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“It’s my fault, not Gus’s.” Her voice wobbles, and she swallows hard. “I was just trying to be useful to you.”
Her words catch me in the jaw like a sucker punch. Trying to be useful to me? On the phone, the crooked filth made it sound like she was just out for a joy ride.
“Useful.” I keep my voice gruff.
“I’m a seamstress.” Through her tears, she laughs weakly. “I’m no use as a mafia wife.”
Something inside me cracks.
Brioni tries to smile at me, but her pale lips tremble. I look away. Needing something to do, I start the car and turn on her heated seat. But I don’t drive us anywhere.
She wants to be useful as a mafia wife. As my mafia wife.
A spark of hope flickers in my chest, but I recognize how fucking foolish it is. Wishful thinking I can’t indulge. I snuff it out immediately.
“What the fuck does that have to do with driving at breakneck speed?” I throw in the swear word to see her flinch again.
“I didn’t know how to drive.” She drops her gaze. “I wanted to learn in case…” She shrugs. Helpless. Feeling useless. I watch her twist her fingers in her lap until I can’t stand it.
“Show me what you learned.” I growl it, like an aggressive challenge. I don’t wait for her to reply, I just get out and leave the driver’s door open.
By the time we’re reseated, I’m aware that this is a terrible idea. I shouldn’t be rewarding her for putting herself at risk like that. She was going sixty-eight in a fifty-five, the filth reported. Which really isn’t that bad. Not if she was doing it for the reason she claims.
I shake my head clear as Brioni takes ten goddamn minutes adjusting the seat, mirrors, steering wheel, and pedals. I buckle up as I wait. It’s a habit Mam so annoyingly drilled into us.
When Brioni’s ready and buckled herself, she glances over at me. She’s waiting for my instructions. I ignore the swell of joyful pride in my chest. It’s a good sign that she’s deferring to me, that’s all.
“Use the airstrip,” I tell her. I’m not about to let her drive on public roads.
She rolls us toward the long strip of pavement at a snail’s pace. It’s excruciating. When we reach the airstrip, she signals, then comes to a complete stop before turning. As she inches us down the runway, I can’t take it anymore.
“Go faster.”
She bites her lip but does as I say. She’s doing this for me. Between mastering a gun and learning how to drive—to be useful—she’s dedicated to her role as my wife-to-be.
Because it’s not just a role anymore. Not if she’s taking it this seriously. And that thought is so goddamn intoxicating. My Brioni, eager to be my mafia wife. I keep tight control on the hope threatening to grow in my chest.
When Brioni reaches the end of the airstrip, she signals before making a U-turn.
“Faster this time,” I instruct.
She hesitates, but only for a moment. The Nav’s responsive, and we’re up to cruising speed in seconds. But it’s not enough.
“Faster.”
This time she doesn’t hesitate. As we zoom toward the end of the pavement, she lifts her foot off the gas.
“Keep speed,” I say roughly. “I’ll tell you when to brake.”
She sucks in a breath. I can tell she’s nervous, but it’s an excited kind of nervous. And she’s eagerly following every word I say. I wait until the last second, then shout for her to brake and turn. We skid to the perfect stop, the passenger wheels halting on the very edge of the tarmac.
Brioni glances over at me. She’s breathing hard, and there’s that sexy gleam in her eye. She’s enjoying the thrill. I feel my cock twitch at the thought. I’ve always known that deep down, my Brioni isn’t as delicate as she seems.
“Again,” I tell her.
She grins, then guns us into breakneck speed. Her face is lit with maniacal pleasure as she turns to beam at me. I know I should be furious with her, and so I don’t smile back. When she returns her attention to the runway, she screams.
I register the deer in front of us as Brioni stomps on the brakes. The tires shriek, and my seatbelt locks. I try to reach for her, to brace her with my arms, but I can’t. Mere yards in front of us, the deer doesn’t move. Brioni swerves, uncontrolled.
