Rosalia

I didn't watch him this time, but I heard him. I think anyone on the upper floor heard him—I was halfway down the hall when I heard the strangled groan that I recognize now. I felt that answering ache between my thighs, imagining him in front of the fire, his cock in his hand as he frantically touched it, thinking of me.


He must have been thinking of me. Just as I'm sure now that he must have been watching me that day in his office, while I was out by the pool. It gives me a wicked, delicious thrill to think of turning him on like that, making him lose control. It makes me wonder what he would do if he caught me watching him. Would he punish me? What would he do for a punishment if he did?

My fevered imagination runs wild when I go to bed, as he instructed me, confusion warring with what I now recognize as my own arousal. It turned me on when he told me to go to bed. What does that mean? Is that wrong? Is it bad? Why—

I could ask him, I realize. The next time we have a 'lesson," I could ask him why that aroused me. Although, of course, that would mean admitting that it had.


Is that so bad? I bite my lip as I slip out of my leggings and into bed, wearing just my tank top and panties. They're damp—I can feel them clinging between my thighs, and I squeeze my legs together, trying to ease the ache. Maybe letting him know he turns you on would tempt him—

I shouldn't be tempting him. Angelo made it very clear why he thinks he shouldn't marry me. But at least part of that is him thinking that I can't possibly know what I want—trying to make my decisions for me. And while the idea of that doesn't decrease the ache between my thighs, it also frustrates me in other ways.


If he would marry me, teach me, be my husband—I wouldn't have to marry a stranger. I wouldn't have to wonder what some other man would be like in bed, if he'll be patient or not, gentle or rough, if he'll care about my pleasure.

If he's a good lover, he will. Angelo's voice echoes through my head, and I shiver, imagining Angelo leaning over me, gently spreading my thighs apart, drawing my panties down with infinite, teasing slowness. I can imagine his hands under my knees, opening me for him, gazing down between my thighs in a way that would arouse me and embarrass me all at once—and the idea of that turns me on even more. I feel that heat between my legs intensify, my panties clinging wetly, and before I can stop myself, I slide my hand underneath them, fingers searching through the dark, wet curls of my pubic hair to find that spot that felt so good before.

Angelo would find it with his tongue. I know he would. My fingers slip against my swollen flesh, my cheeks heating with embarrassment as I feel how wet I am, even alone with no one else to know. I can hear my fingers moving, that slick, wet sound, and I imagine it's Angelo's mouth instead, his lips kissing me there the way he kissed my mouth for a moment, rubbing and sucking as his tongue finds the spot that my fingers sought out.

The thought of it feels vulnerable and scary, and immensely arousing all at once. I stroke faster, wondering what his tongue would feel like. He made it sound as if it would feel so good, better than my fingers, even—and I can't imagine how that's possible. My thighs are already tightening, my muscles tense as I feel that throbbing, building pressure low in my abdomen, the pleasure intensifying until I have to turn my face into my pillow to muffle the cry that I let out as the sensation sweeps over me in a sudden burst before I can get further in my fantasy. My thighs clutch around my hand, rocking, arching as I rub and rub, making small tight circles around the swollen, pulsing spot where all the pleasure feels as if it's radiating from.

I'm almost in tears from the intensity of it when I start to come down, my entire body trembling. I feel strange all over, like I want someone there with me, someone to hold and touch me, stroke my hair and skin, and ease me down from the pleasure. I want warmth and safety, the heat of another body, and it takes everything in me not to get up and go down the hall, to crawl into Angelo's bed and his arms. I want him, desperately, and the tears of pleasure turn to tears of frustration as I think of the dinner party next week, and the men that I'll meet.

Men who I don't have the slightest interest in, and don't want to marry.

But it seems that I'm not really being given a choice.

I'd expected to be allowed to leave the house to go out shopping for the dinner party—the first time I would have left since the funeral. Instead, when I broach the topic at breakfast the next morning, Angelo firmly tells me no, that it's not possible. He says it's too dangerous, that he'll have a selection of dresses picked out by a personal shopper, and sent to the house for me to choose from.

I don't know whether to be frustrated that I'm not being allowed out, or aroused by his authority. All I do know is that when he says no, sternly, I feel that ache between my thighs again—along with a strong urge to rebel and see what happens.

But if I argue with him, he might stop the lessons, and I don't want that to happen.

Over the course of the next week, though, there are no more lessons. Angelo keeps to his office, mostly appearing only for meals and occasionally to spend some time with me, playing a card game or watching a movie, though he keeps his distance. The one time that I do start to bring up the possibility of going up to the library for another 'lesson," he cuts me off, citing work that he still needs to do, and disappears.

Which leaves me frustrated and bereft the night of the dinner party, staring at the dress hanging in front of my closet with no little resentment.

I'd been tempted to choose a black dress out of sheer rebellion, just to make my feelings about all of it abundantly clear. The fact that black has never been particularly flattering on me only made it all the more tempting. Still, in the end, I chose a navy blue dress so dark that italmostlooks black, just so I can't be accused of being difficult.

Although—I can't stop thinking about what Angelo might do if Iwas.

Would he spank me?I bite my lip, thinking about it, feeling intensely as if I'm not supposed to be aroused by the thought, and at the same time, wondering if I even care.DoI care that I might be turned on by the idea? I imagine defying him in some way tonight and him reaching for my elbow, steering me out of the dining room or parlor into some side room, pulling me down over his lap on a couch, and his hands sliding the silk of my dress up over my thighs—

I suck in a breath, forcing the fantasy away as I feel the pulse of desire between my legs. I don't have time—

But maybe I do. I'm wearing nothing but my panties—the black silk thong that won't show underneath the clinging silk of the dress—and a black strapless bra cut low enough in the front that it won't show underneath the dress either. I feel that throb of arousal again, imagining Angelo coming up to check on me, finding me—

Finding me how?The thought thrills me, and before I can stop myself, I sink down on my knees onto the rug in front of my full-length mirror, curiously tugging the front of my thong aside. I've never looked between my legs before, and there's a certain lewdness to the way my dark curls are already damp that makes heat swirl in my belly, my fingers scissoring between my folds to slowly spread myself open so that I can see more.

He could catch me like this. Looking at myself in the mirror—touching myself. He'd tell me how bad I was, how good girls don't do this—

My breath catches in my throat, coming faster now, and I feel a trickle of wetness over my hand as I slowly rub my fingers back and forth, spreading myself open a little wider. My skin is flushed and swollen, and I see that spot that feels so good when I touch it, a swollen bud of flesh that is peeking out. I trail my fingertip over it, swirling some of that slick arousal, and I gasp, my hips bucking up into my hand as I do.

I imagine Angelo standing in the doorway.If you're going to touch yourself, then spread your legs wider. Good girl. Show yourself off to me. Don't stop now.

I feel certain that I shouldn't be doing this. But I can't stop. It feels so good, and I force myself to keep my legs open instead of clenching them shut as I feel myself about to come, wanting to see, to learn what it looks like when that pleasure overtakes me.

And as it does, I'm not thinking about the six other men I'm going to meet tonight. All I'm thinking about is Angelo.

I cover my mouth with my other hand, moaning into my palm as my hips buck upwards into my fingers, and I see all of it—my wet, clenching flesh on display in the mirror. It looks so lewd, so blatantly sexual that I feel my cheeks burn red with mortification—and at the same time, it's the best orgasm I've had yet.

I think I like the idea of being watched. And more than that, I like the idea that I'mlearningwhat I might want. That maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to advocate for it in bed, for myself.

If my husband even cares to know.

That thought weighs heavily on me as I clean up in the bathroom, rearranging my underwear and slipping into the navy blue silk dress. It's entirely possible that my husbandwon'tcare about my desires. That he won't want to know what turns me on or indulge my fantasies. That he'll only be interested in his own pleasure and what he can take from me.

That's what the other girls I knew whispered about—what their mothers told them. None of the details, nothing about their own bodies or even their potential husbands', but that sex was for that future husband's pleasure, that they should simply lie back and allow them to do as they pleased—even ifwhatwould be asked, exactly, was never explained.

Now I have a better idea, from Angelo. And I want very much to find out what the other side of it all might be—what it might feel like to be with a man who wants to make me feel every bit as good as I could possibly make him feel.

My emotions are in a tangled, messy turmoil by the time I finish getting ready, made even more so by the fact that I finally opened my mother's jewelry box for this. It was given to me shortly after the funeral, part of my father's will, but I hadn't touched it. My father had always intended to give it to me on my twenty-first birthday—aside from the few pieces that I now know he had intended to dole out beforehand, like the amethyst earrings he gave me on the night of my eighteenth birthday.

I want to wear those, feeling as if the sentiment behind them might be strong enough to help get me through this, but I opt for jewelry that will match my dress instead. My mother's jewelry box is large, full of a variety of earrings, necklaces, bracelets, and rings, a fortune's worth of jewels in one place. It takes me longer than it probably should to look through them all, wanting to savor each one, wishing I knew what they all meant. I wish I knew which ones my father gave her and which she inherited herself, which ones she chose, and which ones might have been given to her by other family members as gifts. I never knew her well enough to have the chance, never spoke to her, or heard her voice when I was old enough to remember it.

It hits me all over again how much I've lost, and I want to crawl into bed and curl into myself instead of going downstairs, meeting men I don't know, opening myself up to the possibility of a life spent with a near-stranger. I want comfort and familiarity, not the fear of the unknown.

But in this, I'm not being given a choice. And if I refuse, what little semblance of choice I do have will be taken away.

It's enough to finally propel me into choosing what I do want to wear—a pair of earrings with teardrop sapphires cascading down from pear-shaped diamond studs, and a gorgeous cocktail ring comprised of a radiant cut sapphire that reaches nearly to my knuckle, with diamond baguettes studding the band on either side. After a moment's hesitation, I take a thin choker necklace studded with diamonds out of the box, a teardrop sapphire hanging from it, and clasp it around my neck. The sapphire rests directly in the hollow of my throat, and the necklace sits on my throat like a collar, a thought that makes my heart skip a beat in my chest.

Is that—something, too? I imagine Angelo slipping his finger underneath the chain, pulling me in gently for a kiss, with just enough force to let me know what he wants, but not enough to break it. My pulse speeds up, fluttering in my throat, and I swallow hard.

I have a very overactive imagination, it seems, for someone who doesn't really know how all this works.

Is that how it always is, at the beginning?I feel as if I'm waking up, discovering things I hadn't known to imagine or want before, as if there's this whole new world of possibility in front of me to discover. And the most frustrating thing about it is that whether or not Igetto explore it entirely depends on who I marry, and ifhewants me to—or if he's only interested in using me to get off before discarding me.

I want to think Angelo wouldn't give me to a man like that. But maybe neither of us would know until it's too late—especially since I'm not supposed to discuss things like that. I can't imagine Angelo will.

I stand up, fluffing my dark, carefully curled hair over my shoulders, sliding two diamond pins into one side to hold some of my hair back. There's nothing else to do but go downstairs—I can already hear the sounds of the door opening and closing and the low murmur of conversation below me. My chest tightens with nerves, butterflies taking off in my stomach in a sick whirl.

There's no point in putting it off any longer. I steel myself, tipping my chin up in defiance of my own fear, and go downstairs.

I can feel eyes on me as I come down the staircase. Angelo is standing near the dining room, talking to two young men who look only a little older than me, all of them with drinks in their hands. They turn to look at me as I walk down, and I feel my spine stiffen, my mouth going dry as I step onto the wooden floor and walk towards Angelo.

'Rosalia." He smiles at me. 'This is Antonio and Guiseppe Graziano. Gentlemen, meet Rosalia Santoro."

Brothers. Of course.I see it now: the similarity in their faces and their short, slightly curly dark hair, identical liquid brown eyes focused on me. They each take my hand, telling me how glad they are to meet me, but it's hard to listen. All I can see is Angelo, his jaw set as he watches, and I canswearI see a glimmer of jealousy on his face.

But I could also be imagining it.

I'm introduced to others as they come in. Angelo brings me a glass of wine, warning me to sip it slowly, and when he bends down to whisper that in my ear, a shiver goes down my spine that I can't quite hide. I try to remember the names as I'm introduced—Marco, Matteo, Carlos, Gio—and then the door opens, and another young man walks in, sending me into a nervous spiral of confusion.

Six. Angelo said six. Did Rizzo add someone to the list?

I don't recognize the man who walks in. He's wearing an expertly tailored charcoal suit, his dark blond hair styled back away from his face, showing off dark blue eyes that look around the room with what I feel is probably an unearned arrogance. There's that same arrogance in his step, a swagger that makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable as he walks into the room, and I feel Angelo stiffen beside me.

'He wasn't invited," he growls in a low voice that sends another shiver all the way down my spine. Then he's striding forward to intercept the newcomer before he can make it any further.

There's a tense conversation that I can't hear and can't read lips well enough to understand anything that's said. My pulse is fluttering in my throat, and I know I'm ignoring all of my other guests, but they're all focused on what's happening, too, watching as Angelo and the young man who just walked in argue in low tones. Angelo's expression darkens further and further, but I see the moment he relents. The way the man brushes past him carelessly, as if Angelo doesn't matter, makes me instantly hate him.

He strides directly up to me, and I catch a whiff of his cologne. It smells like a clean spring day, but I like the warmth and the spice of Angelo's more. He takes my hand, smiling at me, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 'Andre Romano. A pleasure, Miss Santoro."

Andre. A cold block of ice settles in my gut, twisting in me as I stare at him. This is who Rizzo wanted me to marry. Who Angelo stopped me from marrying. A marriage to him would absorb my family into his, make the Santoro legacy disappear into whatever the Romano family wants it to be. The Romano family won't be second to what my father created—they'll take it for themselves instead.

'The pleasure is mine, Mr. Romano," I manage, using every bit of politeness that my father taught me to force myself to speak in an even voice, keeping a forced smile on my face and resisting the urge to snatch my hand out of Andre's. 'You should mingle. I can't stay away from my other guests forever, but I'm sure we'll speak again."

The moment I manage to get away from Andre, I make a beeline to Angelo. 'Did you know he was coming?" I whisper in a sharp, hushed voice, staring daggers at him. 'Did you know anything about this?"

'Of course not." Angelo's jaw is tight, his eyes steely. 'This is Rizzo's doing, I'm sure. A means of pacifying the Romano family, I hope—keeping them happy while still allowing you to make another choice. They would have been furious that the engagement Rizzo planned fell through, once the Family agreed to my compromise."

'They're not going to make me marry him?" I hadn't thought to be afraid of it before, but the fear springs up in my chest, squeezing tight.

'No, of course not," Angelo says firmly. 'I won't allow it." But even as he says it, I see a hint of that twitch at the corner of his mouth and eye, that tell, that means he's not as confident as he would like for me to think he is.

It's the first time I've had a reason to think that perhaps there's more to the power my father had than simply holding the title of don. That taking on that title might not have automatically given Angelo the power I might have thought.

'Dinner will be served soon." Angelo steps away from me, raising his voice. 'If everyone will join me and Miss Santoro in the formal dining room?"

There's a spread of appetizers already on the table—charcuterie on stone trays, shrimp cocktail in chilled glass bowls with sauce, small phyllo cups filled with melted brie and topped with dollops of jam, decanters of wine interspersed between them. Usually, my father's household staff—Angelo's and mine now, I suppose—is kept spread out, only a necessary few at the house at any given time to keep it from feeling overwhelming. Neither my father nor I ever liked to feel as if we were being doted on, or incapable of doing anything ourselves. But they're all here tonight, spread out through the dining room as we file in, Angelo taking the seat at the head of the table and me to his right. There are small seating cards in front of each place—the Graziano brothers are at Angelo's left, which indicates to me that he might have a preference for me choosing one of them—and Andre looks displeased as he surveys the table while the others take their seats.

'There's no place for me,Bianchi," he says petulantly, emphasizing Angelo's given name, and I see Angelo's jaw tighten.

'You are an unexpected guest," he replies with terse politeness. 'Please, take a seat at one side. And you may refer to me as Don Santoro, Mr. Romano, as that is the title I now hold."

Andre's mouth purses like he's tasted something sour, but the authority in Angelo's voice is unmistakable. It sends a tingle of excitement down my spine, making me squeeze my thighs together and shift in my chair, the butterflies in my stomach fluttering for an entirely different reason as I look at Angelo's implacable expression.

That authoritarian note in his voice shouldn't turn me on so much, but it does.

The staff spreads out around the table, pouring wine as the guests fill their plates with appetizers. I'm too nervous to eat much, but I add a few shrimp and pieces of cheese to my plate, picking at it as I look at the men gathered around the table.

One of them will be my husband.My stomach knots at the idea. Either of the Graziano brothers is attractive enough, but I don't know anything about them yet. Marco Conti seems pleasant—all of themseempleasant, really, except for Andre, but that doesn't mean anything. It doesn't tell me if they'll be respectful, make me laugh, or care about pleasing me in bed. So far, not a single one of them has made my heart race the way it does when I'm near Angelo.

'We were very sorry to hear about your father," Antonio says from where he's sitting across from me, next to my brother. 'Our entire family was. I know our father worked closely with yours on occasion. There was great respect between them."

I can hear what he's not saying, of course.My father knew yours. He was trusted. You can trust me, or my brother. We're the ones you should choose.

It feels like manipulation, and I hate it.

'It's a shame I can't marry both of you, then." The words come out before I can stop them, and I can't shake off the tinge of sarcasm clinging to them. 'Or marry one and keep the other on the side. But that's strictly the province of mafia husbands, isn't it?" I reach for my wine, just in time to catch the stinging glance that Angelo sends my way.

'Rosalia." Just the one word, but I can hear the reproval in it, the warning. It sends a tingle down my spine. It makes me want to rebel more, to be worse. To push him into punishing me. I haven't been able to get the thought out of my head since our 'lesson."Would he be able to control himself then? Or would he take what he wants—and thenhaveto marry me?

'Rosalia," Angelo murmurs my name, more forcefully this time, and I realize that I'd drifted away into my thoughts. My thighs are clenched together, that throbbing pressure building again, and I know I have to stop thinking about ways to corner Angelo into marrying me. Unless I'm very lucky—in my opinion, anyway—one of these other men will be the one I marry. And if I want to have a say in the matter, I need to pay attention.

'I'm sorry." I force a smile back onto my face. 'I got lost in thought for a moment."

'It's fine." Carlos Bernardi, the one sitting next to me, speaks up. 'I was just asking what your interests are. What do you do in your spare time?"

I turn a little to look at him. He's handsome too—one of the oldest of the group—with dark hair that he keeps a bit long and blue eyes. They're all handsome, but Carlos has the kindest eyes.

Across the table, before I can answer, Andre snorts.

'What do you mean, ‘spare time'? What else does a mafia daughter have? It's not like she serves a purpose, beyond marrying and giving her husband an heir." He smirks, picking up his wine as his gaze lands on me with an expression that tells me clearly what he's thinking—that he's imagining just what he would do to me to get that heir.

My skin crawls, any desire from my lewd thoughts about Angelo fleeing instantly. 'I like to read," I manage, looking at Carlos and doing my best to ignore Andre entirely, even though I know it will only make his attitude worse. 'I'm hoping to take literature classes at Northwestern in the fall."

Andre snickers from the end of the table, which was to be expected, but he's not the only one who looks surprised. Even Carlos looks a little taken aback.

'College?" Matteo Barone is the first one to speak up, from where he's sitting next to the Graziano brothers. 'Not that there's anything wrong with that," he adds hastily. 'Just—are you thinking of getting a degree?"

'Why wouldn't I?" I can feel Angelo's gaze on me, waiting for me to say something out of turn again, but I can't just keep silent. 'My father thought I should. But he also thought I should wait to marry until I was twenty-one, so—" I shrug. 'Perhaps you have some argument about what my father wanted for me?"

Matteo looks slightly taken aback. Carlos is the one who speaks up, in a soothing tone that I think is meant to make me feel better, but really makes me feel patronized. 'It's just that a mafia wife has duties that have nothing to do with an education. You won't work, so why waste the time? It's not as if you need to earn a living. No one here would let you want for anything." He smiles at me as if trying to placate my emotions. 'You shouldn't feel that you have to—"

'I want to." I know it's rude to interrupt him, that I shouldn't—but I'm starting to not care. I can feel a slow trepidation building in my stomach, a fear that my future is going to change in so many more ways than just the one facing me right now. 'I like to learn. I want to study something that interests me. It doesn't matter if it turns into a job."

'Well, I mean—it can't," Matteo insists. 'You can't work. It's just—not done."

I press my lips together, trying to hold back my response. He's right, of course. Even my father wouldn't have supported my going out and creating a career for myself. The security implications, the safety protocols, and even just the optics of the daughter of one of the three most powerful men in Chicago holding an ordinary job would be impossible. But sitting across from any of these boys and having them explain to me how I will never be allowed to have a career of any sort, whether I want to or not.

'I know," I finally say tightly. 'But I want to pursue my interests regardless. And I plan to."

No one really seems to know what to say—except Andre, of course, who swirls his wine in his glass and arches an eyebrow. 'Unless your husband says otherwise, of course."

'I'd have to pick you first." The words come out sharp and biting, and I see Angelo tense next to me, but I can't stop myself. I'm too upset. 'You weren't even invited."

'I was." Andre takes a careless sip of his wine. 'Just not by you. Don Rizzo told me to attend. Which I think supersedes the authority of anyone else here, yes?" He raises an eyebrow.

So Angelo was right. There's a tense silence around the table, which is broken only by the staff coming in to sweep away the appetizers and replace them with a soup course. For a little while, it's only broken by the clinking of spoons against china, until Guiseppe Graziano speaks up, telling me about his family's vineyard in Italy, which is apparently second only to the Agosti vineyards.

It's a tedious dinner. I learn just enough about each of them to know that while a few of my choices might not make me miserable—given my own choice in the matter entirely, I wouldn't pick any of them.

But then again, they're all being held up against the impossible standard of Angelo, who I've wanted since I was fifteen, and who I only want even more now.

I barely taste any of the meal, even though I know it must be delicious. I can't even taste the dessert, which is a rich chocolate mousse with fresh raspberries on it, one of my favorites, but all I can think about is the steadily growing knot in my stomach, the feeling that all of this is going to go so terribly wrong. That no matter what I choose—who—I'm going to end up with a husband who will want to control all of my choices going forward, all of my life. Who will have expectations I'll have to fulfill, no matter what my own desires are.

Angelo promised me that I'd still be able to go to college and live my life the way my father and I planned, even though I'm being pushed into marriage. But how will he help me make that a reality? My husband will be the don. He will go back to working for Luciano Falcone—or something else entirely. I realize, sitting there in a cloud of steadily growing dread, that while Angelo might want to protect me, that he might think he can accomplish it even without marrying me, it is, in fact, the only way that he could ever really keep me safe the way he says he wants to.

And it's the only thing he absolutely refuses to do.