The moment we stepped into Marcello's office at the Castellano headquarters, I froze. His entire desk was covered in pictures of me. Different angles, different days, some I didn't even know he'd taken. They were arranged with an almost ritualistic precision, fanned across the dark mahogany like surveillance photos pinned to a war board, except every single one was of his wife.
I felt a chill run through me. Before I could say anything, I felt him behind me. His arms slid around my waist, his lips brushing my neck.
"Arianna," he whispered, voice low and smooth, "a lot of women throw themselves at me. But when I look at these, I remember who I belong to. You don't have to worry. I'm all yours."
I kept my eyes on the pictures, my lips pressed tight. I couldn't bring myself to answer. The room smelled of his cologne and old leather, and somewhere beyond the heavy office door, I could hear the muffled rhythm of the building, soldiers and associates and accountants keeping the Castellano machine running. None of them knew what their Don's desk looked like. None of them would have believed it.
A knock came at the door. Mateo's voice followed. "Boss, the sit-down's about to start."