Page 34 of Mafia Darling
Her tablet fell in her lap as she cocked her head at me. “You mean people cut the grapes off the vines by hand?”
“Of course. You mean in all that time you spent peppering Vincenzo with questions, you never asked about the harvest?”
“How do you know I asked Vincenzo questions?”
Because I watched the security footage, hours of it, back when I was obsessed with having her. Not that I could admit as much now. “I was told you spent time in the winery, no? Regardless, I thought you might like to help.”
“Help with the harvest?”
“Sì.” I rose and held out my hand. “Come. Let me show you.”
She ignored my hand but sat up and started to slip on her shoes. “Don’t tell me the great Fausto Ravazzani is actually go into the vineyard and harvest grapes.”
“I’ve done so almost every year.”
Her mouth fell open, but she quickly shut it. When she was on her feet, we began strolling toward the vineyards. At a leisurely pace, it would take around twenty minutes. Did she plan to walk the entire way in silence?
Clasping my hands behind my back, I matched my stride to hers. There was no hurry and I didn’t want to tire her out. Everyone should see an Italian grape harvest at least once in their lives, and I wanted this to be the first of many for her.
Normally workers were everywhere on the estate, buzzing about and chattering loudly. During la vendemmia, however, every able-bodied person was needed to help harvest the grapes. Workers from town and neighboring estates came over, as well. Nothing was more important than wine to Italians.
“How did I not know this is happening?” she asked. “The estate is like a ghost town.”
“Today is the first day. Vincenzo declared the grapes ready only this morning.”
“And he told you?”
“Nothing happens on the estate without my knowledge. Or, have you forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten that you’re a controlling asshole, no.”
I chuckled. She was not wrong. “Yes, but at heart I am just a farmer, like my ancestors before me.”
“Please. You get off on being a mafia boss. I saw you with Enzo, threatening to gut him like a fish and feed him to the pigs.”
“I get off on many things,” I said in a low rumble.
“Stop it. You’re trying to get me back into bed and it isn’t going to work.”
“But I have you back in my bed. Every night when I pull you close to fall sleep, and every morning when I wake up and you’re wrapped around me like a second skin.” I leaned closer, my mouth hovering above her ear. “What I am trying to do is to get you to ride my dick again, because I miss it, amore. I miss you.”
She swallowed, her throat working, but she edged aside. “You cannot throw me away and then decide you want me again. It doesn’t work like that. You said terrible things to me. All because I stood up for your son!” She exhaled through her nose, a little huff of annoyance. “You broke my heart, Fausto. And I know you’re sorry and you’d change it if you could, but you can’t. You treated me like shit when I was pregnant with your child, for fuck’s sake. Almost three weeks I stayed in that beach house, alone and miserable, sick to my stomach, and not a word from you.”
She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “You didn’t care whether I lived or died, as long as I was out of your sight.”
This was enough. I had to set her straight.
I moved in and cupped her face in my hands. “Wrong. I couldn’t sleep while you were gone. I couldn’t eat, and I started drinking heavily. Ask Marco or Zia. I was miserable, a shell of a man. I poured over the daily reports about you, then lingered in doorways, hiding, while Giulio updated Zia on you.” I stroked my thumbs along her jaw, the soft skin like velvet. My heart pounded so hard that I wondered if she could hear it. “Do you need me to tell you how I feel? Is that what you need to forgive me and believe I am worthy of your trust? Because ti amo, cuore mio.”
Her eyes moved back and forth, as if searching my gaze for a lie. She would not find one.
I admitted, “I have never told a woman that before in my life, not even Lucia. I didn’t want to lie and raise her hopes for that kind of marriage between us. But the way I feel about you, Francesca? It is a sickness, a cancer. Something that cannot be destroyed or removed. You are a part of me, from now until they put me in the ground.”
“Until I make you mad again,” she whispered. “Until you cannot control your temper and I am the one to suffer. Or our child.”
“I would never hurt our child.”
“Unless he or she turns out to be gay. Or trans. Or bi. What will you do then, Fausto?” She stepped back and my hands fell to my sides. “What if your next son doesn’t want to join the mafia? What if your daughter wants to choose her own husband—or wife? Will you be so understanding, then?”
