his response

FRANCESCA

“WHAT DO YOU want me to do?” I ask him as we settle down on the mat.

He’s cool as a cucumber, while I’m a bundle of nerves, rocking back and forth.

We sit in silence for a moment. I hug my legs close to my chest. “Antonio, please answer me.”

He finally shrugs. “Give birth,” he states the obvious.

I suppress a glare. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” he confirms.

Our eyes lock. There’s a spark, then a flame. He’d walked out in the middle of our session. My arousal is justified.

“I might not be pregnant,” I say.

“I want you to be,” he replies.

I swallow hard before asking my next question. “Why?”

He shrugs. “It would secure my position and provide an heir for the Family.”

“Is everything about the Family for you?” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. It’s never about us. It’s never about him and me starting a family.

His job always gets in the way. I thought we were making progress.

He shoots me a warning look. “I’m the Don. What do you expect? Of course I need someone to continue the legacy.”

“I’ll abort it,” I snap, instantly regretting my words. I need to stop being so impulsive.

His gaze hardens. He’s angry, I can tell, but he doesn’t explode. It’s amazing how much control he has over himself. Is this how he was when he killed his mother?

“You wouldn’t dare,” he warns.

I purse my lips. “Or else what? You’ll kill me?” ~Just like you killed your mother?~

But he shakes his head and leans back, his arms supporting his weight on the mat. “No. I’ll just find someone else to be the mother of my child.”

My heart feels like it’s turned to ice. I don’t know what to say. Would he really do it? Who am I kidding? Of course he would.

He continues before I can reply. “Francesca, just because you are my wife does not mean I am only accountable to you.

“Getting another woman pregnant may tarnish the Family’s reputation, but I can always claim you are infertile. Surely, there wouldn’t be any complications after that. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?”

“No,” I snap. “You won’t do that!”

“Lower your voice, ~bambola~. I’m the Don of the Family you are part of,” he says calmly.

“And I am the Donna of this Family and the woman who manages your house,” I retort. “Don’t talk to me like I’m your puppet.”

He grabs my arm and pulls me closer, so close that I can feel the heat of his body. If I tilt my head to the side, I could rest it on his chest.

“But that’s where you are wrong. You are my puppet, Francesca,” he says, his breath fanning my face.

“And you’re the puppet of the Mafia, Antonio,” I retort. I want to close my eyes and rest my head on his chest, but now is not the time. He’s making me angry.

Instead, I say, “I don’t want to be your puppet. I want to be your wife. I am your wife and I think I deserve to be treated properly, especially by you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. He just looks into my eyes. I can’t read him. Not at all.

“I don’t want you submitting to anyone other than me.”

I blink at his unexpected statement. “Wha—?”

“You are the Donna and you should act like it. Francesca, you don’t realize your power. You don’t realize that with a snap of your fingers, you could have anyone killed, no questions asked.

“You don’t know anything yet,” he says.

My breath catches. “Why are you—?”

“Come on, get up,” he commands, moving away and pulling me up with him.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer my question. He walks over to the benches where his stuff is, grabs his shirt, and walks back to me.

“Take your sweater off.”

I blink in surprise but don’t question him. I pull off my sweater and heels. Moments later, I’m standing in a sports bra and jeans.

I’m not self-conscious. I know my body is attractive. I’m actually confident about it.

He pulls his white shirt over my head and rolls the sleeves up to my elbows. We stand facing each other before he pulls me closer.

His arm wraps around my waist and his thumb runs over my lips as he cups my jaw with his other hand.

I can hear him take a deep breath as I lick his thumb, hoping he’ll move it away without me having to push him. I realize how silly that was a moment later, but he just presses his lips to my forehead.

I grip his arm. The shirt is thin and loose. When his arm tightens, it almost feels like he’s touching my bare skin. I’m afraid he’ll push me away like before.

I’m afraid he’ll change his mind. I’m afraid of him because of how much control he’s starting to have over me.

Antonio steps back. “You’re going to learn how to fight.”

“Me?” I ask, pointing to myself.

He raises his eyebrows. “Is there anyone else here?”

“No.”

“Then use your brain.”

“That was mean,” I say.

He shrugs, a tiny smirk playing on his lips. “I know.”

I chuckle and he looks at me in surprise. “You should laugh more,” he says. “It’s beautiful.”

My smile fades in shock before a blush takes over my face. “Thank you.” How does he go from being a jerk to being nice? Is he okay?

He shrugs. “Show me a fist.”

I make a fist and his smirk widens. I can see the amusement in his eyes.

“That’s not how you make a fist, ~bambola~. Your thumb should be over your fingers,” he instructs.

“Why?” I question, but I follow his advice anyway.

“If you keep it under, you’ll break your thumb.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, but my brain isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders right now.

I’m always feeling a bit lost when he’s around.

“Antonio?”

He responds with a hum, adjusting the leather gloves on his hands and demonstrating a proper fist.

“What happened to Fabio?” I ask, my voice slow and careful.

He looks at me, his brows furrowed. “I made him a soldier.”

“But that’s the lowest rank in the Mafia,” I point out, my forehead creasing in a frown.

“That was the point,” he answers, shrugging nonchalantly.

“Don’t you have better things to do than teach me how to fight? Don’t you have other priorities?” I question.

His gaze meets mine, the intensity of it making me want to avert my eyes.

“I’ve realized that when I leave you alone, you start considering other possibilities—possibilities I can’t afford. I need to manage my time more effectively.”

He doesn’t trust me.

“You don’t trust me anymore,” I say, stating the obvious.

He licks his lips, which have become dry. “I’ve never trusted you, ~bambola~. It’s nothing personal.”