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Ruined Secrets: Part 1 – Chapter 6

Luca

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 it and 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 using my hand 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.

Isabella

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 his neck, 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.
“What happened to your hand?” I ask, looking at a piece of cloth that seems to be a kitchen towel, wrapped around his left palm.
“I cut myself on broken glass,” comes the answer from above my head.
Where did he find broken glass, for God’s sake? “It’s still bleeding. You should head home and get that cut cleaned.”
“I’m fine.”
He’s fine. I roll my eyes.
I turn toward Andrea, who’s pretending to be interested in something in front of her, but I know she’s listening. “I’m going home. Do you want to stay?”
“Yeah, I’ll head back with Milene.”
“Marco and Nicolas will stay with your sister,” Luca says.
“They can go home. Gino is with her.” I nod toward my sister’s bodyguard who’s leaning on the wall further back, then give Andrea a kiss. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
After saying goodbye to the other girls, I turn and leave, with Luca following right behind me—my silent, towering shadow. We’re almost at the exit when the guy who was ogling me earlier and three of his friends cut us off. He says something in Russian and smiles, nodding in my direction. The next moment, all of his buddies lunge at Luca.
I stare, petrified, as one of them swings his fist at Luca’s head. Luca ducks and grabs the guy’s shoulders, then smashes his knee into the man’s stomach. One of the remaining two guys grabs Luca from behind, and the other one punches his fist into Luca’s side. A hand wraps around my upper arm, pulling me backward into the gathering crowd.
I scream and try to escape, not taking my eyes off Luca, who’s managed to get free and is in the process of making mush out of his attacker’s face. The person holding me tugs at my arm again, and I turn to see the guy who sent me the drink. I knee the bastard’s balls with all my might. He cries out and doubles over, clutching his crotch.
When I look back to where Luca was earlier, the fight seems to be over. One of the assailants is lying on his side, unconscious. Luca has the other guy pressed face first to the floor, holding the man’s arm bent behind his back. I don’t see the last asshole immediately because the huge frame of Bianca’s husband is obstructing my view. Mikhail has his hand wrapped around the guy’s throat, keeping him pressed to the wall. The man’s feet dangle a foot off the ground. Luca rises and pushes his guy toward the security staff who drag him toward the exit.
I run toward Luca as he turns to look for me. When I approach, his arm shoots out, grabbing me around my waist and pulling me to his body. He takes my chin with his free hand and tilts my head up.
“Did he hurt you?” he asks in a low voice.
“No,” I choke out.
Luca nods and exhales, his nostrils flaring. “You’re not wearing that dress ever again.”
“Okay.” I blink at him. Is he going to kiss me? Our faces are so close, and based on the way he’s staring at me, it seems like he might. I stop breathing and wait.
“Let’s get your sister and friends,” he says and releases my chin. “I don’t want to see any of you in a Russian club again.”
Looks like I’m not getting that kiss after all. As we walk back toward the table to get Andrea and the girls, I barely manage to bottle up the need to scream in frustration.
* * *
Luca doesn’t say anything during the thirty-minute drive home, and I pretend I’m engrossed in watching the street through my window. When we arrive at the house, he opens my door for me and follows me inside and then up the two flights of stairs until we reach our bedrooms. Looks like we’re back to cold shoulders and silent treatment.
“I’m going to shower and then I’m coming to check your hand.” I say casually and go inside my room.
If the situation was different, I would have taken care of his cut before doing anything else, but I need time to decompress from the emotional overload before I can continue acting indifferent. Why is he making this so hard, damn it?
After I’m done with the shower, I dress in one of the short silky nightgowns that reveals my cleavage, and head through the door connecting our rooms. I have no intention of making this easy for him.
I don’t see Luca anywhere in his bedroom, but the door to the bathroom is open so I turn that way and stop at the threshold. He’s standing at the sink in nothing except loose black sweatpants, and for a moment, I find it hard to draw my next breath. I’ve never seen Luca shirtless, and I can’t take my eyes off the perfection that is his body.
He is more muscled than I could have guessed. Those dress shirts hide way too much. Other than his build, they also hid the ink. There’s a black geometric pattern forming a sleeve around his right arm, while on his left shoulder and bicep, there’s another black and gray design. The front of his torso is free of ink, but I can see there’s something that looks like a huge bird in flight on his upper back. However, what catches my attention the most is his hair. It’s wet and hangs loose, reaching his shoulder blades. The only time I’ve seen his hair unbound was thirteen years ago, and seeing it like this now hits me right in the chest. The moment feels somehow intimate.
He’s holding his hand over the sink under the spray of water. I gasp as I see his condition. “Oh God.”
There’s a deep gash in the middle of his palm, and the blood is still oozing out of it. I can’t determine exactly how much because it’s quickly being washed away.
Luca looks up at me, his eyes stopping at my nightgown’s deep V-neck for a few seconds, then he quickly shifts his gaze and turns off the water.
“It looks worse than it is,” he says without giving me another glance.
“That will need stitches.”
“Damian will patch me up when he comes home.”
He takes a towel, wraps it around his palm, then reaches for the first aid kit next to the sink. Stepping inside the bathroom, I stand beside him, take the first aid kit from his hand, and start taking out compresses and bandages. Choosing the largest pack of dressings, I tear the packaging and fold the gauze several times.
“Remove the towel,” I say, willing my stomach to stop churning. It’s an understatement to say I’m not very good with blood.
Luca does as I say, and I quickly press the folded gauze to the gash. Keeping it in place with my left hand, I roll the self-sticking bandage around his palm.
“Tighter.”
I nod, back up the roll, and pull a little more on the bandage, trying to control my erratic breathing. He’s so close that if I lean forward just a little my forehead would be pressed against his chest.
“Tighter, Isabella,” Luca says next to my ear.
My fingers start shaking slightly, and I’m sure he notices it but he doesn’t say anything. When I’m done, I secure the bandage, take a deep breath, and lift my eyes to find him watching me. His face is set in hard lines, his jaw tight. Do something, damn it! At least fucking touch me, I want to yell at him. Instead, I just stare as he turns away and leaves the bathroom.
I want to scream. I have to fight with all my will not to run after him and hit him on his chest as hard as I can. Maybe then he would perceive even the slightest amount of the pain that tears me from the inside out every time he turns his back to me. I want to jump into his arms, bury my hands in his hair, and kiss him frantically. Everywhere. But I do neither of those things, only return to my room.
Will he be waiting for me to start my evening show so he can come to watch again? It’s okay to observe, but not to touch? Do I have the fucking plague? Well, fuck him. He can wait all night long.
I leave my room, descend the two flights of stairs, and turn left into the kitchen. It’s almost one in the morning and there’s no one around, so I start opening the cupboards one by one until I find a stash of wine. I take the first bottle I see, pick up the bottle opener and a glass on my way out, and climb the stairs back up to my room.
I fill the wineglass almost to the brim and leave the bottle on the nightstand. On the bed, I sit with my back against the headboard, glass in one hand, and grab my phone from beside the wine bottle. I have a playlist of rock ballads I listen to when I’m feeling down, so I put it on. Drinking alone and humming along to Bon Jovi. Pathetic. Well, nothing new there.
I’m on my third glass when the door between our rooms opens. Looking up from my phone, I find Luca standing in the doorway, staring daggers at me.
“No show tonight,” I say, and close my eyes.
For a few seconds, there’s only silence, and then I hear the muffled sound of bare feet padding across the floor in my direction.
“You are too young to drink alcohol, Isabella.”
I can’t help but laugh. What a hypocrite. I open my eyes. He’s standing by my bed, his arms crossed over his chest and lips pressed into a thin line. His hair is tied up again. What a shame.
“So, you’re saying I should throw this away?” I raise my eyebrows and nod toward the glass in my hand.
“Yes.”
“All right.” I shrug. Smile. And then splash the contents of the glass into his face. “Any other requests, husband?”
Luca closes his eyes for a second, but when he opens them, the look he gives me is so full of rage that it would have probably made me pee myself if I wasn’t drunk. There’s also a vein in the side of his neck, one I’ve always found incredibly sexy, which is currently pulsing. Oh, he is really mad. Suddenly, his hand juts to grab me behind my neck, and he leans forward so our noses are almost touching. The way he’s grinding his teeth makes me fear he’ll shatter them if he doesn’t stop soon.
“You should have told me that this is what it would take to make you touch me.” I tilt my chin up. “If I knew, I would have done this the first night.”
He removes his hand from my neck immediately. “You are a teenager,” he barks. “I don’t plan on touching you in any way.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll have to seek out someone else. Someone who will fulfill my needs.”
“Try,” he whispers. “You won’t like what will happen.” The way his eyes flare makes me tense, but I don’t pull away.
“I might be a nineteen-year-old, Luca, but I know what I want and what I need. I want more than my own hand making me come at night.” I lean into his face. “If you’re not interested, I’ll find someone who is. And you don’t have the right to deny me that since you obviously won’t do anything about my problem.”
Luca stares at me with bulging eyes, his breathing becoming quicker and his nostrils flaring, then he turns his head to the side. There’s a loud bang as he hits the headboard with his fist.
“Fine,” he says between clenched teeth and turns toward the door to his room. “Have fun.”
He walks toward the door, and I try to keep my tears at bay, at least until he leaves the room. I can’t believe he would rather let me fuck someone else. When he reaches the door, he stops, gripping the doorway with both hands. He bends his head and stays in that position for quite some time.
A mumbled curse. Another BAM echoes through the room as he hits the frame with his palm. A few more curses, and then he turns around and marches back to me.
He reaches the bed in two long strides and, for a long moment, just stands there at the footboard, staring down at me. I suck in a breath and hold it, waiting. It feels like my heart has stopped beating. Suddenly, he leans forward and wraps his hands around my ankles. With a sudden jerk, he pulls me toward himself. The glass I’ve been holding slips from my hand and falls onto the thick carpet next to the bed.
There’s a tick in Luca’s jaw and his brow furrows as he bends and grabs the hem of my nightgown in his fists. His forearms ripple with the flex of corded muscles as he tears my nightie in one swift tug. He’s angry. It’s obvious in his every move and by the way he’s clenching his jaw muscles. I don’t care. I’ve been waiting for this so long, and I’m going to take it any way I can get it and love every moment of it.
My breath hitches when he kneels on the floor and places my legs over his shoulders. He buries his face between my legs, and inhales. I bite my lower lip, feeling my wetness soak through the lacy panties, the only barrier between my pussy and his mouth. But he doesn’t remove them. Instead, he presses his lips onto the lace, just over my core, and exhales. I grab onto the bedcover and arch my back, almost coming just from feeling his warm breath. The rough skin of his palms brushes my thighs as he slides his hands up to my waist and slips his fingers into the waistline of my panties. His forearms flex again, and there’s another tearing sound. He removes the scrap of fabric that were once my panties and a moment later I feel his tongue.
The first lick is slow. Teasing. I squeeze the bedcover harder as tremors pass through my body. He licks me again, then thrusts his tongue inside my opening for a moment before he starts sucking on my clit. I’m already panting, but as he adds his finger, I feel the pressure building more and more. A second finger enters me, and I close my eyes, whimpering. I rip out his hair tie and thread my hands in his hair. The feel of it between my fingers is more than I ever could have imagined. It’s still wet, either from his shower or the wine I threw at him. His tongue circles my clit, then he sucks at it, and at the same time, he does something with his finger inside me. I let out a loud moan as my whole body starts shaking. I feel weightless, like I’m floating on air. When he places his thumb on my clit next to his tongue and applies a little pressure, I explode.
My legs are still quivering when he lowers them off his shoulders, and I have no energy left to move any part of my body. Luca rises, sliding his arms under my back and knees, and shifts me to the center of the bed.
He covers me with a blanket and bends down to whisper in my ear, “If I see any other man touch you, he will die. It will be a very unpleasant death.” He adjusts the blanket around my shoulders. “And you won’t be satisfying your own pussy anymore. When you need your problem, as you called it, taken care of, you come to me. You got that, tesoro?”
“Yes,” I rasp.
He nods and heads back into his room, leaving me sated, and absolutely shocked.

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