like to say my reaction is cool and aloof, that I just stand here with my chin up and my face uninterested.

Instead, I gasp and turn my head so fast I’m lucky to avoid whiplash. But not before I get a big (and I mean BIG) eyeful of what was hiding underneath that terrycloth.

I should just run out of here and forget the charger. I can buy another one. I can buy other clothes. This room is a dangerous place.

“You can look now,” says Luca. “I’m civilized.”

He’s wearing a pair of black trousers. Underneath his pants he’s wearing dark blue briefs. The reason I know this is because he left his pants open. Unbuttoned and unzipped. Like he’s daring me to stare.

“And I borrowed your charger.” He takes a step back and gestures to the sink. “It’s right here.”

Luca turns to face the mirror above the sink. He combs his short black hair back and picks up a small brown bottle of cologne. He slaps some on his jaw, which is cleanshaven as usual. His pants are still undone. He’s also still shirtless.

Clearly, he’s not going to bring the charger to me. I’ll need to go and get it. If I walk away in a huff then it feels as if Luca has won a petty victory. I can’t let that happen.

I approach slowly, the way one might do when trying to navigate around an uncaged tiger. The bathroom now smells like sandalwood tinged with spice. If sex appeal could be bottled it would smell like this.

Luca moves a few inches to his left to give me room.

He could have moved a lot more.

He could have just handed me the charger.

He could be wearing a fucking shirt!

The reality of Luca is always much larger than my mental picture of Luca. When I’m barefoot, as I am right now, he’s a full head taller. His shoulders are broad enough to guest star on an NFL offensive line. Standing inches away from all that raw power is unnerving. Especially when there’s a lot of skin on display.

His phone is still plugged into my charger. As I pull the cord out, I wonder what kind of secrets are held in my hand.

“Something on your mind, Anni?” he says.

I set his phone down. It’s getting to me, the way he thinks he can saunter in and out of here as he pleases and act like we’re college roommates or something.

“Did you have fun in Miami?” I say, hating the edge of sarcasm in my voice.

“Not really.” He shrugs his impressive shoulders. “A family associate asked if I had time to visit for an important chat.”

“A chat.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Is that slang for clubbing and fucking?”

Luca’s eyebrows shoot up. He evaluates me in the mirror. A smile spreads across his face. “When I want to go clubbing and fucking I don’t pick seventy-year-old Italian men.”

“Then who did you pick, Luca?”

Just listen to me. I sound jealous. Possessive. I should have grabbed the charger and left without saying a word.

He roars out a laugh. “Damn, Anni.”

“Shut up,” I mutter. My cheeks are burning. He can stay here all alone and laugh himself unconscious for all I care.

But Luca blocks the exit. His stupidly muscled body is impossible to bypass.

“Anni,” he says again.

“Move.” I push on his chest. It’s like pushing a brick wall.

He doesn’t even bother to fend me off. To him, this probably feels like being attacked with spaghetti noodles.

“I had a meeting in Miami,” he says. “Just like I told you. That’s all there is to it.”

“I do not care.” I’ve stopped trying to push him out of the way. There’s no point. I’ll only tire out my arms.

His smirk of victory falls away. His expression turns serious. “I thought we could both use a day to cool off. I’m not out there fucking anyone else and I don’t plan to. I promise.”

“Are you waiting for a medal of honor? I’m fresh out of those.”

“It would be wasted on me anyway.” With no warning, he switches gears and touches my shoulder, rubbing my skin with the pad of his thumb in an erotic circle. “Looks like you got a little too much sun today.”

That’s not true. Though the Florida sun is strong, even this late in the year, I don’t burn easily. Luca would burn more easily than I would.

But I wasn’t prepared to deal with the electric effect of his touch. That must be the reason why I don’t instantly shake him off.

Luca watches my reaction. His eyes are a rare shade of green, very arresting. He’s just inches away and still half naked. Up close, his chest is even more absurdly defined and his six pack is downright ridiculous. He must log a hell of a lot of hours at the gym.

A sudden shiver strikes and ripples down my arms. I blame my bikini. And the air conditioning. The feeling keeps traveling, tugging lower, unspooling a rush of heat between my thighs. My breath catches in my lungs and my heart flutters.

Luca drops his hand. “I know exactly what you need.”

I’ll be horrified if this is true. Luca, with his uncanny intelligence and shrewd perception, can probably guess that I’m struggling not to gawk and salivate over his body.

“You need some aloe,” Luca says. He promptly turns me around and steers me back to the sink. “I’ve got some in my bag. It’ll take out the sting of the sunburn.”

I’m not sunburned and there’s no sting.

So why am I just standing here like a mannequin while he rummages through the small blue canvas bag beside the sink?

My reflection in the mirror looks equally dazed by this abrupt turn of events.

Luca withdraws a green tube of aloe. “Got it.” He squirts some into his palm, briefly rubs his hands together and stands right behind me. “I’d hate to mess up your hair. Might want to move it aside.”

Is this a dream? Am I suffering from heatstroke? Is Luca a magic wizard?

Any of these possibilities seems far more likely than the idea that I’m obediently sweeping my hair over my right shoulder to give Luca better access to my back.

He goes right to work, massaging the slippery aloe into my shoulder blades. His hands are huge with long, thick fingers, the sort of hands built for laying bricks or chopping down oak trees. I’m hypnotized by the sight of them on my skin.

Luca towers over me in the mirror. As he stands there with his chest bare and his pants open and something risky flashing in the depths of his green eyes, he looks like some irresistible god of seduction.

And the guy must have taken massage lessons at some point. His fingers knead with expert pressure. The effect is downright sinful. I’m lost in a cloud of erotic sensation and all he’s done is rub aloe on my shoulders.

In some dim truth-telling quadrant of my brain, I fully realize what this means. It’s something that I already knew but always refused to admit.

I want him. I want him BAD.

Purely physical. Nothing more. He’s still the same Luca who lies with a smile, ruined my prom, and persuaded my college boyfriend to dump me over lattes. I’ll never trust him. He breaks hearts like they’re soup crackers.

This doesn’t change the fact that my heart is racing, my breathing is shaky and the throbbing between my legs is so powerful it aches.

Plus I’m stuck with Luca, at least for a while.

While I’m preoccupied with my own turbulent thoughts, Luca has discovered the string holding my bikini top together.

“Look at that.” He clucks his tongue. “You’ve got this tied way too tight. It’s not healthy.”

“What?” I’m too lightheaded to understand what he’s getting at.

Luca doesn’t wait for me to catch up. His fingers are already deftly working the knot loose. “There. Much better.”

The string falls away and instinctively my arms fly up to cover my breasts. It’s been ages since anyone without an MD after their name has seen me naked. My lifetime sexual partners can be counted on one hand even after losing a couple of fingers. Intimacy has never come easy to me.

“You are stunning, Annalisa.” Luca lets out a low whistle. “But I’m sure you’ve heard that a million times.”

“Stop it,” I say through gritted teeth. My arms are still awkwardly crossed over my chest. “You don’t need to pile on artificial compliments.”

“Would the compliments sound more sincere if I admit that I’ve been dying to fuck you since high school?”

That’s news to me. It’s also probably a lie. Things are spinning out of control far too rapidly. I’m starting to feel like I’m on a carnival ride.

“From what I remember, Luca, you were dying to fuck everything with tits in high school.”

“Ouch.” He chuckles. “Wish I’d known you were waiting for your turn.”

“Hardly. I was never part of your fan club.”

“Come on, Anni. I couldn’t help being popular.”

“I wouldn’t call it popularity.”

“What would you call it?”

“You fool people. You get off on it.”

His grin widens and he clearly enjoys this answer. “Maybe that’s something we have in common.”

“Translate. I’m not in the mood to decipher cryptic commentary.”

“What I mean is that you’re not a callous badass. Not even close. You just pretend to be.” Luca drops the aloe and wraps his mighty arms around me, caging me in. His green eyes light up with a new intensity in the mirror. His breath strokes my neck and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “I can teach you.”

“Huh?” I should have come up with a better comeback. In my defense, I’m awfully flustered by the frame of muscle I’m currently trapped in.

He nuzzles my neck. “Let me teach you how to relax and just take what you want. Can you imagine how good that will feel?”

Knowing Luca, this is a game. Any second he’ll drop his arms and crack up with laughter over how easy it was to get me all worked up.

Yet I can’t force myself to shove him off first. I don’t hate the feeling of being held in his arms, even if he is just pushing my buttons.

Besides, it’s very clear that I’m not the only one having a reaction. I can feel him, rock hard and insistent, pressing against my lower back.

“What do you think, Anni?” he says.

I think it’s been too long since I’ve been touched at all.

I think I’m far too dizzy with arousal to make any rational choices.

“I think you’re still despicable,” I blurt out.

He’s not upset in the slightest. “Yeah, I’m not always crazy about you either. But it’ll be better that way.”

“Since when is mutual hatred a good thing?”

“Because then nothing is off limits, baby.” His lips brush my bare shoulder. His voice is honeyed lust. “Absolutely nothing.”

The sound I make in response is far too close to a moan.

He’s got me. He knows it. His right hand slides between my legs.

With a gasp and a shudder, I’m already a goner when he hooks his thumb into the elastic of my yellow bikini bottoms. I don’t resist at all when he slowly pushes them down, one inch at a time.

“You’re so fucking sexy.” His middle finger explores the hot crevice between my legs. “And you don’t even know it, do you?”

He strokes. He teases. His finger slides deeper, breaching the slippery folds with ease. He gets no objection from me.

My head rolls back and my eyes squeeze shut. I was wet for him already. Now I’m dissolving, in real danger of sinking to my knees.

“Don’t do that,” Luca scolds. “Open your eyes. Watch how good we look together.”

It’s as if I’m under a spell. A small, horrified piece of my conscience screams at me for following every one of his instructions. The rest of me can’t stop obeying.

I open my eyes. I watch in the mirror.

His middle finger disappears inside me. I’m so wet it’s downright embarrassing. It’ll be even more embarrassing when I come.

And that’s happening soon. VERY soon.

Luca knows his way around. His thumb applies pressure to the most sensitive inch of my body. His finger swirls with tortuous rhythm.

This is insane. This is spectacular. The pressure rises higher. I’m hurtling toward something explosive. There’s no stopping it.

Letting go has always been a problem for me. All the equipment works just fine when I’m the one in control. But when someone else is involved I tend to lose focus. Instinct gets crowded out by reason. Chasing an orgasm becomes a challenge.

There’s no such challenge right now. The end is coming for me no matter what. The fact that Luca Connelly is the one getting me there is a topic to worry about some other time.

“Oh my god. Luca. Fuck.” I hear these words and I’m vaguely horrified to know they belong to me.

My hips jerk involuntarily. My muscles spasm around his finger. My brain empties.

All that’s left is the overpowering demand to ride this wave on and on. I’m quaking and gasping and holding onto the edge of the sink like it’s my only chance for salvation. This level of intensity should be illegal. Every time I feel like I’m at the height, a fresh surge strikes. All other senses are blotted out. I’m somewhere in the stratosphere. Nothing has ever felt so good.

It seems like decades pass before I start to drift back to reality. The aftershocks fade. Luca finally withdraws his hand. My bikini bottoms are stuck halfway down my thighs.

There’s no telling what he has in mind next. Whatever it is, I doubt I’ll be able to summon a complaint.

While I try to catch my breath, I look up to find Luca is patiently waiting. His mouth tilts into a cocky smirk before he sucks on the finger that was just inside me. How mortifying. And so hot.

Now that I’m regaining a connection to sanity, the burn of shame stings my cheeks. I can’t be the only one standing here shaking and dominated. He should have to feel every bit as wrecked as I am.

But Luca removes his finger from his mouth and steps back. His pants are still open and he’s so massively hard he’s about to poke a hole through his blue briefs. Yet he tucks the whole package inside his pants and zips up with a wink.

“That was nice. But I’m afraid I have a meeting to get to. We’ll continue this later.”

Nice? Later???

Believe it or not, Luca calmly slides on a white shirt and begins rapidly buttoning. Feeling more foolish by the second, I yank up my bikini bottoms and hastily fix my top with clumsy fingers.

Luca tucks in his shirt and grabs a tie. He rapidly assembles it in front of the mirror. “Oh, we’re having dinner tonight with George O’Neil. You know who he is, right? Maybe you don’t. He owns this place and he’s known your father for decades. Don’t worry, we’re getting all the business talk out of the way this afternoon so we won’t bore you tonight. George is married to Belinda Doyle. Yes, the pop singer from the eighties. Didn’t she win a few Grammys? I should probably look that up ahead of time since she’ll be joining us tonight too. Eight p.m. in the Green Room. It’s got the Michelin stamp of approval so the food should be pretty good. Order whatever you want. I hear they have an outstanding wine selection.”

He finishes messing with his tie, gives his reflection a final appraisal, and nods with satisfaction before leaning in to peck my cheek. The same way he did the night he picked me up for the prom. And then again right after we were pronounced husband and wife.

“See you at eight,” he says. “Don’t wear any panties. There will be plenty of time for more fun after dinner.”

He picks up a black blazer, shrugs into it and leaves the bathroom. Three seconds later I hear the door to the suite open and shut while I stand rooted in the same place, utterly thunderstruck.

My reflection is wide-eyed and pink-cheeked. It stares at me with horrified confusion.

WHAT IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE HELL JUST HAPPENED?

I allowed Luca Connelly to undress me, finger bang me and make plans to fuck me after we have dinner with someone named George.

That’s what.