All Chapters of A Wife For Nico Vescari: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

~CAKE~I woke up sore and heavy like my body was mad at me. Heck, I’m mad at myself too.My ankle, though? I felt way better.I rolled it slowly under the sheets, testing it. No sharp pain, just stiffness.Last night, after we got home, Nico had grabbed it without warning and twisted it until something cracked. I’d nearly punched him in the throat.Then the swelling went down.Annoying how he was right.My eye looked better too. Still puffy, but not “murder victim” bad.I stood in front of the mirror brushing my teeth when it hit me.You train with Luca every morning.My jaw tightened. I spat into the sink. “Train with him my foot,” I muttered.I showered slowly. I took my time. Lotions. Hair. Everything—even gave myself a nice good shave.If I was going to be petty, I was going to commit.From my window I could see the driveway, and so I waited, and waited. Right until Nico’s car finally rolled out through the gates.Only then did I get dressed in grey sweatpants, black long sleeves,

~CAKE~Training with Nico every night was starting to feel like psychological warfare.Not because he hit hard, but because he didn’t.He’d correct my stance, tap my chin up. Brush sweat off my lip with his thumb like it was nothing.He’d touch my forehead when I landed something clean.Once, a quick kiss like a damn reflex, then he’d walk away like none of it happened.No explanation. No reaction.Just, “Good work. Shower.”And I’d go upstairs angry and wired and stupidly turned on.Every. Single. Night.Which was why I ended up using that overpriced vibrator in the first place.Because apparently my husband liked starting fires and leaving.Jerk.By the third day back to training, Luca stopped hovering.By the fifth, he stopped yelling every five seconds.By tonight, he finally said the words I’d been waiting for. “You’re cleared.”Like I’d been on house arrest or something.My leg felt solid. My timing was back. My stamina didn’t suck.I was ready to punch the life out of my oppone

~NICO~The bass from downstairs shakes the floor beneath my feet.And I can still hear her. I’m fucking done, Vescari. She fought recklessly. No — she fought emotionally.Held the submission too long. Because she wanted to humiliate her opponent the way she felt humiliated.Exposed her ribs, twice. And she wanted applause for that?“Cristo.” {Christ.}She stood there smiling at me. Waiting. For what? Approval? A gold star?I exhale slowly.That is not my responsibility, I am not here to applaud chaos. I am here to correct it.Still —The way her face fell, the silence after I said it was messy. She overreacted, she always overreacts.I push back from the desk and stand, walking toward the window overlooking the main floor. Bodies move in waves below. Security at every corner.Everything exactly where it should be. Except her.My men had already searched the perimeter. Parking lot. Back alley. Stairwells.She was nowhere to be seen. She moves fast when she’s angry.The door slammed op

~CAKE~ I wake up to breathing. Wet, shallow breathing. It’s close. Too close. Like someone is lying beside me, fighting for air. That sound, that exact sound. The hollow wheeze from last night. The way his lungs kept trying. The way his body wouldn’t give up even when it should have. I sit up too fast, heart slamming into my ribs. No one is here. I glance at the clock by my bedside. 4:15 a.m It's still dark outside. The breathing doesn’t stop, because it isn’t in the room. It’s in my head. I press my palm to my cheek before I even realize I’m doing it. Half-expecting warmth, but nothing there. Just my skin. I rub it anyway. Just in case. I must have slept at some point because light is leaking through the curtains when I finally drag myself to the bathroom. I look like I’ve been underwater too long—dark circles, puffy lids, dry lips. Funny how in four hours, my reflection went from sharp to… thinner. Not physically, like something got peeled back. I turn on the tap and

~NICO~The bar smells exactly as it did the night I first walked in alone after my father’s death—cigars, expensive liquor, and men pretending decadence is the same thing as power.Nine of them sit around the long table. Rome’s pillars. Or so they call themselves. They have women draped across their laps, whispering into their ears as though influence can be earned with perfume.I take my seat at the head of the table and let my gaze travel.“Gentlemen,” I say evenly, letting my gaze sweep the room. “This is not a brothel.”The music outside the boardroom cuts almost instantly. I look at each of them in turn.Matteo Romano avoids my eyes first. Carlo Ventresca still has his drink in hand. Dario Bellini looks annoyed. Sergio Valenti leans back like this amuses him. Pietro Morelli looks like he regrets being here. Luca Bianchi won’t meet my gaze. Vittorio De Santis exhales through his nose. And Tomaso Greco sits composed, untouched.Eight.Thomas’s chair has remained empty since his de