Angelo

I feel more than a little concerned when I see Rosalia pale and silent the next morning at the breakfast table, picking at her food the way she has been more often than not lately.


'Is there something I can ask the cook to make for you that you would find more palatable for breakfast?" I ask when I see her stab the same small piece of sausage with her fork three times without ever actually putting it in her mouth. 'I'm worried about how little you're eating."

'I'm trying." Rosalia pokes at the sausage again. 'I'm just tired. I'll try to eat more at lunch."

I felt guilty, leaving Rosalia in the middle of the night, but I didn't think it would help either one of us for her to wake up with me in her bed. It was hard enough to lie there, wanting to pull her into my arms and hold her close, to soothe her, stroke her hair, kiss her tears away—and be unable to do any of that. To have to lie stiffly away from her at arm's length, one hand touching her arm, knowing that to comfort her in all the ways I desire would only drag us deeper into a mire that neither of us would be able to escape.


I know she doesn't understand my refusal, that she's hurt by it. She'll understand eventually, I told myself last night as I went back to my room, every step away from her feeling like torture, fighting every desire I had to hold her throughout the night and let her wake up safe in my arms. When she's clear-headed, months from now, when she's married to someone closer to her age, when grief and fear aren't clouding her every decision. It's why I agreed to her being my ward, after all—to make sure that the right decisions were made. That no one else made those decisions for her and that her choices were guided down the best path for her.

The night didn't pass well for me, either. I didn't sleep until I felt as certain as I could be that Rosalia wouldn't suffer any more nightmares. Even once back in my own room, I slept restlessly, thinking I might be woken at any moment by the sound of her crying again. It's left me in an unpleasant mood this morning, amplified by my worry over her health.


I open my mouth to say something in response, but I'm interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway. I look up to see Juliana—the family's household manager—standing there in her impeccable black suit, her face calm as ever. 'There's someone here to see you, Mr. Bianchi," she says. 'I showed him to your office; he's waiting there."

'We'll talk about this later." I glance at Rosalia once more, feeling another pang of worry at the lack of color in her face, before getting up. I'm not sure who the unexpected visitor is, but I have a feeling they're not going to improve my morning.

I'm even more certain of that when I walk in just in time to see Don Rizzo sitting on the other side of my desk.

'To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?" I ask as I step in, keeping the expression on my face as carefully neutral as I can manage. It's far from pleasant, but I don't let on, sitting down in my leather chair as if this is a perfectly fine way to have to start my morning. 'I can call for coffee, if you like."

'Please." Rizzo smiles at me. 'Black, if you don't mind."

'Of course." I pick up the phone, calling down to the kitchen for coffee to be sent up, and then sit back in my chair, looking at him curiously. 'So. You're here because—"

'There's some concern about Miss Santoro's marriage," Rizzo says bluntly. 'I'm well aware it's only been a short time since the funeral," he adds, as if he knew that would be the next thing I said, 'but the other families are already getting restless, and I—and the other senior members of the Family—are concerned."

I can feel my jaw tighten immediately. I'd feared that something like this would happen—that Rizzo would want to take back the reins of control over Rosalia's future—and the future of the Santoro legacy—but I had thought it would take longer. 'Are you not able to ease their concerns? She's allowed time to grieve, surely—"

'Of course." Rizzo nods, pausing as the door opens, and one of the staff brings in a tray with coffee for us both. He takes his cup, waiting until the door is shut again, and then continues. 'Of course, the girl must be allowed her time to grieve. But we can be working on it all behind the scenes before then, yes? I've drafted a list of candidates for your consideration. You can look it over and introduce them to her in a less—charged setting. A dinner party, perhaps, instead of one on one. Next week. Of course—" he pauses, his gaze resting coolly on mine. 'There is an easier solution to all of this. You do as Don Santoro asked, and marry his daughter."

'This isn't what we agreed." It's difficult to keep my voice as even and calm as I'd like. 'I was promised time."

Rizzo shakes his head. 'The agreement was made in haste, I'll admit, and repented at leisure. It's not enough for you to simply have her as your ward, Angelo. With her unmarried, the risk of something happening to her to gain control over her fortune and her father's legacy is too great. Considering that her father's murderer has still not been found—that the trail has been difficult to pick up—this is not something that can be given the kind of time you hoped for. If you will not marry her still, then we will need to take action ourselves."

He reaches down to the briefcase at his feet, pulling out a leather portfolio that he hands me. I take it numbly, feeling certain of what's inside before he even confirms it.

'There's a list of candidates that I've drawn up, with input from the other senior members. Names, photos, and information about each of their families and history. Your opinion of them will be noted, of course, and we still wish for you to be the one to choose Rosalia's husband, as agreed. But it must take place soon. There needs to be an engagement within the next six weeks. Eight, at most."

'That's an arbitrary number." It's hard for me to keep my voice calm, not to snap at him. 'And not enough time for her to know her own mind, not with things as they are—"

'Which is why you've taken on this responsibility, to know her mind for her, and what will be best." Rizzo's voice is calm, even, and it's hard to argue with him when, just last night, I had the same thought, trying to convince myself of why I had to leave her in her room alone. 'Look them over, Angelo. Let me know your thoughts. Next week, let the girl meet them. We will proceed from there."

I keep my teeth gritted and my face calm until he leaves, letting out a long and frustrated sigh the moment I hear the door shut behind him. I have no doubt that this is less out of his own concern than because the other families are pressuring Rizzo and the other elders to have their sons considered, all leaping over one another for the chance to marry the Santoro daughter, the only obstacle between them and all that she has to offer.

And, of course, rather than push back, they're bending to the pressure.

I've never had a great amount of respect for the old Family or the old ways. In that, Vincezio and I were alike. I know that he wouldn't have bent to this—but he had more power, more influence, more sway than I do. I might hold his title, but I've been gone too long and occupied a place for too long that keeps me from having that sort of respect. If I had stayed on as his heir, perhaps. But I forfeited that, and I don't have the ability to bend the Family to my will.

Cursing under my breath, I flip open the portfolio that Rizzo left. There's a list of names to begin with—six of them.Marco Conti. Antonio Graziano. Matteo Barone. Carlos Bernardi. Gio Russo. Guiseppe Graziano—two of them, I realize, must be brothers, or cousins, perhaps. Both of them old enough to vie for Rosalia's hand in marriage.

And the thought of any one of them touching her makes me burn with resentment that I know is wholly and entirely inappropriate.

I'm not looking forward to telling her about this new development, especially after the night she just had, but there's no point in delaying it. It won't be good no matter when I explain what Rizzo wanted to her, and he wants her to meet them next week. If anything, the more time she has to prepare and brace herself, the better.

And the same for me.

I send her a message after lunch, when I've had a chance to thoroughly look through the portfolio, opting to eat lunch at my desk to avoid the conversation any sooner than necessary. Rosalia has gotten to know me fairly well over the past weeks, and I have a feeling she would pick up on my mood and not relent until I told her what was going on. I want to tell her on my own time, when I've had a chance to think about what to say. And I want to do it somewhere that might soften the blow a little—out to a nice dinner, perhaps—and temper her reaction.

She hasn't been out of the house since the funeral, and neither have I. I reason that if I'm going to deliver bad news to her, it might as well be softened by a night out.

I send her a text, letting her know that I have plans for us to go out to dinner, and to wear something nice. It's only after I send the message that I hope she won't misinterpret the invitation as a date. Surely, I've made it clear enough, I think, as I try to focus on my remaining work for the day, trying not to think about the possibility of her misinterpreting it. I bury myself in any distraction that I can until seven p.m. rolls around, sending my driver a message.

She knocks on the door a few minutes after I send her a text asking her to meet me in the office, an odd flush on her cheeks when she walks in. 'Is everything alright?" she asks as she sinks down into the leather chair opposite my desk, and I let out a slow breath.

'Don Rizzo came to see me." It's not exactly an answer to her question, but I don't fully know how to answer it. No, everything is not alright. You're going to have to be engaged in six weeks if I want to have any say in who you marry, unless I agree to marry you myself. Right now, it's taking every godforsaken bit of self-control I have not to take you downtown and put a ring on your finger.

But I can't say any of that, so I go with avoiding the question as best as I can. 'He's decided to take a stronger hand in choosing your husband. That is to say—he's given me a list of candidates for you to meet, and he has a—timeline in mind."

Rosalia's face pales. Whatever burst of color there was in her cheeks fades entirely. 'What kind of timeline?" she whispers, and I wince at the look on her face.

I let out a slow breath. There's no point in lying to her, or even in beating around the bush. She'll find out soon enough, and delaying it helps nothing. 'Rizzo wants us to hold a dinner party next week for you to meet them. He expects a choice to be made and an engagement in place within six weeks. Eight at the most, he said."

Rosalia's mouth drops open. She sits there for a moment, trembling, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. 'I can't—"

'I know," I tell her gently. 'Which is why I will do all I can to help you make the decision. Things are difficult for you right now, and as sheltered as you've been—"

'That's exactly why I asked you to explain things to me!" Rosalia bursts out, her lower lip trembling. 'Why I asked you those questions—how to—how to please my husband, how to keep him from…" She swallows hard. 'Finding other women to sleep with. I don't know what I'm doing, I hardly know anything about it, and—"

'I'm sure your future husband will find it charming and be delighted to teach you how—"

Her face is set in stubborn lines as she interrupts me. 'I wantyouto teach me," she says, meeting my gaze with as much determination as I think she can muster, even though her cheeks are beginning to blush pink again. 'You can make me marry someone, but I can make it difficult. I'm only going to go along with this if you'll teach me how—"

'Rosalia." I try to keep my tone as calm as possible, in the face of the preposterous thing she's suggesting—a suggestion that has all the blood rushing to my cock in an instant at just the thought of being the one to teach her about pleasure, about sex, about everything that a man might want her to do in bed. 'Even as innocent as you are, I know that you know the importance of your virginity in all of this. That extends to—other acts, as well."Fuck. Just the mention of other acts has me rock-hard, throbbing against the fly of my suit trousers. What I wouldn't give to teach Rosalia how to touch a cock, how to—

I need to think about something else, but it's impossible with her sitting there in front of me, blue eyes wide and pleading, asking me to tutor her on how to please her future husband.

'Just theoretically." Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and I feel dizzy. 'I know I can't—touch you. But you can show me. How things work in the bedroom—you can explain. If you do, so I don't feel so lost…so I can feel like I have someone I trust to explain it all to me—then I'll go along with this. I'll do whatever you ask."

God. She has a way of saying exactly the thing that makes me hard without really meaning to, every time. Whatever you ask. I can think of so many things to ask of her, so many ways that I would teach her exactly what a man—what I want.

The look on her face is impossible to deny. I can already feel myself reasoning it out, telling myself that a little theoretical instruction won't hurt, that teaching Rosalia how to please her husband can only make her transition into being someone's wife easier. That, as the person in charge of her future and happiness, it's my responsibility to do this for her, to set aside my own frustrations and make sure that she feels as comfortable as possible.

What harm could come of explaining it all to her? Of letting her know what her husband will expect and want?

My cock throbs, reminding me exactly what harm could come of it. If I lose control—

She won't tell me no. She wants me, and if my taking her virginity meant that I would be her husband instead of one of the six boys in that portfolio, I know she would happily allow it. It doesn't matter that I'm convinced it's a product of her grief-addled mind or that I think she would come to regret the decision in time—Rosalia thinks she knows what she wants, and she thinks that it's me.

'Angelo." Her teeth are still buried in her lower lip, her expression pleading. 'Please. They might want me to be so innocent that I don't know what I'm doing at all, but I don't want that. It will make me less afraid of it all. Please."

I can't deny her, not when she asks me like that. Not when I can see her nearly begging. There might be a dozen or more things I would want her to beg me for—but not for my help. Not for me to ease her fears.

I don't want to make her beg me for that.

'Alright," I concede. I run one hand through my hair, feeling uncertain as I look at her, her worried expression instantly easing. 'I'll have to—think about it. How to go about it, I mean. But I will try to help."

'Can we start tonight?" Rosalia nibbles at her lower lip again, and I wonder how, exactly, I'm meant to do this without losing control. 'You could come to my room, and we could—"

'No." The word comes out too sharp, too abrupt, and I see her flinch. 'The library," I tell her, trying to soften my voice. 'A place comfortable for both of us, but without the—intimacies of one of our bedrooms. And who knows? Maybe there's an instructional book or two in there to help me explain."

Rosalia giggles softly at that, and my cock throbs again, a warning reminder that we could try this in any fucking room in the entire house, and it wouldn't help. I'm going to want her just as badly, and this is going to be every bit as difficult.

I'm going to be questioning the wisdom of my decision every moment between now and the one where she eventually chooses a husband—but it's too late to back out now.