"There is absolutely no benefit to you. I don't understand why you did this. What do you gain from marrying me?" I whispered. "I'm just me, Lino. Just, promise me that if you're seeing or sleeping with someone outside this marriage, we'll always be honest with each other about it? I understand this isn't a normal relationship, and we might need to adapt to suit—"
"No," Lino hissed. His lips tensed into a frown. "There is no one else for either of us. You're my wife. I'll not dishonor you by having affairs, and I expect the same in return."
I sighed. “I can't compete with the variety you're used to and the women who own their sexuality. I have open wounds and scars, and no one has touched me since he—" I broke off, not able to admit the truth again. It seemed that once was my threshold.
But for the first time, I knew that someone understood because he knew. Even without me saying the words, he knew exactly what I meant; there would never be any miscommunication on our part because of it. Being open like that left me vulnerable, bleeding out from wounds I'd wanted to call healed over the months I'd spent isolated away from men, but it also left me feeling accepted.
Understood.
"I don't need variety," Lino said softly. "I've never needed it, Little Dove."
"I don't even know if I can have sex. I haven't tried, and it might mean that you not only aren't getting variety, but you aren't getting anything.”
“I think you may find that you’re surprised by just how patient I can be when it comes to you,” he smirked at me playfully. I narrowed my eyes on him, but he ignored it in favor of going back to the work on his laptop.
Another cryptic statement that he didn’t seem remotely inclined to clarify.
I nodded, moving to stand and stretch out my muscles. After having been babied unnecessarily for so long, I didn't have it in me to just sit and read, especially not when I grew more and more frustrated with Lino’s evasiveness by the day. I was so tired of being sheltered and protected from whatever it was he seemed to think I couldn’t handle, but there was no way to make the stubborn man tell me a thing.
I wanted to move, wanted to do something, but I also knew pushing Lino on that front wasn't in my best interest. Stretching seemed like a safe option. I tried not to think about the way that his eyes darted up from his computer, narrowing in on my bare midriff when I stretched up over my head.
"What are you doing?" he grunted.
I smiled at him, bending over to touch my toes. "Just stretching. My muscles feel like they've been stuck in a bed forever. Oh, wait!" I had to hope that with the way he tormented me with information, maybe, just maybe, there was another way I could return the favor.
"Samara," he warned, but his lips tipped up in amusement.
"Oh hush, Beasty. There's no reason you need to go all 'me man you woman protective on my ass.' I'm just stretching."
He chuckled, deep and throaty. "I'd like to go all caveman on your ass."
I gasped as I stood straight, staring at him open-mouthed in shock. "What has my ass ever done to you?"
"Looked too fucking good in literally everything you wear, to start. Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to just slap it when you flaunt it in your tight skirts at work? Or grab a fistful in those fucking leggings?"
I smirked at him, glancing back over my shoulder to look at my legging covered ass. I nodded in agreement. "It does look good in leggings. If you keep me in bed it will get bigger, especially with the way you cook. Have you never heard of a salad?"
"I'm okay with that," he shrugged.
"What are you doing looking at my ass, anyway? Yavin will lose his shit if he finds out you've been staring at my ass."
Lino laughed. "Samara, you're my wife. I think it is safe to say your brother will lose his shit, regardless."
"Oh, my God. What are we going to tell him?” I asked, smacking my face against my hand dramatically. While not having to deal with Yavin’s dramatics through the actual wedding, there would have been a positive to it.
It would be done, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it.
"I’ll handle it. Now, come on," he said, taking my hand. "We should cook."
"We?" I huffed a laugh. "You realize I burn water, right? You should keep me as far from the kitchen as possible."
"Oh, trust me. I learned my lesson when you tried to cook me frozen ravioli and jarred sauce and still messed that up," he teased, but he took me behind the island of the kitchen, regardless. I stood, leaning my butt against the island as he went about gathering ingredients from all corners of the kitchen. "In honor of that, I thought we would make ravioli together this time."
"I uh, okay," I swallowed. I didn't want to burn his house down. I really didn't.
It was such a lovely house.
"I got you something." His smile was infectious. "Now close your eyes." Biting my lip nervously, I did as he ordered. Something slipped over my head, settling over my tank top and leggings. Lino's strong, deft hands reached around my waist to tie it at the small of my back, and the subtle touches of his fingers against me tickled in the best of ways, dragging my body out from the pit of slumber it seemed to retreat to whenever he wasn't touching me. "Okay. Open."
There was a smile on my face, making my cheeks ache before they even opened. When they dragged open, I glanced down to my chest to see the words "I'll burn for you" stretched across my chest. I huffed a laugh, pressing my face into his chest since he seemed intent to hover too close to my body.
"It's perfect," I whispered. I'd always loved that Lino, although he was perfect, never judged me for the things I just was not good at. He was a literal genius, navigating the business world like he'd been born to it, and even when we were young, he'd been incredible with numbers. He could cook like a chef and loved doing it at that. He was gorgeous and worked out enough to keep his body flawless in that lean, muscled way that runners dreamed of having.
I was the opposite. I was smart, but because I'd worked to be. I didn't disappoint on every level, but that didn't mean that things came to me as easily as they did Lino. In my ideal world, I would have never started working in an office and pursued singing as a career. But it hadn't been meant for me, and despite my passion for it I'd found I much preferred the anonymity of open mic night instead of scheduled performances.
We both went through the process of washing our hands, Lino dragging the rings off our fingers and setting them in the bay window above the sink that looked into his backyard. It was the only hint at what the home might have been before Lino modernized it, and I loved it. On days when the dreamer in me felt stronger, I had visions of watching over our kids while they played outside, and I drank my tea.
Lino turned me to the counter, wiping it down with a clean cloth for a moment. Then he took a glass measuring cup and filled it with water, popping it in the microwave while I watched. Donning his own apron, he grabbed the flour and reached his arms around me to pour a decent-sized pile on the island counter. When the microwave went off, he grabbed the measuring cup and added two tablespoons of salt to the water, carting it over to the island and setting it near the workspace. "Can you crack eggs?" he asked with a chuckle.
"If you don't mind the shell in your ravioli, sure I can." I smiled, giggling when his face pressed into my shoulder from behind and his body shook with laughter.
"Alright. I'll do the eggs then. Make a little pool in the center of the flour."
"It gives it texture," I teased, and felt him shake his head at me. His massive fingers clasped an egg in each hand, and he tapped them against each other gently over the pile of flour. Cracking one open fully and setting the shell aside, he continued until he had four eggs in the middle.
"Add a little of the salted water. Slowly," he said. I nodded, reaching for the measuring cup and pouring a tiny stream of water into the wall with the eggs. "A little more."
His body pressed against the back of mine, taking my hands in his and setting the water to the side. It felt like he surrounded me, felt like h
e was everywhere as he guided my hands into the well and used them to mix up the eggs and water. I grimaced. I didn't think I would ever get over how gross raw food felt when you touched it.
Lino smiled into my neck, seeming to sense my displeasure. "Everything's better when it's wetter, Samara," he rasped. I snorted a laugh and felt how my laughter shook my body vibrating against his abs through his shirt and apron. "And this is about to get a lot messier." Taking my hands to the edge of the flour, he scooped some to fold it into the eggs. Flour coated our hands, sticky and messy and caked against my skin. Under any normal circumstances, I'd probably have quit. But quitting meant losing the feel of Lino pressed against me, of his breath at my ear and his hands tickling the back of mine as he guided my movements. It felt like just for a moment, we were as connected physically as we'd always felt emotionally.
I couldn't lose that. Couldn't lose the connection to my husband on what was technically my wedding night. I'd been honest in saying I didn't know if I could give Lino my body. I also highly suspected we wouldn't be exploring that territory just yet.
We went through the motions until the eggs disappeared and left us with flaky dough that Lino added more water too, and another egg. Kneading and pressing, every movement slid him against my back. When he pressed a light kiss to my neck just behind my ear, I thought I might melt, but he just continued kneading, as if the gentle touch hadn't turned my world upside down. But there was no doubt it had been intentional. Lino was using the contact through forming the dough to touch me, just the same as I was.
I didn't dare be the first to back down.
So I shifted my body, letting it take control in the way it had wanted since the moment Lino pressed against me. My back arched slightly as I let him guide me, the dough forming into a solid blob that he kept folding over itself and continuing on.
The groan he gave in my ear when my change in position made my ass rub against him shouldn't have felt so good. It shouldn't have vibrated through my entire body like I felt it down to my soul. But being recognized by Lino, being seen as something inherently female was something I'd wanted for so long, there was no stopping the visceral response I felt.
"Dough is done," he whispered finally, giving one last, lingering kiss to my cheek and backing away.
We went to wash our hands, feeling like just maybe the moment had passed. But while I washed mine, Lino leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my lips that was one hundred times better than the kiss to my neck.
Because it lasted.
I tipped my head up farther, ignoring the way the hot water dropped from my hands as I turned my body to face him and encouraged the kiss. When his mouth opened to mine, it was all I could do not to moan as his tongue touched mine. Tentative. Like he remembered my words about not being touched since Connor, about being uncertain what I could take.
Lino wouldn't risk hurting me, wouldn't risk taking something I wasn't yet ready to give. But he could give me this, the reassurance of his kiss he was there, that he cared about me, and that we were in it together. No matter what hardships we faced along the way, or how we got things twisted up and danced around each other.
We'd never given voice to the tension between us, never acknowledged it. I didn't know why Lino refused, but it no longer mattered, apparently.
He was my husband, and I was his wife.
For better or worse.
Twenty
Lino
Samara seemed almost happy to be spending time with Enzo, and that didn't sit right with me. If I hadn't trusted the man, I might have hesitated to leave. Not that I didn't trust Samara, but even I couldn't deny that our marriage hadn't been traditional. No matter how many times I might have tried to communicate my feelings for her, it always seemed like I'd be pushing too much too soon if I told her I loved her.
I couldn't afford to chase her off, and a confession of love was serious. I'd never said the words to a woman, never had the opportunity or the inclination when I'd been young enough not to fall to my father's restrictions. Young enough to think he wouldn't kill Samara if I touched her. Our friendship was offensive enough to the man, but he tolerated it so long as I didn't shame my family's name.
Because a woman with a housekeeper for a mother, a Hebrew mother at that, was just too much for him.
I would marry a good Italian woman, in his mind. It didn't matter that I never intended to marry. Matteo and I had made that promise to each other, drunk on whiskey the night before he dumped Ivory in High School. We wouldn't settle in unhappy marriages, as a fuck you to our fathers’ interference when we'd been too young to fight back.
I very much looked forward to telling my father that Samara was my wife. Given Matteo's swift rise within the organization even before his father's death, which had only grown more since, my father would have no hope of telling me who I could or couldn't marry any longer. That was the point. Matteo and I had sworn that we would never be powerless, never let someone control us in any way from that day forward. We'd swept the power right out from under the old men, all so we could do as we pleased, but it had taken years.
And by the time we had enough power, Samara had married Connor. Ivory had an entire life after years without Matteo, and the stubborn man had decided his life was far too dangerous to involve her in it. So the protection continued, but at least it had been his decision that time around.
Just like I had chosen not to kill Connor mysteriously in his sleep and worm my way into Samara's life and bed. The thought had crossed my mind several times over the past couple years, and I now severely regretted not acting on it. Everything changed the day she told me she'd filed for divorce, and even though I gave her time to get the divorce completed, I'd started making plans and arrangements for our future. Plans that I'd thrown out the moment I learned Connor hurt her, but the end was the same.
She was mine in truth. No one could take her from me now.
"Hey, pretty lady," I said as I stepped into the kitchen. I should have been surprised to find Ivory cooking and Donatello cradling Luna, but I wasn't. From what I'd seen, I wondered if Matteo needed to worry about the older man running away with the baby he considered a granddaughter.
"Hi Lino." Ivory's face morphed into a smile. "You’re still alive, I see.”
I rubbed my hand over my head sheepishly. Given everything Matteo had put Ivory through in their brief, chaotic courtship, I wondered how she would react to the truth behind my marriage with Samara.
That I'd had to threaten her into it.
"Yes," I said finally. She shook her head at me, teasing but communicating just how much I should be ashamed of myself. But I wasn't. How could I be, when Samara wore my ring and bore my last name?
My wife.
It felt like I'd never get over saying it.
"Matteo's on the phone," Donatello said. "Not to be interrupted, but he shouldn't be long."
"Come help me assemble these Cubanos for lunch, and maybe I'll even let you eat one," Ivory said with a grin. I nodded, stripping off my suit jacket and rolling up my sleeves before washing my hands. As soon as I helped her pick apart the pork roast, she settled in for arranging it on the rolls. "How is she handling it?"
"Better than I expected, honestly," I sighed. "I wish I hadn't had to threaten her, but you understand why I did, right?"
Ivory paused a moment, worrying the corner of her mouth between her teeth as she thought about it. "Now? Yes. After what happened with Adrian, I completely understand going to extreme measures to keep her safe. That said, if you'd asked me before that? The answer would be a hell to the fucking no. I'm sure Samara falls in that same category. She hasn't been kidnapped or had to face the thought of abuse like that."
"He raped her, Ivory," I admitted. "That's why she finally filed for divorce." I knew it wasn't my place to tell her, but it felt like I couldn't get an accurate opinion without giving that information. "I don't want you to make a thing about it, or even let on that you know. Samara wouldn't like people kno
wing, but—"
"I get it," Ivory sighed, finishing with the pork and sprinkling cheese on top. "I won't say anything, but I don't think that changes much. Samara is stubborn, and I assume she didn't tell you until she had no choice?"
"You assume correctly," I grunted.
"She thinks her problems are her own. She has always thought that she should be responsible for herself and the consequences of the decisions she makes. You remember when we all went to that lake, and she climbed up on the rocks because she saw Matteo and I do it?"
"But then she got scared and didn't want to jump," I finished.
"You offered to help her down, but she wouldn't let you. Your offer to help actually made her jump even though she was terrified. She was that desperate to not let you help her," Ivory laughed. "I expect this is a lot like that. She'd rather flounder on her own and be afraid than reach out. In the long run, you forcing your help on her is probably a good thing because she'd never accept it any other way, but for now I think you'll have a rough road ahead of you."
I opened the jar of homemade pickles, following behind Ivory as she sprinkled the cheese. "When is anything with Samara ever easy?"
"The things worth fighting for never come easy, sweetheart," Ivory murmured. "I think you need to just be honest with her, slowly. Ease into certain aspects of the marriage and give her stubborn ass some time to acclimate. She's living with you already? So maybe start there. Get a realtor for her house and push her to sign papers to sell it. Things that make her feel like she has a say, even if she really doesn't since you're you and we both know you could sell her house out from under her if you paid the right people off."
"That makes sense," I admitted. "I'll call my realtor tomorrow morning. Get her on it, and in the meantime send some guys over to pack up the rest of her stuff."
"I know you aren't used to going without sex, but if Connor hurt her—"
"She needs time. I know. I've already waited for almost a fucking year, a little longer won't kill me." Ivory turned to stare up at me, tears pooling in her eyes.
Forgivable Sins: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bellandi Crime Syndicate Book 2) Page 12
