After the kitchen fiasco with the D'Onofrio mother, Liliana quickly grabbed anything she could find from the fridge, and returned to the solace of her new bedroom. Marcello's bedroom. She had been mildly surprised to see boxes in there with her name on - that she hadn't noticed before amidst her frustrations with Marcello. Her belongings from Italy.

Liliana's gut twisted at the knowledge that someone had packed these. Her aunt, or even her cousins perhaps. Had they cared that she was no trapped here in a foreign home with a husband she did not know or want? They had all left her so quickly in Belize without even the faintest goodbye.

Even now her mobile was silent of any notification, and there had been no missed calls. Was she just to be forgotten by them so soon now that she was no longer a Fiorenza by name?

It took Liliana longer than it should have to unpack her things. Most of the boxes were her clothes - and Liliana knew then that her aunt had been the one to organise her things. Her favourite dresses, the pyjamas she wore most, a t-shirt she'd had for years and refused to throw away. It was barely even a fraction of her wardrobe from her aunts home, but these were all things she wore the most, the things she felt most comfortable in. These were all details she knew her cousins would not have thought off when deciding what to send over.

A final box remained, this one filled with her favourite books - even one or two she knew belonged to her aunt but had read countless times over - jewellery, her perfumes, and a couple of photographs Liliana usually kept in her bedside drawer.

One photo in particular was more creased than the rest, from years of using it as a bookmark, or taking it out of the bedside drawer to look at. It was a photo of her parents - taken just before she was born, she was told.



There hadn't been a lot of photographs of her mama when she was younger. She had understood that her mama's death was still painful for her father - he rarely wished to talk about her at all in fact. Liliana had seem him flinch at the sound of her name - Emiliana - more than enough throughout her childhood to know that the pain was still raw. As such she treasured what little photographs she did have of her mother, and craved any information she could gather about a woman she had never known.

Staring at the photograph in her hands now, feeling all too alone in the heart of a lions dens of mafiosi, she found comfort in her mothers image. Emiliana Fiorenza survived a year married to a mafiosa before she died in childbirth.

If her mama could do it, then she could too, Liliana thought resolutely.

***

When Marcello finally returned to their bedroom, Liliana was already in bed. She sat up against the headboard, watching him with sharp eyes as he lumbered into the room with heavy movements and a clenched jaw. He didn't pay notice to her in his bed, as if she wasn't there at all, and began to strip from his suit with more ferocity than was necessary. It was only when he caught sight of the crumpled photograph she had leant against a pile of books on the dresser - which she had folded in half to hide her father - that he paused.

Marcello cast the photograph a strange look, one she couldn't decipher, almost as if it's very existence on the dresser offended him. She tensed, preparing herself for some sharp comment. If he didn't like the sight of her things in his neat and tidy (boring) bedroom, tough. She didn't want to share the room with him in the first place.

But no such comment came.

He continued to undress, though this time with considerably less vigour. Unbuttoning his shirt slowly, Liliana was privy to the view of the smooth olive-toned expanse of his back as the white shirt fell from his shoulders.

His muscles flexed with the movement, and Liliana was unable to tear her greedy eyes away. Marcello unbuckled his belt, the metallic sound a thunderous clang in her ears. Her stomach fluttered and she recognised the feeling with a deep rolling sense of horror.

What was she doing, eyeing him up as if she was attracted to him? She didn't understand what had overcome her so suddenly. This was a dangerous man. A man who'd killed and blackmailed and exploited his way through life to remain at the top. This was not a man whom she should be feeling flutters over for fuck's sake.

Why was he undressing out here anyway, when there was a perfectly good bathroom attached to the room? Was he trying to tease her? Was he laughing at how easily she was distracted by the sight of his body?

She was entirely aware that tonight would be the first night they went to bed together and stayed in bed together until morning. The thought of being so close to him, for so long, in such an intimate setting as his bed, had her uneasy. It was truly unfair for him to expect her to stay in his room, in his bed, so soon after being forced into this.

Liliana ripped her gaze away just as Marcello's trousers dropped.

Fucking hell.

"Scowling doesn't suit you, la mia piccola moglie," Marcello's deep voice broke the silence between them. My little wife, he had called her. Liliana's scowl deepened. He was facing her now and Liliana was struck by how tired he looked, despite the small smile that tugged on the edge of his mouth. "Gabriella's words must have been cutting for you to be so affected still."

Of course he already knew about the kitchen meet and greet disaster. Angelo had likely ran straight toward his big brother to laugh gleefully at how their mother had verbally bitch-slapped Marcello's new wife in the very kitchen where they likely all shared breakfast - except Marcello of course, he was apparently above the need for breakfast.

Through a tight lipped smile, Liliana asked, "Do I look like a whore to you?"

Liliana still couldn't comprehend what had possessed Gabriella to speak to her like that. Her absence from her eldest son's wedding didn't seem so strange now, perhaps Gabriella simply didn't like the bride. Why she didn't like Liliana was still to be determined.

"Are you sure you want me to answer that?" He looked far too amused.

"Marcello," she snapped, rising from her position in the bed so that her knees know sunk into the mattress. She pointed sharply in his direction, as she said, "I have done nothing wrong to your mother, as far as I am aware, and yet she felt the need to call me a whore two seconds into meeting me. Out of respect to her, and to you, I held my tongue. But the next time she dares to speak to me like that I will put her in her place. My freedom has been stolen from me, I will not sacrifice my pride as well. Do you understand me?"

He chest heaved beneath the camisole vest she wore to bed, and her eyes were hard as she glared at him. Marcello had approached the bed now, almost face to face with her as she knelt there with that same sense of rage she had felt ever since their engagement bubbling up within her. He hands were shaking, and that rage threatened to overflow.

For a second, she relished the thought. She wanted to let go, to release that rage and let it flood over her. She wanted to be entirely too wild and impulsive, to fight as she had not been able to before their marriage.

But then she remember who it was that opposed her. And common sense had her reeling back that rage and steeling her spine as she awaited his reaction.

Marcello's mouth was tight, his eyes narrowed in barely restrained fury of his own. But it didn't frighten her nearly as much as it should have.

"Firstly," Marcello's spoke evenly, the low timbre of his voice sending a shiver through Liliana's spine. His dark eyes kept her in place. "Gabriella is not the woman of the household. You are now the woman of this house."

Liliana's mouth opened to object but Marcello shot her a warning glance.

"Secondly, that selfish bitch is not my mother." He was so close now, she could feel his breath on her face. The hairs across the back of her neck stood on and her heart began to race. Marcello leant closer, bending down so that their noses were an inch from touching. Liliana's breath hitched.

"Thirdly," he whispered. "The next time she mistreats you I will deal with her personally. I know you want to label me the villain here Liliana but even if I'm a terrible husband, when it comes to family I look after D'Onofrio's - whether they think they need it or not."

He was so close. So fucking close and she was rendered frozen. Against all intelligent thoughts, her eyes dropped to his mouth. Like hers, his lips were parted, harsh breaths escaping.

Had she not been rendered silent so succinctly by his proximity, she might have thought to mention that Gabriella was surely more of a D'Onofrio then she ever would be.

They had kissed only once before, at the alter in front of all their family. It had been chaste and lasted barely a second before they had parted and Liliana was forced to plaster a smile to her lips as if she really were a the ecstatic new wife madly in love with her husband. She hadn't paid it a second thought since, and she absolutely hadn't the desire to kiss him again. Until now.

It would be a mistake. She knew that, how could she not? And yet the thought of it burned bright in her mind.

Marcello rocked forward only slightly, and she felt his lips graze hers so lightly she was sure she'd imagined it. The he was five steps towards the door, and avoiding her eyes.

"I won't be staying in here tonight." His voice was thick.

Liliana blinked, once, twice, mouth agape as she searched for anything to say. A heat scorched her cheeks.

He swallowed harshly and hesitated by the door for a second. The he was gone and she was left alone once again in an unfamiliar house, with an unfamiliar family - all the while missing her home in Italy.

All excitement that had surged through her had now fizzled away and only a deep sense of shame settle in it's place.

***

Marcello slammed the door of a guest bedroom behind him.

Well that hadn't gone well at all, he thought, cursing himself.

He had nearly forgotten how intoxicating he found her anger, that burning fire of defiance within her, to be. His heart leapt at its presence, as if gleeful at such anger, at the evidence of the fight that still reigned strong. He had seen what it was like for Liliana to quieten her self, to make herself small in the presence of her family and his, and he had not liked it one bit.

If she was still fighting, if that fire still burned, then at least he knew she had not lost herself in the dread that was this marriage.

He forced himself into the bathroom and into the shower, conscious of the throbbing arousal tenting his underwear.

Had she seen? Did she now know how much he had wanted her?

It took everything in him not to storm right back into the room and make her abundantly aware of his desires. But he couldn't do that to her. And he'd never forgive himself if he forced himself onto her.

That one look from Liliana had nearly been his undoing.

He hadn't even realised how close he had grown until he saw her eyes drop to his mouth and he knew then the direction her mind had veered. It was easy for him to believe in that moment, that she might not have hated him. It was easy for him to convince himself that she too wanted him, and that he was not alone in this surge of sexual longing.

He new without a doubt every time she singled her fury on him, his thoughts would stray to that moment in their bedroom. He would remember the faintest caress of her lips against his, and he would hate himself for it.

As he stood beneath the icy assault of the shower, he imagined the two of them tangled together in bed - his bed.

Now that he was alone he could hardly remember why he'd left. She was his wife. Who else but him would satisfy her desires? Who else but she would satisfy his?

Why shouldn't he go back in there and make his desire abundantly known?

It's stress, he told himself. It's just stress and exhaustion that's sparked this unexpected attraction, nothing more. It would be a mistake. Stop.

Because if he continued down this path, he feared what it would mean for either of them. Acknowledging any feelings for her would be dangerous - regardless of if they were purely sexual. He would not allow himself such a weakness.

He wouldn't yield to this attraction; he wouldn't yield to any sort of relationship with Liliana at all, for fear of realising just how much he truly yearned for it.

Because he would lose it, as he did all things he cherished.

And he wasn't sure how much more he could take.



And their relationship grows... in both good and bad ways. How does is feel to see a more vulnerable side to Mercello?

Q. How old are you all? I'm 17, in my final year of college (England and European education is different to other places I think, in case anyone is confused).

***

^ I'm now 22, nearing on 23, as I finally go through this to write the second draft. It's hilarious that it's taken me so long to be honest.

I've added a completely new bit to this chapter and also changed Marcello's perspective at bit the end so he didn't seem so entitled/full of himself (he fully came across as a sex predator in the old version ngl - 17 year old me clearly didn't understand what was actually attractive)