Broken Promise by M. James

Sofia

Idon’t know what to do with myself all day. I take a shower after Luca has left, lingering in there for as long as I can until my skin turns pink and my fingertips wrinkle, trying to push our argument and everything he’d said out of my mind. I try to focus on the good things—the luxurious herbal scent of the shampoo I’d brought into Luca’s bathroom from mine, the vanilla honey shower gel, the dual showerheads that make it feel as if I’m in the fanciest hotel I’ve ever stayed in. I’d thought my bathroom was ridiculous, but Luca’s is even more so. The tiles are heated, the bathtub massive, the shower just as big. I try to focus on that pleasure, enjoying washing the lingering smell and feel of the hospital off of me until I feel refreshed physically, at least.

And then, not an hour after he’d left, I wander into the living room to find an iPad left for me on the coffee table just as he’d said, with a sticky note attached to it that has a passcode written in bold letters. Someone already dropped this off. Is there anything he wants done that doesn’t happen immediately?

I type in the passcode to find the internet access and text messaging is disabled and only a single app for documents, with everything Luca must have asked Carmen to send over downloaded. A quick glance shows that they contain family trees, names of high-ranking members and wives and children, the mistresses of the men who were brought to events instead of their wives, everything I could possibly need to know about the family in order to politely converse at events and nothing else. Nothing interesting, no private information, no business dealings. Just the most tepid details for me to recite if need be, like Luca’s pretty little puppet.

Just looking at it makes me burn with resentment. Luca’s gone back on everything he promised, I think bitterly. He’d promised to leave me a virgin, and here I am, deflowered and insulted on top of it. He’d promised to give me my own apartment, and now not only am I stuck in his penthouse for an indeterminate amount of time, but I’m forced to share a bed with him. He’d promised me we’d hardly have to see each other after the wedding, and now nothing could be further from the truth.

Now he’s handed me homework.

I’m not fucking doing it.Rebellion rises up in my gut, hot and bitter, and I toss the iPad aside on the couch. Luca can go fuck himself. I don’t want to learn the names of the men in his organization, all of whom have controlled my life since I was a child without my even knowing it. I wonder how many of those men were the ones in suits who used to come to our apartment; if any of them were the ones who came to take my mother away for questioning, who bruised her face and threatened her.

I hate them. I hate every last fucking one of them. I wouldn’t care if they all died, I think, and as awful as the thought is, I let myself bask in it for a minute, because it feels good to be angry. It feels good to be petty, to let myself think the worst thoughts I could conjure. After all, those men get to do whatever they want, without consequence.

And the women, like Caterina, like me, like our mothers, pay the price.

It should have been Rossi who died in that blast, not Giulia. It should have been any of the men. Even Luca.

The thought surprises me. I don’t mean it, I know that, but it feels good to let myself think it, just for a moment. I’m so angry that it feels l like I was boiling over with it.

I glance over at the discarded iPad. If I’m going to do what Luca instructed me to—and just thinking of it in those terms makes me even angrier—then what will I do with the day? I have the penthouse to myself, and I might as well make the best of it.

In the end, I decide to spend the afternoon on the rooftop, by the pool. Rebelliously, I go behind the wet bar and proceed to do the one thing I haven’t done before—drink. There’s every imaginable kind of top-shelf liquor and mixers in the stainless-steel, glass-doored refrigerator behind the bar, and I dig out a bottle of tequila and watermelon margarita mix. If Luca is going to leave me here and insist that I can’t go anywhere on my own, I’m going to make him pay for it.

Even if that just means drinking up as much of his expensive booze as I can and ordering out the priciest food I can imagine. Carmen usually checks in sometime in the late afternoon to find out what I might want for dinner since Luca and I have yet to eat together. Apparently, it’s been assumed that I can’t cook, and even though I can, I’m happy to let Luca foot the bill for me to eat without having to prepare it myself.

With a watermelon margarita on the rocks in hand, complete with a sugar rim, I stretch out on one of the lounge chairs poolside, closing my eyes and soaking in the sun. Late spring in New York is rarely this warm, but we’ve had several hot days these past weeks, and I’m not going to complain. At least out here, on the rooftop, I feel like I can breathe just a little better. Luca’s penthouse is undeniably his, all of it carefully curated to ooze power and masculinity, and it makes me feel as if I’m suffocating.

Having my own room, with my own things that he’d given me the night before the wedding, had made it slightly more tolerable. And now, even that space has been taken away. Sure, I can spend time there during the day, it’s only at night that I have to sleep in his room. But it’s not the same. It no longer feels like my escape, a place where I can sleep in peace and feel almost safe again.

The thought of spending every night beside Luca makes my stomach clench with anxiety. How many nights will pass before he gets tired of sleeping next to a warm body that he can’t fuck? How long before he brings a woman home? I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already. Where would he do it? In a guest room? In my room?

It’s not even really mine,I remind myself. I tip my glass back, drinking the margarita fast enough to give me brain freeze and make me wince. Still, I get up to make another almost immediately. I want to stop thinking about Luca. I want him out of my head, even if I have to get blackout drunk to do it.

But I can’t. I drink three more margaritas on the rooftop as the afternoon passes, getting into the cool water of the pool and back out again to stretch out in the sun like a cat, trying to think of anything other than my cold, confusing husband. But it’s impossible. Every time I look to my left, my ridiculously massive ring glints in the sunlight. Every time I look around, I’m reminded that none of this is mine, it’s all his, and I only have it at all because of the vows I took forty-eight or so hours ago.

There’s nothing else to think about because everything I had before is gone. My education, my career, my travel plans, my hopes. I don’t know what my future will be like. It hinges on Luca’s uncertain dealings with the Bratva and their willingness to back down. And if they don’t?

Who knows what will happen then.

I’m supposed to be safe. Marrying Luca was supposed to keep me safe. But I still feel as uncertain and afraid as I did that night that Mikhail dragged me out of the nightclub.

After a while, when I can feel my skin starting to get a little too pink and I’ve exhausted my ability to drink another margarita, I wobble back down to the penthouse and put in my order for dinner with Carmen. Still seething, I order the most expensive four rolls from a nearby sushi restaurant that I can find on their menu and then go in search of more alcohol.

I’d expected Luca to come back at some point. After all, he’d said that the funeral wasn’t until tomorrow. But as the evening wears on and the clock goes from eight to nine, nine to ten, then I start to wonder if he’s coming back at all tonight. I ate my dinner in the movie room, lounging in one of the recliners with my sushi arrayed out on the pull-out tray, a gin and tonic sitting next to it. I’m barely paying attention to the movie, some bloody slasher flick that fits my mood, my thoughts still consumed with Luca as I pick at my sushi.

If he’s not coming home, there’s a reason for it. And I can only think of one reason that makes sense to me at the moment.

He’s with another woman. Maybe more than one. He didn’t want to deal with the drama of bringing someone back to the penthouse with his wife there, so he’s probably gotten a hotel room somewhere to do exactly what he said he would—fuck someone who will do what he wants and be good at it. Someone who can please him. Maybe several someones.

Maybe my husband is having a fucking orgy right now in some luxurious Manhattan hotel suite.

To my horror, I feel tears burning at the back of my eyelids. There’s no reason for that. I shouldn’t be upset; if anything, I should be grateful that Luca is with some other woman and not bothering me.

But I don’t feel that way. I feel hurt, which is stupid. I don’t want Luca in my bed, so I shouldn’t care if he’s in someone else’s.

I don’t want him. Right? Right?

I think about our wedding night, trying to remind myself of exactly what it is that I don’t want. But I suddenly can’t seem to remember how scared and upset I was to find out that Rossi was forcing him to take my virginity. I can’t seem to remember why I’d told him to get it over with. All I can remember is the way his fingers had felt grazing over my spine as he’d undone the back of my dress, how gorgeous his naked body had been. I’d never seen a naked man in person before, but I’m certain that his cock was the most perfectly made that it could be. Long and thick and straight, nearly pressing up against his belly, he’d been so hard.

Because of me. He’d wanted me. No matter how much he tries to deny it.

I rarely thought about sex before Luca. I’d only ever gotten myself off a couple times when I’d been so curious I couldn’t resist. I’d been too busy with other things to really make physical pleasure, with myself or anyone else, a priority. But now, alone in the movie room, I forget about the fact that I’m supposed to despise my husband. I forget that there might be cameras, that anyone might see. The memory of Luca stalking towards our bridal bed, his face dark and determined, his body rippling with muscle, his cock rock-hard from the sight of me naked atop it, is making me wet despite myself. I can feel it, how hot and slick I am at my core, the thin cloth of my lounge shorts clinging to me.

It’s easy to slide the fabric aside, pushing the tray away so that I have more room, my legs spreading slightly apart as I tease myself just a little, sliding one finger up the crease of my pussy. I remember Luca calling it that the night he bent me over the couch, telling me how wet I was for him, how much I wanted him.

And I had. But I’d told myself it was because Luca was there touching me, saying those dirty things to me, forcing my body to respond. That was why I’d been so wet, why I’d wanted to kiss him back, why I’d wanted so badly to come when he’d played with me that night on the couch.

He’s not here now, though. He’s not making me slide my finger between my folds, dragging the tip of it through the arousal gathered there up to my clit, making a small circle around that hardened nub until I gasp and my hips arch up. He’s not making me think about the way his cock had felt filling me for the first time, the first and only time a man has been inside of me, that close to me, and the way I’d regretted just for a moment telling him to get it over with.

He’s not making me think about the way he’d kissed me when he lost control, the way he’d shuddered against me, the way it had felt when he’d thrust that last time. I’d known he was orgasming, that only the thin condom kept him from filling me up with his cum, that I’d done that. I’d made him lose control, even with all my inexperience, all my protests.

Maybe that’s why. He got off because he knew you didn’t want it.

That’s the worst possibility, of course. But I don’t think that’s the case. I don’t think Luca likes forcing me because he wouldn’t have made me sleep with him on our wedding night. Since then, he’s gone to great pains to make me think that he doesn’t want to again.

But I’m not sure I believe it.

I know that all of this is the product of my feverish mind, muddled with all the alcohol I’ve drunk today and overcome with a sudden rush of desire for a man I know I don’t really want. Even still, I let myself imagine for just a moment what he might do if I gave in. If I said I wanted him.

Would he do the things Ana used to gleefully tell me about after her best dates? Things I hadn’t imagined doing before now? Would he go down on me, lick me where my fingers are stroking right now, circle my clit with his tongue like I am with my finger, keep going until I cried out and came? How would he fuck me if I let him?

I can hardly imagine it. Part of me feels detached, unable to believe that I’m masturbating in the middle of this room right now, my thin shorts pushed aside and my bare pussy on display for anyone who might walk in. But I can’t seem to stop. I push two fingers inside myself, trying to pretend that it’s Luca’s cock, trying to decide if that arouses me, but it can’t possibly feel as big as he had. Still, my thumb rubbing over my clit makes my hips buck up into my hand, my breathing coming faster and faster as I try to imagine his mouth on me instead, his head buried between my thighs.

“Oh god—” I moan aloud, my thighs tensing as I realize out of the blue that I’m about to come. It feels stronger than any time I’ve done this before, the pressure building until I’m desperate for it, almost as good as when Luca teased me to the edge that night that he came all over my ass, his hot seed dripping down the curve of my cheek, over my thigh—

“Fuck!” I squeal with surprise, unable to believe that last thought pushed me over the edge as my whole body starts to shudder, pleasure sweeping over me. I moan and writhe in the seat, feeling the wet heat that spreads over my fingers onto my hand, my clit pulsing under my thumb.

And then, as the waves of my orgasm recede and the room comes back into focus, I realize exactly what I just did.

“Oh my god.” I yank my shorts back into place, my cheeks flushing red. There’s no place in this apartment that doesn’t have cameras except for the bathroom, I’m sure of it. Luca’s mentioned to me several times how much security there is here. What if one of his guards saw me? What if Luca looks back at the footage and sees me?

My heart is pounding, from the orgasm or the fear of getting caught, I’m not sure. He’ll never let me live it down if he sees it, that’s for sure. And if he finds out that one of his guards saw it—

Will he punish them? Will he punish me? I swallow hard, ignoring the small shiver of arousal that creeps down my spine at the thought.

Without another thought, I grab my drink, picking up my takeout trays of sushi and flinging them into the trash. My appetite is completely gone, my entire body numb now with the realization of what I just did, and I’m horrified with myself.

I just masturbated for the first time in a year or more, probably, and I did it thinking about Luca. My husband. The man who forced me to give up my virginity. The man who cut into my thigh afterward when I didn’t bleed. The man who could have come up with that idea in the first place and kept me from having to sleep with him at all.

I feel sick all over again.

The drink is gone by the time I make it to the bedroom, and I set the glass on the dresser, not caring if Luca sees it later. My head feels dizzy with alcohol, my skin flushed and itchy, and I can’t remember the last time I was this drunk. Maybe never.

I manage to make it into the shower and stand under the hot spray of water until I lose track of time, leaning against the wall. I try to push the thought of what I just did out of my head, convince myself that Luca won’t find out, won’t care, won’t do anything if he does.

Even though I know that’s not true.

I feel worn down and exhausted by the day, by everything preceding it. At some point, I get out of the shower and half-heartedly dry off, stumbling into the bedroom. I feel my stomach twist with trepidation and nausea as I climb into the massive bed, sitting awkwardly in the middle for a minute.

Which side is Luca’s? Which side will he want me to sleep on? Does it matter?

The thought seems so ludicrous I want to burst out laughing. I almost do, a squeak of it escaping from my lips as I sit in the middle of the dark grey duvet in the unfamiliar bedroom, in a bed that’s not mine.

Finally, I just pick a side. I crawl under the comforter, remembering the first night I woke up here in this bed, before I knew about any of this—before I knew that Luca would be my husband, before I knew that everything I’d dreamed about was gone.

I wonder what it will be like when he inevitably comes back when he’s in bed next to me. I reach out and place my hand on the cool spot on the other side, where the sheet is smooth and undisturbed, the pillows neatly stacked. At some point, there will be a person here. My husband.

I’d never shared a bed with anyone before my wedding night. Now I’ll share one every night with a man I should loathe, but who I clearly have far more complicated feelings about.

And I don’t have the slightest idea what to do about that.