You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 2) (9 page)

Dahlia Fury

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q0wZQbK938Y&nohtml5

(Happiness)

I
’ve been to Venice before, but never to Rome so it is all, as Stella would say it in a fake post accent, ‘terribly exciting’. We are just like two tourists. I really get into character. I catch myself wondering what Dahlia Zhivanescskaya would do right then. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined travelling on a fake passport with a Russian mob boss.

I must admit my heart races like a bullet train when we are asked to show our passports, but Zane doesn’t even bat an eyelid, and quite right he was to be so chilled about it all. We were waved through after a cursory examination of our passports. The adrenaline spike dies down and at this point I am beginning to really appreciate the adventure I’m on. I’ve just broken God knows how many international laws and you know what? It feels absolutely brilliant.

Maybe even a bit Bonnie and Clydeish.

Like any other tourists we go pick up our luggage like everyone else and walk to Customs. We don’t hold hands. That would be silly at this stage of the relationship … until that is, he takes my hand and then it’s panic stations …  Oh my God: we are holding hands!

The weather outside is beautiful. Bright and pleasantly warm. We get into a taxi and Zane gives him the address. Twenty minutes later we’re in fabulous Rome. Wow! What an amazing city. I stare at all the wonderful buildings full of history and beauty. We pass the Coliseum and I crane my neck out of the taxi to stare at it.

‘We’ll see it tomorrow,’ Zane says.

I turn to him. ‘Great. I’ve always wanted to see it.’

‘It is one of the most fascinating places on the earth,’ he says quietly.

The villa is located in Formello about twenty kilometers from Rome, and is surrounded by lush trees and greenery. The wrought iron gates are opened by a small, white-haired man who nods at us formally as we drive through to a gorgeous house painted in burnt orange. It has a white stone balustrade and slated wooden shutters painted duck-egg blue on the windows. There is an ancient green Mazda parked by the side of the house.

We step out onto the dusty road and a tiny woman comes out of the large wooden door and smiles in greeting. The man who opened the gates comes up the driveway as the taxi driver is taking our bags out of the boot.

‘Benevenuto Senor e Senora Zhivanecskaya,’ the woman says. Her face is full of wrinkles and her eyes are brown and rheumy, but her smile is real and full of spirit.

‘Grazia, Senora Rossi,’ Zane says.

I smile at her.

By now the sprightly old man is upon us and his weathered face is split into a large welcoming grin. He reaches forward and grasps Zane’s hand in both of his. To my surprise Zane starts talking to him in fluent Italian. After a while the man lifts his hand and bids us both goodbye. The woman, presumably his wife, nods at us, and they both get into the rickety car and drive off.

‘It’s just you and me now,
rybka
,’ Zane says with a wink.

‘I didn’t know you could speak Italian.’

‘Many Russians can speak German, French, and Spanish too.’

‘Wow! Impressive.’

Zane hauls up our luggage and we go into the villa. It is cool inside with terrazzo flooring and cold white walls. The hallway leads to a very large lounge with exposed beams, a massive fireplace, and a graceful rusted-iron chandelier. It is sparsely filled with reproduction rococo style Italian furniture and an upright piano in one corner of the room.

The lounge opens up to a dining room with a long, highly polished table and eight tall chairs. At the back of the house there is a large country style kitchen with a much smaller farmhouse table and wooden chairs with straw seats. All the rooms wrap around an oriental style courtyard in the middle of the house.

Up a flight of stone stairs there are three spotless double bedrooms with en-suites. We put our bags in the master bedroom. It is a beautiful room with a king-size bed covered in a damask bedcover, a large tapestry on the wall, and a velvet daybed. I go over to the window and see that there is a swimming pool right underneath the window. To my delight there is also a lemon grove in the grounds.

It is nearly five by now and I turn to Zane with a happy smile. ‘What do you want to do, Mr. Zhivanescskaya?’

‘Guess, Mrs. Zhivanescskaya?’ he says, coming towards me.

‘Oooo, but Mr. Zhivanescskaya I—’ The rest of my words are cut out by his mouth swooping down on mine.

I lie on the softly scented pillow and I think that though all our other sex sessions have been awesome this one has been undoubtedly the best. Why? Because Zane is a different man. His body is without that strung-wire tension and his eyes don’t house that peculiar wariness that I always associate with him. He even looks younger.

A gust of wind redolent of the smell of lemons and fallen leaves comes in from the open window and blows over our heated skin. Outside it’s still light, but it is a kind of translucent light never found in England. I turn my head and look at Zane. A lock of his hair has fallen on his forehead. I push it away with my hand. He opens his eyes and looks at me.

‘Do you think it will rain?’ I ask.

‘No,’ he says softly.

‘I really like it here,’ I say, yawning and stretching lazily.

He takes the opportunity to slip his finger into me. It makes my body arch and his finger crooks in me and starts stroking the delicate tissues inside me.

‘Oh, Zane,’ I whisper.

‘I love watching you come,’ he says and continues playing with me.

Dahlia Fury

W
e shower and get dressed. Zane wears a charcoal suit with a silk, oyster shirt and I slip into a white dress with a full skirt and knot a pale blue sweater around my neck. Doing my make up I watch him in the mirror. His hair is still damp and he looks virile and full of vigor.

‘I’ll wait for you outside,’ he says.

‘I’ll come out when I finish putting on my face,’ I say.

I keep my make up very light and, wearing blue pumps with espadrille heels, I go outside. The air is beginning to cool. I find him smoking a cigarette on the terrace. The last embers of the sun are in the sky, giving his hair a reddish hue. When he hears me he turns around and looks at me. I shiver, intoxicated by the magic of that moment.

His eyes light up as if from within and he smiles slowly. ‘Oh fuck, I’m going to be fighting off men all night, aren’t I?’

I blush and twist my pretend wedding band around my finger. ‘And I’m going to be scratching out women’s eyes all night, aren’t I?’

‘You really think so?’ he asks cockily.

‘I know so,’ I tease, feeling shy. He is so, so, so different, so out of character. I love this warm, cheeky, gorgeous man.

He takes a last drag of his cigarette and kills it in an ashtray on the wrought iron table, then comes towards me. ‘How hungry are you?’

‘Starving,’ I admit.

He puts his hand on the small of my back. ‘Good. Let’s go.’

There is a bright yellow Fiat Cinquecento waiting outside.

‘Where did that come from?’ I ask.

‘It was in the garage,’ he says looking at me closely. ‘Don’t you like it?

‘Yeah, it’s cute, but I didn’t expect you to hire one.’

‘When in Rome …’ he trails away, and opens the passenger door for me.

I get in and it smells of new leather and the sickly sweet smell of air freshener. I turn around to watch Zane get into the driver’s seat. The sight of him folded inside the interior of such a small car makes me giggle.

‘Rome is not made for big cars,’ he explains.

I soon see why. The streets are narrow and full of parked cars. There is hardly any parking space, and when Zane parks in a minute space with only an inch front and back to spare, I see the wisdom of the tiny car.

He locks the car and we walk down a narrow Roman street with only a little sliver of sky above us. There is no sidewalk and cars and mopeds whizz by right past us. Laundry hangs out of first floor windows and in tiny balconies filled with flowerpots.

Street musicians are playing outside the restaurant. There are tables outside and people are sitting at them. They have the air of locals and look at us curiously. A balding man in a white shirt and black apron rushes out to greet Zane.

‘Ahhh Aleksandr,’ he calls loudly. ‘Che meravigliosa sorpresa.’

‘He’s telling me what a marvelous surprise,’ Zane translates for me.

The man’s dark eyes slide towards me. ‘E chi è questa bellezza?’ he asks.

Zane looks down at me and winks mischievously. ‘This beauty, Luca, is my wife, Dahlia.’

Intense heat creeps up my neck and into my face. How casually he had called me his wife. How awesome if we were not pretending. If we were really married. If I was really his wife.

Luca makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Bellezza,’ he cries dramatically. ‘But of course a beautiful man catches a beautiful woman for his bride,’ he says switching to English.

‘Hello,’ I say.

He tilts his head. ‘English?’ he asks with a frown.

‘American,’ I confirm with a smile.

He holds up a knowing finger. ‘Ah, I knew it.’

‘Come, come,’ he invites warmly, and gestures us towards a table covered with a black and white striped table cloth. As we are being seated, he says, ‘Let Luca make something,’ he brings together his thumb, index and middle fingers together and kisses them with a loud smacking noise, ‘for you.’

‘OK.’ I grin at him appreciatively.

He looks at Zane. ‘
Cacio e Pepe con Tartufi
?’

Zane looks at me. ‘Would you like to try a handmade egg pasta with Pecorino Romano cheese, black pepper, and black truffles?’

‘Sounds great.’

Zane looks to Luca. ‘What would you suggest for the main?’

‘
Saltimboca.
’

‘That’s Roman dialect for ‘jump in your mouth,’ Zane tells me. ‘It’s a fry up of tender veal wrapped in Parma ham and sage and marinated in white wine.’

‘Yeah, sure. I’m game,’ I say.

‘
Va bene
,’ Luca approves, and goes away, head held high and humming to himself, oblivious to all the people in the restaurant.

‘What a character he is,’ I whisper to Zane.

Zane smiles. ‘It’s all a charade. He’s as sharp as nails. He counts the parmesan shavings he drops on his customers’ plates.’

I laugh.

The waiter arrives with aperitifs for us.

‘What’s this?’ I ask.

‘It’s Luca’s sense of humor,’ Zane says. ‘He made you an Americano.’

‘An Americano for an American. Nice one.’ I try it. ‘Hmmm … not bad. What’s in it?’

‘It’s a twist on the Negroni. Campari,
Martini Rosso
vermouth and soda.’

The diamond on my finger catches the light and sparkles. I resist the impulse to stare at it.

‘I know so little about you,’ I say.

‘There’s not much to know.’

‘Zane, I don’t even know what your favorite color is.’

‘Magenta.’

I tear open a packet of breadsticks and take one out. ‘That’s not a very masculine color. Why do you like it?’

‘I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s so rich and strong. What about you? What’s your favorite color?’

I break the breadstick in half. ‘I love baby blue best, but I also love black and pink and green, and orange, and most shades of yellow.’

He smiles and looks at me the way one does a child. Indulgently.

‘What’s your favorite food? Like if you had to live on it for the rest of your life,’ I ask, putting the breadstick into my mouth.

‘Hmmm …  Probably Argentinian steak and Hong Kong style French toast.’

‘What the heck is a Hong Kong style French toast?

‘Two pieces of toast slathered with peanut butter, soaked in egg batter then fried in butter and served with more butter and syrup.’

‘Jesus, that sounds like it would give a whale high cholesterol.’

He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me over the rim of his glass. ‘It’s very, very good though.’

‘Maybe I’ll try it one day.’

‘Maybe you will,’ he says softly.