When She Loves (The Fallen, #4)(30)

“Send me a text when you get off work,” he says, giving her ass a light smack.

The waitress blushes and disappears into the back. Fuck. I wish my life were that easy. But I don’t want an eager waitress. I want my fucking wife.

And I’m going to have her, so help me God.











CHAPTER 15











CLEO


Rafaele is gone when I wake up around ten a.m. I crawl into the empty bed and nearly weep at how comfortable it is compared to the ottoman.

The sheets smell like his bodywash. I recognize the scent from last night when he walked out of the shower in just his underwear. Fuck, he looked so good. I had no idea he was that ripped.

Okay, this is a dangerous line of thought.

I give myself another minute to enjoy the cozy bed before I haul my ass into a cold shower and rinse the traces of him off my skin.

Hot or not, Rafaele is keeping me caged, and I’m not about to go all Stockholm syndrome on him. All of those rules that are supposedly for my protection? The only reason I need that protection is because he’s a murderer who’s got other murderers after him.

Ah, the life of a mob wife.

My only chance at not going stir-crazy is to get him to send me away from here. I know he’s got a massive mansion in the Hamptons—Mamma used to talk about it all the time. I could live there.

And then what?

Okay, there’s not that much to do there, but at least I wouldn’t have to see him every day. That would already be an improvement.

I dry myself off, pull on some clothes, and sit down at the small desk in the corner of the room. Time to write down my ideas.

Cleo’s plan for ruining Rafaele’s life:

Bankrupt him

Redecorate his house

Get a dog—a big and scary one who’ll keep him away from me

Identify all of his hopes and dreams

Ruin them

Never, ever, under no circumstances, even if there’s a gun to my head, sleep with him



The plan is as chaotic as my personality, but I feel good about this. Really good.

The things on it definitely play to my strengths. Rafaele is an uptight control freak, so I’m going to do everything I can to make him realize he brought a loose cannon into his life. The only thing he really seems to want from me is my body, so if I never give it to him, he’ll eventually realize keeping me around isn’t worth the hassle.

Since I need to get more clothes anyway, I decide to hit the first bullet point. Time to put that black credit card to use.

I head downstairs and search the house for a member of staff so that I can get someone to drive me to Manhattan. I bump into Sabina lecturing a maid in the dining room.

She stops mid-sentence when she sees me and dismisses the maid. “What do you want?”

“I need a driver.”

“Where are you going?”

“Manhattan. I need to do some shopping.”

“What—”

“What’s with the twenty questions?” I snap. “Just get me what I asked for.”

Her eyes turn to slits. “You little brat. You just got married, and you’re already going off to spend Don Messero’s hard-earned money.”

Oh, if only she knew.

“What did you think of the wedding?” I ask innocently. “I felt so beautiful in all those diamonds.”

She sneers at me. “You’re a disgrace. Signora Caruso’s necklace should be scrubbed with soap after touching your filthy neck.”

“You go do that. Right after you get me my driver.”

“Don’t boss me around.”

I narrow my eyes. “My husband told me I had to have a driver in order to leave the house. What do you think he’d say if I told him you wouldn’t get me one?”

This drains the blood out of her face. Ah, so she’s scared of Rafaele. It dawns on me Rafaele would probably take issue with how she’s speaking to me, but I don’t need his help handling the maid.

“Fine,” Sabina grinds out. “I’ll get him.” She stalks out of the room, muttering something in Italian, probably more nasty things about me. Not that I care. After all, being around people who vehemently disapprove of me isn’t anything new. Try living in the Garzolo household for eighteen years. I can’t remember the last time I heard a kind word from my parents.

I’m lounging on the living room sofa when a young dude walks in five minutes later. He’s got a head of curly auburn hair, a nose piercing, and a grin that takes up half of his face. He looks like he’s in his early twenties.

“Sandro,” he says as he extends his hand. “I’m your driver.”

“That was quick.” I shake his hand. “Were you waiting in the garage or something?”

“Tiny and I were playing cards with one of the guards,” he says.

Just then, an older man walks into the living room. And by man, I mean a giant. He’s probably the same height as Nero, but twice as wide. Each one of his steps shakes the pictures on the wall. His worn leather jacket looks like it could be a tent.

“That’s Tiny,” Sandro says, pointing his thumb at the giant.

I let out an incredulous laugh. “Right. Cute nickname.”