Ruined Secrets (Perfectly Imperfect #4)

Most of them I purchased the same day Nonno told me I was going to marry Luca. I was so damn excited that I dragged Andrea to the mall to shop for all the lingerie I could find. As I tried on set after set, I imagined Luca tearing each one off my body. When we returned home, I had two huge bags filled to the brim with silk and lace.

Lifting one of the white babydoll nighties, I consider it but change my mind and put it back into the drawer. White won’t do. Too innocent. Let’s go with the black today. I put on a short black nightgown and matching panties, turn off the lamp and climb into bed. It’s showtime.

Just like the previous night, not even a minute after I start, the door connecting my room to Luca’s opens, revealing his large form framed in the soft light behind him. He stands at the threshold, his hands gripping the doorframe on either side of him. I can’t see his face, only the illuminated shape of his body, but I know he’s looking at me.

I let my hand travel even lower and slide one finger inside my pussy, panting. Luca leans forward slightly, but then grips the doorframe even harder as if he’s at war with himself about whether to come inside. Is he hard? I widen my legs a bit more and tease my clit with my other hand, imagining his cock inside me instead of my finger. The breath leaving my mouth hitches asmy movements become faster, and soon, tremors start rocking my body.

I bite my lower lip and, without taking my eyes off Luca, slide another finger inside. A gasp leaves me as I orgasm, riding the wave for almost a full minute. When I come down from the high, I slowly slide my hand out from my panties, and bring it to my mouth, licking the tips of my fingers. A strange growling sound comes from the direction of the door. I tilt my head to the side, watching Luca’s looming figure in the doorway, and spread my legs even more in a silent invitation. He doesn’t move from his spot, just stands there stone-still, clutching the frame. Watching me. There’s a muffled Italian curse, and then he turns away and goes back inside his room, slamming the door shut after him.

Chapter 6

I hear Isabella’s door to the hallway open and barely restrain myself from rushing out to intercept her. I should have prohibited her from going to that club, locked her in her room, and thrown away the key.

There’s no reason for me to give a fuck where she goes. She’ll have Marco and Nicolas with her, so she will be perfectly safe from harm. And I made sure they know to deter any man who may dare approach her. Still, I keep staring at the laptop without actually seeing the numbers on the screen. I’m too focused on the sound of high heels clicking on the hardwood as Isabella walks by my door.

Five minutes pass. The rumble of a car as it leaves the driveway reaches me through the window. I keep staring at the screen. Seven days. That’s how long it has been since she became my wife and she's been fucking with my brain since. It started the first night I caught her pleasuring herself. Until that moment, I had myself convinced she was still a child and that thinking about her in any other way would be sick. Well, I haven’t been able to think of her as an adolescent after that, even though I’ve tried, because she keeps playing with her pussy every single night. And like the sick fuck I am, I come to watch every time.

I avoid her at all costs during the day, occupying myself with work, but I can’t stay away at night. The moment I hear her first moan, I’m drawn to that damn door. And then, I open itand stand on the threshold like some psycho, watching Isabella arching her body with her hand between her legs. The first few nights she wore pajamas, but then she switched to short silky nightgowns, her lacy panties the only thing obstructing my view. They were pink last night, and I barely managed to keep myself from rushing to that bed, tearing the lacy fabric from her body, and usingmyhand on her pussy. Or even better, my mouth.

Two more minutes elapse. I close the laptop. She’s seen me watching. And not only that, but she also doesn’t stop when she notices me lurking in the doorway. She captures my gaze and holds it like I’m her prisoner, not averting her eyes for even a second until that last moment when the tremors take over her body before she comes. She knows I'm watching every time, and that fact gets me even harder. I’ve had to find my own release after—in the shower, gripping my cock and imagining I’m inside her until I explode all over my hand. A thirty-five-year-old man pumping his cock in a shower while fantasizing about a nineteen-year-old girl. Jesus fuck.

Just because Isabella acts like someone much older doesn’t make it better. Neither does her pretending the next morning that nothing happened. She comes downstairs for breakfast, all regal and composed—impeccable manners and calm face—as if everything is perfectly in order.

Another minute trickles by. There’s no way I’m going to that party after her. To a club full of other men. Younger men. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Fuck.

Jumping up from my desk, I grab my holster and the jacket from the chair, curse again, and leave the room.

* * *

There are at least a hundred other women in the club, most of them wearing tight short dresses. And who has the tightest and the shortest one? My wife. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s white, making her glow like a fucking lighthouse under the neon lights.

I grab a glass of seltzer from the bar, squeezing it in my hand. I don’t drink alcohol, but as I watch Isabella from my spot in the dark corner, I’m seriously tempted to start. She’s standing at a tall round table, her sister on her right, and Milene Scardoni and two girls I don’t recognize on the left. Nicolas and Marco are a few paces behind her, watching the crowd. I notice Bianca Scardoni perched at the end of the bar, clutching her Russian husband around his neck and smiling as he whispers something in her ear. Mikhail Orlov at a nightclub. I shake my head. Now I’ve seen everything.

There’s a group of guys at the table next to Isabella’s. I noticed them the moment I came in. One of them in particular. He’s in his early twenties, blond, and wearing a tight black T-shirt. He’s leaning his elbows on the table in a way that showcases his meager-looking biceps. My grip on the glass in my hand tightens. Milene and the other two girls are looking in his direction and giggling, but he’s focused on my wife, or more specifically, her cleavage. Isabella doesn’t look at him. She seems to be interested in Bianca Scardoni and her husband. As I watch, the blond kid calls the waiter, says something in his ear, and motions with his hand toward Isabella. The waiter nods and leaves. Did that little shit dare send my wife a drink?

The glass in my hand shatters.

I can’t take my eyes off Milene’s sister and her husband. They've been at the bar since we arrived, and despite the crowd, they seem oblivious to anything happening around them. I don’t ever remember seeing a man look at a woman the way Bianca’s husband looks at her. It’s as if she is the single most important being in the whole universe. I want that. I would kill to have Luca look at me that way, to be his sun and sky and everything in between.

I was at their wedding. Everybody was. It’s not often that the Bratva and Cosa Nostra decide to ally themselves in such a way. I still remember the collective gasp when it became clear who Bianca Scardoni was marrying. Everyone assumed it was going to be the blond, cocky guy—Kostya. But, when the huge, dark-haired man with a badly scarred face and an eye patch stepped up in front of the wedding officiant, I was in shock, along with everyone else. Bianca doesn’t seem to give a damn about her husband's ruined face or that he’s missing an eye, because she’s gazing at him like he’s the most beautiful man on earth.

A waiter approaches, obstructing my view of the couple, and places a bottle of white wine on the table in front of me.

“Miss,” he says, “the gentleman from that table has sent this for you.”

I don’t get the chance to reject it because a hand reaches over from behind me, grips the bottle, and thrusts it back into the confused waiter’s chest.

“Mrs.Rossi is not interested,” Luca’s deep voice barks above my head.

I take a deep breath. He came. I feel this silly need to squeak with happiness, but I bottle it up and school my features, glancing at him over my shoulder. “You were in the neighborhood?”

“Yes,” he says, his eyes focused on the table next to ours.

Yeah, right. I sigh and take a sip of my orange juice.

I’ve been drunk just once in my life, from barely two glasses of wine on the night of my eighteenth birthday. After the guests left, I stole a bottle from the kitchen and dragged Andrea to my room so she could keep me company at my personal pity party. I was lucky there was no one except her to witness it, because from what Andrea told me in the morning, I giggled like a crazy person at first, talked about Luca for two hours, then cried and vomited in the toilet for the rest of the night. The only two things I remember were singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler, and Andrea holding my hair while I puked my guts out. I haven’t touched alcohol since. Not because I have something against it, but because I don’t want to risk blurting out anything Luca-related with someone else around.

As I sip my juice and watch the crowd, I wonder if he’s going to do anything, maybe start a conversation or touch me. He doesn’t. Instead, he stands right behind me, unmoving and silent, looming like a gargoyle. The guy from the nearby group throws a look in my direction, and the next instant, Luca’s arms materialize on either side of me, his hands griping the edge of the table. I close my eyes for a second, trying to calm my inner turmoil. Surrounded by his body on nearly all sides, inhaling his cologne, and not daring to touch him is making me crazy. What would he do if I turned, placed my hands around hisneck, and pulled his head down for a kiss? Dear God, I’ve been imagining how it would feel to be kissed by Luca for so long, but it’s too soon. He needs time to get over his issues with our age differences. I won’t risk him pulling away even more. I give myself a couple of seconds more to relax, then open my eyes.