Semua Bab A Wife For Nico Vescari: Bab 1 - Bab 10

~CAKE~ It’s four in the morning when I unlock the door to the apartment and find two men standing inside like soldiers. My senses dulled after the long walk through the quiet streets of Rome, immediately coming alert. My mother is seated at the kitchen table, looking frail in the weak light, her hands laced on her lap. “Hey, Mom.” I keep my eyes on the men who are staring with just as much interest. Two cups of coffee sit in front of them, still steaming but untouched. “Hey, Cake. Some of your father’s friends came for a visit.” My mother smiles, waving a hand at me to come over. “Friends, huh.” I approach the table, watching them warily, already thinking of ways to knock them unconscious. I’ve never seen these men, and they’re making house calls at four in the fucking morning. Their rugged-looking faces don’t seem like the type of company my Dad used to keep. “We just dropped by to see how everything is going,” one of them speaks up in heavy Italian, his eyes moving from my m

~NICO~ “She called you a bitch.” Enzo’s amused voice is the last thing I want to hear right now. The sound of it echoes in the silent VIP corridor and grates on my last nerve.I ignore the idiot, my hand sliding into my pocket. But the smooth tingle of her wrist in my palm refuses to fade.“She’s got spirit, Nico. I’ll give her that,” Enzo continues, catching up to me with that effortless stride of his. “Most girls hear the Vescari mafia and run the other way. This one? She looked like she wanted to bite your fucking head off.” I adjust my cuffs, my expression a frozen mask of indifference. “She’s a thief, Enzo. Nothing more.”But I’m lying. To him, and partially to myself.In my mind’s eye, the C.C initials scrawled under every entry in her journal finally have a face and a name. Belva according to her fights... I’m starting to think that might not be her real name. But it’s a fitting name for a woman who knocks out her opponent with one punch and doesn’t bat an eyelash at bei

~NICO~I sit up in my bed, reaching for the journal I read every night before I go to bed. It’s mine now, as much as she is. The feel of it in my possession makes satisfaction roll through me.I open to a page I flagged before, and start reading.It’s the one where she pushed herself.Day 50,Fifty days of touching myself and moaning into my pillow.Fifty days of wanting a man and settling for a buzzing toy until the battery dies.I tell myself to stop. I never do.My hand won’t obey, and when it’s over, I’m left wondering if it would feel different with a man instead.Safe to say this isn’t going anywhere.So I’ll let it stay.~C.CI smirk at the way she writes, so casual yet deliberate, like she’s scolding herself for needing relief, for craving something her hands and little toy have to give her.Her words are filthy but innocent, desperate but disciplined. I catch myself smiling, darkly amused. Most women hide these thoughts, bury them deep. C.C, as she calls herself, writes them

~NICO~The boutique is silent in the way expensive places always are.Sound dies here. Even time slows down, respectful, waiting to be told what to do.I sit back in the leather chair, phone in my hand, attention split between the room and the screen. Business does not pause just because my future wife is sitting ten feet away pretending she doesn’t exist.Enzo: Sienna just called. She’s flying in from New York for the wedding. Says she intends to stay.I stare at the message for a full three seconds.Me: No.Me: She’s not coming here until I finish dealing with Tomaso.His reply comes immediately.Enzo: She’s your sister, not a soldier.Enzo: And she’s as stubborn as you.Enzo: You know she won’t listen to me. Tell her yourself.I exhale slowly through my nose.Me: I will.I lock the phone and finally look across the room.She has not moved in five minutes. She is sitting straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap like she is holding herself together by force alone. Her eyes are f

~NICO~My office is soundproof, sealed tight against the chaos below.Only the bass reaches me, a dull vibration under my feet—proof that everything is running exactly as it should.I’m seated behind my desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to my forearms. Paperwork opened before me, and yet—Her words from the car replay in my head, crawling in. “Please don’t insult me over something I’m already struggling with.”I grip the edge of my desk and tell myself it’s nothing. She hadn’t begged, hadn’t apologized, hadn’t even waited for a response. She’d said what she needed to say and walked out of my car like she hadn’t just tilted something dangerous in me.A knock doesn’t come. The door opens anyway.Enzo strolls in like he owns the place. A glass of whiskey already in hand. Shirt unbuttoned too far, with a knowing smirk on his face..“So,” he says, dragging the word out as he drops into the chair opposite me. “Let me guess. Productive day?”I don’t look up. “If you’re here to talk, leave.”