Page 11 of Isle of Seduction
“I swear, Andrea, don’t fuck with me on this. You agreed to my terms. Don’t come inside my room when I’m naked.”
“I know your rules very well, sweetheart.” I hate the endearment he’s chosen for me. It sounds condescending and demeaning. “That one isn’t part of it, but I’ll give it to you as a courtesy.”
“A courtesy? Ever heard of consent?”
“I assure you, next time I come to your room while you’re naked, you’ll be willing.”
“Oh please, spare me the seduction game, Capaldi. We have rules, remember?” I tsk.
He says nothing, trying to hide his smile behind his wineglass like a teenager.
Sparring with him is getting on my last nerve, so I leave the table after clearing my plate and setting it in the dishwasher with the rest of my dishes.
When I’ve brushed my teeth and got myself ready for bed, closing all the curtains, I’m so tired I fall asleep the second my head touches the pillow.
FIVE
L’HOMME IDÉAL
The morning sun’s rays wake me up by getting right into my face and just like that, I’m in for a bad day. I’m ninety percent sure I closed these stupid beige curtains yesterday when I went to sleep. Maybe I should count my blessings since it was grey, cold and rainy and today, the sun shines upon me.
I get my bearings, remembering where I am. Beige assaults my vision and I groan.
I’m ready to go shopping. The decor of this god-awful room is due for a makeover.
I didn’t get to ask Andrea why he needs me. Once I saw his face, I totally forgot logic and turned into a toddler throwing a tantrum. I’m more than aware of myself and my shortcomings. Not getting my way is the fastest way to send me into a rage. All my life, I’ve had to fight for everything, so it’s just a coping mechanism at this point. A child shouldn’t be left to their own devices because they’re deemed less, as their father only has eyes for their younger brother and trains him to be the perfect mafia capo.
But I need to get level-headed with my little shit of a husband because I get a feeling he fucking loves it when I fight and there’s no way in Hell I’m gonna give an inch of what he loves in life.
From what I’ve gathered when we lived in the UK with my cousin Lana, the Capaldi family is well embedded into the dark underworld, trading in guns, favours, protection and everything in between, acting like a middle-man for anything illegal you want to get your hands on. They’ve never touched drugs or the sex trade, but since Mario’s death ten years ago, it seems they’ve gone more quiet. I wonder why Andrea would need a fake wife and why he’d choose someone from a prominent drug family of the Mediterranean Sea. Though with Lana’s kidnapping, I guess I just happened to fall on his lap.
I prepare myself for battle with eyeliner, mascara and red lipstick, and walk the short corridor from my room to the living area, passing a few doors, one of which is left open. I peer inside. The bedroom has the same minimalistic decor as in mine, though the faint smell of tobacco and bitter oranges and the darker colours give me an indication of who it belongs to. Temptation to snoop and understand my husband is too great and I take a step inside, observing my surroundings without touching anything. I snort when I see the bottle of cologne on the dresser. L’Homme Idéal, by Guerlain. Right.
The sound of a coffee machine breaks my daydreaming.
I enter the open kitchen, expecting to come face to face with the man of my nightmares, but the features that greet me are not his. They belong to someone who looks like Andrea but is leaner and more tattooed, if that was even possible.
I saw Andrea’s younger brother through the cameras when his team rescued Lana but I wasn’t expecting him to be here, inside his brother’s house and making coffee. It’s all very domestic for a man who looks like he could kill you with half a thought.
The man’s clinical gaze peruses me from head to toe and gives nothing away. He takes a sip of his coffee, leaving me to wait until I can’t take the silence anymore.
“Nico,” I greet but make no effort to be polite. “Where’s your brother?”
Nico’s calculating blue gaze assesses me with the precision of a sniper. What he finds in me, I’m not sure, his angelic face remaining neutral. Where Andrea has long hair, his is cropped short and a lip and nose piercings complete the edgy look.
“Gone.”
O-kay.
“Where?”
The asshole just shrugs and I’m tempted to shake answers out of him. Before I can do any of that, he holds out a cup of steaming coffee, nodding for me to take it. The liquid is light brown and I take an experimental sip before closing my eyes, because fuck, there’s nothing like the first sip of coffee in the morning. It’s perfect. Strong with a dash of plant-based milk and maybe two or three brown sugar cubes. I know because cow milk tastes sour to me and brown sugar has a deep caramel under-taste I love.
“How do you know how I take my coffee?” I ask suspiciously.
Nico shrugs again. “I have a knack for analysing people.”
Before I can ask what he thinks of me—because why would I care—he asks again, “You ready to go?”