I don’t understand all the hate Jobe is getting. He helped Sunderland get back into the premier league and now he’s doing what he believes is best for him. He’s been vocal about building his own persona and obviously he wouldn’t be going to dortmund if that wasn’t best for his development.
# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist
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Lewis had always been a man who controlled his environment—every variable calculated, every contingency planned for, every outcome anticipated. It was how he'd survived twelve years in a world where most operators barely lasted five. It was how he'd built an empire from nothing while others with family connections and inherited power had fallen.
But standing in the sprawling pool house of Salvatore Ricci's estate, watching snow flurries dance against the darkening November sky, Lewis was acutely aware of how many variables now lay beyond his control.
The call had come three days after Naomi and Miles had been close to identifying exactly who was feeding information to Suarez; Salvatore's demand interrupted their progress—his daughter was to return to New York immediately. There was no negotiation, no discussion, just a father's edict delivered with the absolute certainty of a man accustomed to universal compliance.
"My daughter returns home where she belongs," Salvatore had said, his voice carrying that particular blend of paternal concern and barely veiled threat that had built his reputation across three decades. "My territory, my protection. This is not a request, Hamilton."
Lewis had wanted to refuse. Every tactical instinct screamed that moving you across international borders while an active threat remained unidentified was a risk not worth taking. But Paolo had privately confirmed what Lewis had already suspected—Salvatore's "request" carried implications far beyond simple family reunion. It was a test of Lewis's understanding of power dynamics in their new alliance, a measuring of whether the British operator appreciated the delicate balance between respect and independence.
"Careful, my friend," Paolo had warned. "This is not just about her safety. It's about hierarchies that predate your involvement."
So here they were, installed in the pool house of the Ricci estate—a "compromise" that Salvatore had presented as generous accommodation of Lewis's desire for operational independence while keeping you under the umbrella of Ricci family protection. The pool house itself was larger than most luxury apartments, equipped with every comfort and convenience, including private security systems that Lewis had personally enhanced upon arrival.
The French doors leading to the hot tub steamed slightly in the cold air, the contrast between the heated water and November chill creating a ghostly veil that seemed appropriate for your current situation—existing between worlds, neither fully in Ricci territory nor fully independent of it.
"You've been staring at those trees for twenty minutes," your voice came from behind him, pulling Lewis from his thoughts. "I'm starting to think you're trying to burn holes through them with your mind."
Lewis turned, taking in the sight of you wrapped in one of his sweaters that hung nearly to your knees, a mug of something steaming held between your hands. The simple domesticity of the image created an unfamiliar tightness in his chest—a reaction he'd been trying to control with limited success since Scotland.
"Just checking the sightlines," he replied with a half-smile. "Your father's security team has cameras pointing at us from at least three spots in those bare trees."
You moved to stand beside him at the window, casually bumping your shoulder against his arm. "Ah, classic Ricci trust issues in their natural habitat. He doesn't spy because he thinks we're up to anything. He just can't stand not knowing everything."
"Smart man," Lewis said, allowing his hand to rest lightly on your lower back. "Information is survival."
"Says the guy who has Miles sweeping for bugs twice a day," you countered with a laugh. "I've seen him crawling under furniture with those weird little devices."
Lewis didn't deny it. "That's different—"
"I know, I know. It's not personal distrust, it's professional necessity," you finished, your eyes crinkling with amusement. "I've heard that one before."
Something about your easy teasing made it increasingly difficult for Lewis to maintain the careful distance he'd built his reputation on. Every day, the strategic arrangement that had defined your marriage's beginning felt more distant, replaced by something he wasn't yet prepared to name.
"Miles is coming after dinner," he said, shifting to more practical matters. "He's got some leads on which member of my security team has been talking to Suarez."
"How's he liking the servant quarters?" you asked, curling up on the plush couch with your legs tucked beneath you. "I'm sure it's quite the downgrade from your usual accommodations."
Lewis smiled despite himself. "He texted me this morning saying, 'Mate, these "servant quarters" are nicer than anywhere I've ever lived, and your father-in-law stocks the good whiskey.'"
Your laugh warmed something in Lewis that had been cold for longer than he cared to admit. "Papa probably doesn't know what to make of him."
"Few people do," Lewis agreed, finally moving from the window to join you on the couch, though he left a small gap between you. "People underestimate what's behind that charm."
"Like they do with you," you said, studying his face. "Except you use that whole stoic, controlled thing instead of charm."
The observation was accurate in a way that still occasionally caught him off guard. You had a knack for seeing past his carefully constructed walls.
"Different approaches to the same goal," he acknowledged. "Miles learned to put people at ease while getting what he needs. I learned to plan for every scenario."
"You rarely ever talk about your military days," you said, curious but careful.
Lewis considered how much to share. His military career was something he rarely discussed, not out of secrecy but from habit of keeping parts of his life separate. But something about you had been breaking down those barriers.
"Special operations," he said finally. "Miles and I were in Afghanistan, sometimes places we officially weren't supposed to be."
"And unofficially?" you prompted, trying to sound casual but clearly interested.
"We handled situations when diplomacy failed," Lewis said simply. "Miles gathered intelligence from people. I planned how to use it."
"That explains a lot," you said thoughtfully. "About both of you."
Lewis raised an eyebrow. "How so?"
"Miles is so good with people because that's how he survived. Reading what makes them tick." You took a sip from your mug before continuing. "And you plan for absolutely everything because that's how you kept people alive. Control as a survival thing."
The insight was uncomfortably accurate. Few people had ever connected those dots about his past and present.
"We were good at it," Lewis said simply. "Until we weren't."
"What happened?" you asked, your voice gentle.
Lewis rarely discussed Kabul. The mission that had ended his military career was a wound that had scarred over but never fully healed. Yet something about the moment made the story easier to tell.
"Operation went wrong in Kabul," he said evenly. "Bad intelligence. We were sent to extract a high-value target who was supposedly willing to give us information, but it was a setup."
You remained quiet, giving him space to continue.
"We lost three men in the first five minutes. Miles noticed something off about a supposedly 'friendly' checkpoint. His instincts saved who was left, but we still had to fight our way out across fourteen kilometers of hostile territory."
The memories were still vivid—the smell of dust and blood, the sound of gunfire echoing through narrow streets.
"Miles took a bullet to the shoulder. I took three in the leg," Lewis continued, his hand unconsciously moving to his thigh where the scars remained. "Medical discharge for both of us. The operation was classified, erased from the records, and we were told to find new careers."
"Told?" you repeated, catching the euphemism.
"We could either keep quiet and take a payout, or face charges for things that officially never happened," Lewis clarified. "The government needed deniability. We needed to disappear."
"So you built new lives," you concluded. "Miles with his charm, you with your planning. Same skills, different world."
"Yes," Lewis acknowledged. "Though in many ways, our current world is more honest about its brutality."
You moved closer, eliminating the gap between you on the couch. "Thank you," you said simply. "For telling me."
Lewis found himself taking your hand, a gesture that felt increasingly natural despite his usual aversion to casual contact. "Not a story I share often."
"I know," you replied, your fingers lacing with his. "That's why it matters that you did."
The implication hung between you—the growing trust, the boundaries falling, the strategic arrangement evolving into something neither of you had anticipated.
The moment was interrupted by Lewis's phone buzzing with a text from Miles: Heading over in 30. Found something in those financial trails. Also, your father-in-law invited me to Sophia's birthday dinner tomorrow. Should I be worried?
Lewis showed you the message, watching your expression shift to amused concern.
"Poor Miles," you laughed. "Sophia's going to eat him alive. She's been changing her birthday plans every day since we got here."
"How's she handling the scaled-down celebration?" Lewis asked, genuinely curious about your sister's adjustment to the security constraints.
Your expression softened with affection. "Better than I expected, honestly. Finding out there might be international crime lords after the family has actually toned down her dramatics. She's settled for a small gathering at the house instead of the club event she'd been planning forever."
"Eighteen is a big deal," Lewis observed. "Even with everything else going on."
"In the Ricci family, it's practically sacred," you confirmed. "The formal 'you're an adult now' moment, though Sophia's been acting like she's grown since she was about twelve. I'm glad we made it back for her birthday, even if the reasons are... complicated."
The mention of your return to New York brought Lewis's attention back to the tactical situation. Salvatore's demand had coincided with intelligence suggesting Suarez's surveillance of your movements had intensified, with the added complication of still not knowing exactly which member of Lewis's security team had been compromised.
"Any word on when your father plans to move on De Garza?" Lewis asked, shifting to operational concerns.
Your expression grew more serious. "Paolo says he's gathering final evidence. Wants everything in place first. You know how Papa works—big dramatic justice moment for maximum impact."
Lewis did indeed understand. Salvatore Ricci's approach to betrayal was almost ritualistic—carefully staged confrontations that served as warnings to anyone else considering similar disloyalty. Different from Lewis's own preference for quick, clinical elimination of threats, but effective in its own way.
"Your father has asked me to be there when it happens," Lewis noted, still uncertain about the implications. "Unusual for him to include outsiders in family business."
"You're not an outsider anymore," you said simply. "Not to him. Asking you to be part of De Garza's judgment is his way of acknowledging where you stand."
Lewis considered this. "As your husband."
"As family," you corrected. "Which in my world means more than just paperwork. He's bringing you into the inner circle."
The observation aligned with Lewis's own assessment, though hearing it directly brought the implications into sharper focus. Accepting Salvatore's invitation meant acknowledging certain traditional power dynamics that Lewis had always avoided—family loyalty above strategic advantage, ritual above efficiency, tradition above innovation.
Yet he recognized the necessity. New York was Ricci territory, and certain concessions to Salvatore's methods were both tactically sound and strategically advantageous for the longer-term alliance.
"I'll be there when he's ready," Lewis decided. "But I'm going to handle Suarez and our leak my own way."
"That's fair," you agreed. "Papa respects clear boundaries when you're upfront about them. It's when things are fuzzy that he can't deal."
The conversation shifted to more immediate concerns as you both prepared for Miles's arrival, but Lewis found his thoughts returning to the evolving dynamics of your relationship—both with him and within your family structure.
The woman who had entered his life as a strategic alliance was proving far more complex and compelling than any arrangement could have anticipated. The careful distance Lewis had maintained throughout his professional life was eroding in ways that both concerned and intrigued him. Each day brought new variables beyond his control, yet he found himself increasingly unwilling to restore the boundaries that would reinstate that control.
It was... unsettling. And strangely exhilarating.
Snow kept falling outside. The bare trees were now covered in white, shining under the security lights around the property. Winter had arrived in New York, bringing familiar patterns and possibility for new beginnings.
Miles arrived right on time, his natural charm making the tactical intelligence briefing feel almost casual as the three of you settled in the pool house's living area.
"Financial traces definitely lead back to Petrov's network," Miles confirmed, spreading documents across the coffee table. "He's using shell companies to pay someone in our security division. The pattern matches his usual methods. He's actually being less careful than normal, which suggests he wants us to know it's him."
"Aleksei Petrov doesn't get sloppy," Lewis noted, studying the transaction records carefully. "If we can see his involvement, it's because he wants us to."
"The question is why," you added, leaning forward to examine the papers. "What's the gain from letting us know he's working with Suarez?"
"Gets in our heads," Miles suggested. "Makes us divide our attention between finding the mole and watching for him."
Lewis nodded. "Classic diversion. Create multiple threats at once, stretch our resources, then exploit the weaknesses."
"Have we narrowed down who's selling us out?" you asked Miles while casually leaning against Lewis's shoulder.
"Down to three possibilities," Miles confirmed. "All had access to the compromised protocols, all showing weird money movements in the last six months."
"Names?" Lewis asked, mentally reviewing potential connections.
"Davis, Hernandez, and Cruz," Miles replied, sliding personnel files across the table. "All cleared when you hired them, all clean until recently, all positioned to access the systems when the breaches happened."
Lewis studied the files, calculating possibilities with practiced precision. "Cruz worked Lagos operations before London. Possible connection to Suarez's Nigerian distributors."
"Already checking that angle," Miles confirmed. "Hernandez has been hiding some health issues—big medical debts that magically disappeared three months ago."
"And Davis?" you prompted, picking up the third file.
"Former military intelligence, perfect record," Miles said with a hint of personal connection. "Served in our region, different unit. Honorable discharge after getting hurt. No obvious weak spots, but had access to everything that was compromised."
Lewis considered each possibility methodically. "We need proof before we move. Keep watching all three, but focus resources on Hernandez. Medical debts are the most obvious pressure point."
"Already on it," Miles assured him. "Naomi's team is tracking their communications in real time. We should know for sure within forty-eight hours."
The tactical discussion continued as plans formed and contingencies were established, the three of you working with the easy cooperation that came from shared understanding of both threats and objectives. By the time Miles departed back to the main house, a clear path forward had emerged despite the complications of operating from Ricci territory rather than Lewis's own secured locations.
*******************************************
Later that night, as snow continued to fall outside, Lewis found himself drawn to the hot tub on the pool house's private deck. The steam rising from the heated water created an otherworldly effect against the darkened sky, the snow melting instantly as it touched the surface. A strange counterpoint of elements that somehow seemed appropriate to his current circumstances.
He had just settled into the water, the heat easing the persistent ache in his leg where old bullet wounds protested against the winter chill, when he heard the sliding door open behind him.
"Room for one more?" you asked, wrapped in a robe against the cold air.
Lewis felt that now-familiar tightening in his chest at the sight of you—hair in its natural curly state and in a low bun, face free of makeup, eyes reflecting the soft lighting from the pool house behind you. A version of yourself few ever saw.
"Always," he replied simply, watching as you slipped the robe from your shoulders to reveal a black barely-there bikini. The sight sent heat through him that had nothing to do with the water's temperature.
You slid into the water across from him, sighing as the warmth enveloped you. "I forgot how brutal New York winters can be," you said, sinking deeper until the water reached your shoulders. "Scotland was cold, but this hits different."
"Damp cold versus dry cold," Lewis observed. "Different physiological response."
Your laugh echoed in the night air. "Only you would analyze the scientific properties of being cold."
"Habit," Lewis acknowledged with a small smile. "Hard to turn off."
"I've noticed," you replied, but your tone was affectionate rather than critical. "Though you're getting better at it. The Lewis Hamilton I met in London would never be sitting in a hot tub talking about the weather."
The assessment was accurate. Since Scotland—since you—certain rigid patterns that had defined his existence for years had begun shifting in subtle but significant ways. The control that had been both his greatest strength and his most impenetrable barrier was... evolving.
"Different situations call for different approaches," he said simply.
You moved through the water toward him, settling beside him rather than maintaining the distance across the tub. "Is that what I am? A different situation?"
The question cut to the heart of what was developing between you—the strategic arrangement that had begun your relationship now transformed into something neither of you had named but both increasingly acknowledged in small actions and quiet moments.
"You're..." Lewis paused, searching for the right words. "More complicated than that."
"Complicated," you repeated with a smile. "Not exactly what every girl dreams of hearing."
"But accurate," Lewis replied, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin. "What started as strategic has become... personal in ways I hadn't expected."
"The great Lewis Hamilton, faced with something he didn't plan for," you teased, though something serious lingered in your eyes. "How do you even cope?"
"I'm adapting," he admitted, finding honesty easier in the steam-wrapped privacy of the moment. "And finding unexpected value in the surprise."
Your expression softened. "Value, huh? At least I've been upgraded from 'complicated' to 'valuable.'"
Lewis found himself smiling—another change you had gradually worked in him. "Always precise with language."
"Some precision is overrated," you suggested, moving closer until your thigh pressed against his beneath the water. "Sometimes it's better to... improvise."
The implication hung between you, heavy with meaning beyond the words themselves. The careful distance Lewis had maintained throughout his professional life—the control that had defined his reputation and ensured his survival—becoming increasingly difficult to justify when faced with the growing connection between you.
"Improvisation has its merits," he acknowledged, his hand finding yours beneath the water, fingers intertwining with natural ease.
You studied him for a moment, your perception cutting through his careful composure as it increasingly tended to do. "You've been pulling back since we got to New York."
The observation caught him off guard—another demonstration of how effectively you'd learned to read him despite his lifetime of practiced control.
"Not pulling back," Lewis clarified after a moment's thought. "Reevaluating. Being on your father's territory changes things."
"This isn't about my father," you said with quiet certainty. "This is about you being afraid of what's happening between us."
The directness of the assessment was uncomfortable precisely because it contained elements of truth Lewis wasn't yet prepared to fully examine. The connection developing between you had progressed far beyond strategic alliance into territory he had carefully avoided throughout his professional life—genuine attachment with its accompanying vulnerabilities.
"I wouldn't call it fear," he said finally. "Caution, maybe. In our world, personal attachment creates potential weaknesses."
"Or strengths," you countered, squeezing his hand beneath the water. "Have you considered that?"
The concept wasn't entirely foreign to Lewis's strategic thinking—alliances had always been part of his operational approach. But this was different. This was personal in ways that defied tactical calculation, emotional in dimensions he had deliberately avoided since leaving military service.
"It complicates things," he said, the admission costing him more than it should have.
"The best things usually do," you replied, your free hand coming up to rest against his cheek. "But that doesn't mean they're not worth it."
The touch of your palm against his face, warm from the heated water, broke something in Lewis's carefully maintained control. His arm slid around your waist, drawing you closer against him as his mouth found yours in a kiss that carried nothing of strategic calculation and everything of genuine desire.
You responded immediately, your body molding against his as the kiss deepened, your hands sliding into his braids as his tightened at your waist. The steam from the hot tub enveloped you both, creating a world apart from tactical considerations and operational necessities, a space where only this connection mattered.
When Lewis finally pulled back, both of you breathing harder, his forehead rested against yours. "We should go inside," he said, his voice rougher than usual. "It's getting cold."
The practical suggestion carried deeper implication, and you studied his face carefully. "Are you sure? You've been keeping some distance since we got here."
"Some battles aren't worth fighting," Lewis admitted, his hand coming up to touch your face with careful tenderness. "Even for me."
Your smile in response was warm and knowing. "Finally something we completely agree on."
Inside the pool house, the warmth enveloped you both as water droplets fell to the floor. Lewis reached for towels, handing one to you with practiced efficiency that couldn't quite mask the heat in his gaze. The memory of Scotland—of that night when his careful control had finally broken completely—flooded back unbidden, sending heat through you that had nothing to do with the hot tub.
"You're thinking about Scotland," Lewis observed, his perception as acute as ever despite his own evident distraction.
"How can you tell?" you asked, though the warmth in your cheeks probably answered the question.
Lewis's smile held dangerous promise. "Your expression. The same one you had that night in the library when I—"
"Yes," you interrupted, the heat intensifying at the reminder. "That night."
His eyes darkened slightly, pupils dilating in a way that suggested his mind had gone to the same memory. "You've been... restless since we arrived in New York."
"Restless is one word for it," you agreed, moving closer despite the towel still wrapped around your shoulders. "Sexually frustrated might be more accurate."
"Patience has never been your strong suit," Lewis replied, though his tone suggested he was reminding himself as much as you.
"Not a Ricci family trait," you countered, deliberately closing the distance between you until your body pressed against his. "Besides, if I remember correctly, you didn't mind my impatience in Scotland."
Lewis's hands settled at your waist, neither pulling you closer nor pushing you away—suspended in that careful control that both frustrated and fascinated you. "Scotland was different."
"Different how?" you challenged, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath damp skin. "We're still the same people."
"We're on your father's property," Lewis pointed out, though his voice had roughened slightly as your fingers traced patterns against his skin. "With his security team watching every move."
"We're in the pool house," you reminded him, leaning up to press a deliberate kiss to the side of his neck, just below his jaw where you'd learned he was particularly sensitive. "Which you've personally checked for cameras twice today."
A small sound escaped him—barely audible but deeply satisfying given his usual iron control. "You're being difficult again."
"Bratty, you mean?" you suggested with a smile against his skin, your teeth grazing gently along his collarbone. "We both know what happened last time I was bratty."
Lewis's hands tightened at your waist, a flash of something dangerous and thrilling passing through his eyes. "Is that what you're trying to provoke?"
"Obviously," you replied, holding his gaze with deliberate challenge as you stretched up to capture his mouth again, your teeth catching his lower lip in a gentle bite that drew another of those quiet sounds from him. "Is it working?"
"This is your father's house," Lewis said again, though the protest sounded weaker as your hands continued their exploration of his chest.
"We're in the pool house," you repeated, pressing kisses along his jaw between words. "A very private, very secure pool house."
Lewis's control was visibly fraying, his breathing less even, his hands less steady at your waist. "You're playing a dangerous game."
The warning, spoken in that low tone that never failed to send heat spiraling through you, nearly broke your own composure. "I did warn you," you murmured against his lips, "that I'd never take no for an answer."
"Such a brat," Lewis replied, something dark and promising entering his voice as his hand slid up to tangle in your hair, tugging gently but firmly to tilt your face up to his. "Always pushing limits."
"Only yours," you assured him, your breath catching at the deliberate control in his grip—firm enough to direct but never to hurt, exactly the way he'd held you in Scotland while his mouth...
The thought was interrupted as Lewis finally broke, his mouth claiming yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. Gone was the careful restraint, replaced by focused desire as he backed you slowly against the wall, his body pressing yours in a way that left no doubt about how effectively your provocation had worked.
"You win," he murmured against your lips, your towel falling open in the process. He paused only to glance down at the sight of you: bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips, top snug across your chest, the towel forgotten at your feet. His hand slid lower, tracing a path that promised to recreate exactly what had happened in Scotland. "For now."
Your smile was pure triumph before it dissolved into gasps as Lewis proceeded to demonstrate that his tactical precision extended to far more interesting applications than mere security operations.
"You look like sin," he said, his voice rough as his hands traced the bare lines of your waist. "And you act worse."
You grinned, breathless. "And yet, here you are."
Lewis slid one thigh between your legs, spreading them gently, pinning you without needing to say a word. You gasped when he shifted just slightly, the pressure of his thigh against your center making your knees wobble.
"You know what I should do?" he whispered, leaning in to kiss the curve of your neck. "I should leave you like this. Wet and wanting. Learning a lesson."
"Or," you offered, rolling your hips the tiniest bit, "you could just admit you need me just as bad."
He laughed once, low and dangerous, before pulling back just enough to look down. His palm pressed flat against your stomach, slowly sliding lower, dipping beneath the waistband of your bikini bottoms.
But he didn’t go far. Just let his fingers rest there. Warm. Possessive. Teasing.
"You're soaked." His voice was quiet now, like he was marveling at it. "All this for me?"
You couldn’t answer. Not properly. Not when he dipped his fingers inside, slow and deliberate, sliding them through your folds like he had all the time in the world.
"Keep your eyes on me," he said.
You did. You had to.
He pulled his fingers free after only a few strokes and held them up in front of your face—slick, glistening, undeniable.
"Open."
You obeyed.
He slid his fingers into your mouth, slow, watching every movement as you sucked them clean.
"Good girl," he praised, his voice dropping an octave. "You're going to behave now?"
You nodded.
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Words."
"Yes," you whispered, dazed and aching. "Yes, Lewis."
A wicked smile curved his lips as he stepped even closer, his hard length pressing against your belly, straining through his swim trunks.
"Eyes on me," Lewis said, voice low but razor-sharp, dragging your gaze back to his as his fingers hooked the ties of your bikini bottoms and tugged them free. The air hit your skin, cool in contrast to the burn in his stare.
Fingers brushing deliberately slow over your thighs, the dip of your waist, before he undid the knot at your back, letting your top fall between you. His hands never left your body—just shifted upward, thumbs grazing the underside of your breasts before his mouth replaced them, warm and commanding.
He licked, kissed, and sucked at your nipples until they peaked under his tongue, until your breath turned to soft whimpers. Then lower. His mouth traced a path down your stomach, slow and wet, leaving glistening trails along your brown skin that made your legs tremble.
But just as you thought he’d keep going, give you what your body was aching for, Lewis stopped.
He rose to his full height, the heat between you stretched taut. You pouted without thinking, your lips pressing together in visible disappointment.
He chuckled darkly, rubbing a thumb across your lower lip as he stepped back, nodding toward the floor. "Let’s put that smart mouth to use."
Heat rushed through you. You knelt slowly, spreading the towel out beneath you for cushion, eyes never leaving his.
"Good girl," he murmured, stroking your cheek with a knuckle. Then came the next instruction, smooth and clear: "Untie my shorts."
Your fingers worked the drawstring, slow, trembling slightly with anticipation as you tugged his trunks down just enough. Your breath caught at the sight of him—hard, thick, heavy in your hand.
"Open your mouth for me."
You obeyed instantly, lips parting.
But instead of giving you what you craved, he hovered the tip just above your lips, skimming it across with maddening control. He cooed at the sight of you, eyes dark with amusement and arousal. "Look how pretty you are like this," he said, low and fond and wrecking you. "Lips all soft and parted, waiting so sweet."
Your thighs pressed together for relief, and still he didn’t relent. Just held himself there, letting the heat between you build.
You were dying for him. But at the same time, you were savoring every second—every inch of dominance he poured into this moment, the power he held even while baring himself.
"Still so impatient," he murmured, brushing the head of his cock gently along your bottom lip. "And so desperate. You don’t like when I make you wait, do you?"
You hummed softly, the sound vibrating with want and frustration.
And then, finally, he allowed you a taste.
You wrapped your lips around him, slow and reverent, letting him slide in just enough to savor the weight and warmth of him. A groan slipped from his throat, low and strained, his hand coming to rest gently at the back of your head.
"That’s it," Lewis breathed. "Nice and slow. Let me feel that pretty mouth."
He rocked forward, guiding the pace. His voice didn’t falter—he kept talking, kept praising, kept controlling. "You look so good like this," he whispered, hips shifting as he started to thrust gently, deeply. "Moaning like that… fuck, you feel perfect."
You moaned again, overwhelmed in the best way—his rhythm, his voice, his hands in your hair.
And all the while, his control never slipped. You were completely undone, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet.
Your moans vibrated around him, sending a deep shudder through his body, but Lewis didn’t lose focus. His grip in your hair tightened—not harsh, just firm enough to remind you who was guiding this.
"That’s it," he murmured. "Just like that, baby."
You hollowed your cheeks, taking more of him, reveling in the way he breathed out a curse under his breath, jaw tense. The slow grind of his hips made your eyes flutter shut.
"Don’t close your eyes."
The command was soft but sharp. You blinked up at him immediately.
He looked down at you, eyes dark with something primal, but also proud. "There she is," he said. "You wanted to act grown, didn’t you?"
You nodded as best as you could with him in your mouth, a muffled sound of agreement rising in your throat. You were soaking wet, your thighs slick and clenched with nothing but air and need between them.
Lewis exhaled sharply, then slowly pulled out of your mouth, a line of spit connecting you to him. You pouted again, lips swollen and shiny, chest rising and falling.
And he just smiled. That smug, devastating smile.
"Fuck," he whispered, thumb swiping the corner of your mouth. "You look wrecked already."
Your hand instinctively reached for him, but he caught your wrist, shaking his head. "Uh uh," he warned, pulling you gently to your feet. "You don’t get to decide what happens next."
You continued to kneel before him, naked, glistening, panting—and he didn’t touch you. Didn’t kiss you. Just let his gaze roam down your body, slow and hungry.
"You’re dying for it," he said softly, brushing his fingers along your breasts. "But you still haven’t earned it."
The protest caught in your throat, lips parting, but he leaned in close—breath brushing your ear as he spoke.
"I want you to remember this ache," he said, voice like silk wrapped around steel. "I want it so deep in your bones you dream about it."
You whimpered, thighs pressing together again out of instinct.
"And when I finally fuck you,” Lewis whispered, hands grazing your neck, "you’ll know you earned every second of it."
You were trembling. Every nerve lit up. And yet all he did was kiss your shoulder, slow and deliberate, before pulling you up, grabbing the towel and wrapping it back around your body like you hadn’t just had his dick down your throat.
"C’mon,” he said, eyes twinkling with that infuriating, perfect control. "Let’s get ready for bed." He smirked when he saw your mouth agape in surprise. "Don’t look at me like that, babygirl. You wanted to play. I’m just teaching you the rules."
***********************************************
The next day, Salvatore Ricci was ready to move against De Garza, and Lewis's presence was expected at the dock warehouse in Newark where the confrontation would take place.
"Traditional location," you explained as Lewis prepared for the meeting, checking his weapon with practiced efficiency. "Papa believes certain things should be handled on the docks. Old-school symbolism."
Lewis understood without requiring elaboration. The docks represented the historical foundations of the Ricci family's power—the entry point of their influence in America, the place where Salvatore's father had first established the connections that would eventually build their empire.
"Will you be there?" he asked, though he already suspected the answer.
You shook your head. "Family business, but women aren't included in this particular tradition. Mama will take Sophia and Maria shopping for birthday preparations while I join them as cover, and the men will handle the... business."
The gender division was another old-world approach that Lewis had deliberately avoided in his own organization, but he recognized the deep roots such traditions held in families like the Riccis.
"I'll tell you what happens," he promised.
Your expression carried concern despite your understanding of what was happening. "This is important to Papa—having you there. It's his way of saying you're family, not just an ally."
"I get what it means," Lewis assured you, his hand coming up to brush your cheek in what had become a habitual gesture between you. "And I'll respect the tradition."
The drive to Newark was conducted in silence, Lewis seated beside Salvatore in the back of a bulletproof SUV while Paolo drove and two additional security vehicles flanked them front and back. Tradition dictated certain appearances be maintained, but practical security ensured those appearances didn't create unnecessary risks.
Salvatore himself was exactly as Lewis remembered from their initial meetings—immaculately dressed in a tailored suit despite the grim business ahead, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly groomed, his hands adorned with the heavy gold rings that signified his position. A man who had built an empire through both brutal efficiency and meticulous attention to the appearances of power.
"My daughter seems... content," Salvatore observed after miles of silence, his eyes fixed on the road ahead rather than on Lewis. "Despite the circumstances that brought her home."
"She's remarkably adaptable," Lewis replied, recognizing both the observation and the implied question beneath it.
Salvatore nodded slightly. "A family trait. Though she has always been the most... independent of my children. Never easily directed, even as a young girl."
The assessment carried both pride and frustration—a father's complex relationship with a daughter whose capabilities matched his own while existing within the constraints of traditional family structures.
"Independence is a valuable quality to have," Lewis noted, careful to acknowledge the trait without directly challenging the traditional values Salvatore clearly held.
"Perhaps," Salvatore conceded, finally turning to study Lewis directly. "But she seems to have found focus under your guidance."
The suggestion that Lewis had somehow "directed" your independence would have amused you greatly, Lewis suspected. But he recognized the framework within which Salvatore understood the world—patriarchal structures where the appearance of male guidance was necessary regardless of practical reality.
"We've developed an effective partnership," Lewis said diplomatically, the truth of the statement extending far beyond the strategic alliance that had initially defined your marriage.
Something in Salvatore's expression suggested he understood more than Lewis had explicitly stated. "Partnership," he repeated, a hint of something like approval in his voice. "An interesting choice of words for a marriage."
"An accurate one," Lewis replied simply.
Salvatore studied him for a moment longer before nodding once, as if confirming a private assessment. "Tonight you will stand with me as De Garza faces the consequences of betrayal," he said, shifting back to the immediate business at hand. "This is a family matter, not a business arrangement. You understand the difference?"
"I do," Lewis confirmed, recognizing the significance of the distinction in Salvatore's world. Family matters were handled with ritual and tradition, while business arrangements followed more practical considerations of profit and loss.
"Good," Salvatore said with finality. "De Garza will understand too, before the end."
The warehouse appeared on the horizon—an unassuming structure among dozens like it along the dockyard, its exterior giving no indication of the scene prepared within. Three additional vehicles were already parked outside, Salvatore's most trusted captains having arrived earlier to secure the location and prepare for their boss's arrival.
Inside, the space had been arranged with deliberate theatrical effect—a single chair positioned under bright lights in the center of the open floor, surrounded by shadows where Salvatore's men stood in silent attention. De Garza himself was already secured to the chair, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled, evidence of rough handling visible in the bruises marking his face.
Lewis followed Salvatore into the space, positioning himself slightly behind the older man's right shoulder—the traditional place for a trusted lieutenant in such proceedings. Paolo moved to the left, completing the tableau of authority facing the betrayer.
De Garza's eyes widened slightly at Lewis's presence, clearly not having anticipated the British operator's inclusion in what would traditionally be internal family business. The recognition seemed to intensify his growing desperation as Salvatore approached with unhurried deliberation.
"Antonio," Salvatore said, his voice carrying that particular quality of disappointed authority that transcended mere anger. "Twenty years in my service. Twenty years of trust, of opportunity, of family connection. And yet here we are."
De Garza's expression shifted between fear and defiance, the calculation of a man seeking any possible avenue of escape. "Salvatore, there's been a misunderstanding. Whatever you've been told—"
"Silence," Salvatore interrupted, the single word carrying absolute command. "The time for your words has passed. Now is the time for you to listen."
The room fell into complete stillness as Salvatore circled De Garza's chair, his movements carrying the weight of ritual performance rather than mere interrogation. This was justice as theatre, designed to communicate messages far beyond the immediate punishment of a single betrayer.
"I took you into my home," Salvatore continued, his voice deceptively conversational despite the underlying steel. "Gave you a place at my table. Trusted you with my business, my family, my legacy. Treated you like a son when your own father was too weak to raise you."
De Garza's eyes darted around the room, seeking any ally or escape route, finding neither as Salvatore's men watched impassively from the shadows.
"You sat beside me at my daughter's confirmation. Stood as godfather to my nephew. Represented my interests in meetings where only family would normally be present." Salvatore's words fell like carefully placed blows, each one highlighting the depth of the betrayal. "And yet you sold information to Suarez. Endangered my daughter. Compromised operations that feed the families of a hundred loyal men."
"It wasn't like that," De Garza protested, desperation evident in his voice. "Suarez had leverage. He threatened my sister's family in Miami. I had no choice!"
Salvatore stopped his circling, standing directly before De Garza with cold assessment. "There is always choice, Antonio. You could have come to me. I would have protected your sister, punished Suarez for his presumption, preserved your honor."
The truth of this was evident even to Lewis, who understood enough of Salvatore's code to recognize that family loyalty would have superseded business considerations had De Garza sought help rather than betraying trust.
"Instead," Salvatore continued, "you chose cowardice over loyalty. Betrayal over family. And now you face the consequences of that choice."
De Garza's composure finally broke entirely, fear overtaking calculation as the full reality of his situation became undeniable. "Please, Salvatore," he begged, tears streaming down his face. "For the sake of our history, for the memory of me taking care of your father—"
"Do not speak of my father," Salvatore interrupted, cold fury replacing the disappointed authority in his voice. "His name does not belong in the mouth of a traitor. He taught me that loyalty to family is sacred above all things. That betrayal of that sacred trust demands the highest price."
Salvatore turned slightly, his eyes finding Lewis with deliberate significance. "Family protects its own," he said, the statement carrying layers of meaning beyond its surface simplicity. "And punishes those who threaten what is protected."
With smooth precision, Salvatore withdrew a pistol from inside his jacket—an older model, beautifully maintained, clearly carrying symbolic as well as practical significance. "This gun belonged to my father," he explained, his voice carrying that conversational quality that made the moment more chilling than any theatrical rage could have achieved. "He used it to establish our place in this country when others would have denied us opportunity. A tradition of protection that has sustained our family for generations."
De Garza sobbed openly now, all pretense of dignity abandoned as Salvatore approached and pressed the weapon into Lewis's hand with deliberate ceremony.
"Now my son will take care of the trash," Salvatore said, the designation carrying unmistakable significance to everyone present. Not son-in-law, not ally, not partner—but son, with all the familial recognition such terminology carried in Salvatore's world.
Lewis accepted the weapon with appropriate gravity, understanding both the practical task assigned and the symbolic acceptance being offered. This was not merely execution of a betrayer but formal acknowledgment of his place within the Ricci family structure—a position earned through marriage to Salvatore's daughter but solidified through demonstrated loyalty to family interests.
De Garza's pleas increased in desperate intensity as Lewis stepped forward, the weight of the pistol in his hand significant in more ways than one. The man's eyes were wide with terror, tears streaming down his face as he begged for mercy that tradition dictated would not be granted.
"Please, please, I have children, a family—I'll disappear, you'll never hear from me again—"
Lewis maintained his composure, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts as he raised the pistol with steady precision. This moment was about more than simple elimination of a threat—it was ritual acceptance of a place within a structure that operated on traditions far older than his own organization. Strategic respect for Salvatore's methods while in Salvatore's territory.
"Antonio De Garza," Lewis said, his voice calm despite the gravity of the moment, "your betrayal endangered my wife and her family. That alone would warrant this response."
His finger settled on the trigger, eyes locked with De Garza's in a final moment of acknowledgment—not personal hatred but necessary conclusion to actions that had violated the most fundamental trust.
The shot echoed through the warehouse, followed by absolute silence as De Garza's body slumped in the chair, the bullet having entered precisely through the center of his forehead. No hesitation, no unnecessary drama, just the efficient finality that characterized Lewis's approach to all operations.
Lewis lowered the weapon, turning to offer it back to Salvatore with appropriate respect. The older man studied him for a moment before shaking his head slightly.
"Keep it," Salvatore said, his voice carrying genuine approval. "It's a classic. A family heirloom that should stay with family."
The significance of the gesture wasn't lost on anyone present—the symbolic transfer of both weapon and trust from father to accepted son-in-law marking a transformation in Lewis's status within the Ricci hierarchy.
"Thank you, Mr. Ricci," Lewis replied, acknowledging both the gift and its deeper meaning with appropriate gravity.
Salvatore's expression shifted into something almost warm, a smile briefly transforming his usually severe features. "Call me Sal," he said, placing a hand on Lewis's shoulder. "You're family now."
The drive back to the estate was conducted in different silence than the journey out—not tense anticipation but satisfied completion, the ritual of justice having been performed according to tradition with appropriate participation from all parties. Lewis found himself reflecting on the evolution of his position since first entering the orbit of the Ricci family, from strategic ally to accepted member with all the obligations and protections such status entailed.
It was not a transformation he had anticipated when arranging the marriage that had brought him into Salvatore's world. Yet here he was, a British operator with his own empire and methods, now carrying a symbolic family weapon and acknowledged as son rather than merely business partner.
You were waiting in the pool house when he returned, your expression a mixture of concern and curiosity as Lewis entered. You'd clearly been watching for his arrival, positioned near the window with clear view of the driveway, though you'd made no move to approach the main house where Salvatore would be returning to his regular routines as if nothing unusual had occurred.
"So it's done?" you asked, your voice quiet as you studied his face.
"Yes," Lewis confirmed, removing his jacket and carefully placing Salvatore's pistol on the side table. Your eyes widened at the sight of the weapon, immediately recognizing it.
"He gave you Nonno's gun," you said, surprise evident in your voice. "I've never seen him let anyone even touch it."
"A gesture of acceptance," Lewis acknowledged, moving toward you with natural grace. "Though I think you knew something like this might happen."
Your smile was knowing but warm. "Papa doesn't do anything without thinking ten steps ahead, especially with his symbols and traditions. Asking you to be there for De Garza wasn't just about punishing a rat."
"Family politics," Lewis noted with a hint of dry humor. "Another kind of strategic game."
"Look at you, starting to get how the Riccis operate," you repliedl. "How are you feeling about all this?"
The question was careful but genuine—concern for how he was processing both the execution and his deeper integration into your family's world. Lewis took a moment before responding, wanting to be honest rather than just saying what might sound right.
"It needed to be done," he said finally. "De Garza had to go, and doing it your father's way made sense there. Not how I'd normally handle it, but it worked. Though we're definitely beyond what either of us thought we were signing up for with this marriage."
Something in your expression softened. "Beyond what we planned, sure," you agreed, fingers lacing with his. "But in a bad way?"
The question had a vulnerability beneath its casual tone—wondering if he was truly willing to accept not just you but your entire complicated family with all its traditions and expectations. Lewis heard the real question behind your words, and found himself wanting to answer honestly.
"Not bad," he assured you, his free hand coming up to touch your face in a gesture that had become natural since Scotland. "Just...different territory than I'm used to navigating."
You laughed, warm and genuine. "Only you could make joining a family sound like adjusting a battle plan."
"Old habits," Lewis acknowledged with a hint of a smile that appeared more often around you lately. "But I'm learning to be flexible."
"Flexible," you repeated, your eyes sparkling with amusement. "Wow, such sweet talk. I'm swooning."
"I'm being precise," Lewis replied, the teasing lighter than it would have been weeks ago. "It's another—"
"—of your things," you finished, grinning. "Yeah, I've got your user manual pretty much memorized by now."
This easy back-and-forth still surprised Lewis sometimes—how comfortable you'd become with each other since Scotland. How he'd gradually let down walls he'd maintained for years and actually found himself enjoying it.
"Your sister's birthday dinner is tomorrow," Lewis said, changing the subject but keeping hold of your hand. "Your dad made it clear everyone's expected to show."
"Sophia would literally murder anyone who tried to skip," you confirmed with a nod. "Especially since she had to cancel her big club plans because of all this security stuff. The family dinner is the centerpiece of her entire existence. Mama's been on the phone with caterers all day."
"Miles seems pretty worried about his invitation," Lewis observed, remembering how his friend had looked almost panicked when mentioning it.
You laughed with obvious delight. "Oh, he should be! Sophia's been grilling Papa about him non-stop since he got here—like, very specific questions about his background, his military service, where he trained. She's always been obsessed with spy stories and now there's a real former operative under our roof."
"Miles has handled worse," Lewis said, though he didn't sound convinced. Even in the short time they'd been here, Lewis had witnessed Sophia Ricci's legendary determination when she wanted information.
"Has he though?" you said with a mischievous grin. "We're talking about my baby sister on her 18th birthday with a new mystery to solve. Papa might protect his business associates from international criminals, but I'm not sure even he can protect Miles from Sophia when she decides she wants answers. She's like a bloodhound once she gets curious about something—she won't stop until she knows every detail of his entire career."
You both shifted to planning for tomorrow's party, but Lewis found himself struck by how strange his life had become—here he was discussing birthday parties instead of security protocols and operational risks. Sometimes the contrast with his former existence was so stark it gave him mental whiplash.
But there was something valuable in this new reality—what had started as a strategic marriage was turning into something real. You were becoming a true partner, not just an alliance on paper. And somehow, he was becoming part of something bigger than his own carefully built empire.
Family, it turned out, was just one more area where you were changing him in ways neither of you could have predicted when you signed those marriage papers. And for the first time in his life, Lewis was okay with not being in complete control of where things were heading—as long as you were by his side.
The morning after De Garza's execution dawned bright and crisp, the snow from the previous days having given way to clear skies that cast brilliant sunlight across the white-blanketed grounds of the Ricci estate. Lewis had risen early as was his habit, completing a security check of the pool house perimeter before you'd even stirred from sleep.
By the time you both made your way to the main house for what you'd described as "traditional birthday breakfast," Lewis had already received three updates from Naomi confirming her arrival with the requested item, a detailed analysis of Hernandez's communications from the previous week, and notification that Miles had survived the night without further journalistic interrogation from Sophia.
Nothing in Lewis's extensive tactical training or operational experience, however, had prepared him for the scene that greeted you both when you entered the Ricci family's private dining room.
Salvatore Ricci—the man who less than twelve hours ago had orchestrated a rat's execution with the cold precision of a general—sat at the head of the table wearing dark silk pajamas and a fluffy pink feather boa draped around his neck. The family patriarch's severe expression remained largely intact, creating a surreal contrast with the frivolous accessory.
Flanking him were Maria and Gabriella, both similarly attired in matching pink silk pajamas and identical feather boas. An elaborate spread that resembled a high-end tea party more than breakfast covered the table—tiered trays of pastries, decorative bowls of fruit, champagne flutes filled with what appeared to be mimosas, and multiple silver tea services.
At the opposite end from Salvatore sat Francesca, elegant even in casual morning attire, a subtle pink scarf around her neck her only concession to the theme. Her Jamaican-American heritage was evident in her warm complexion and the slight lilt that still colored her speech despite decades in New York. She maintained an air of amused tolerance for the proceedings, clearly the steadying influence that prevented the celebration from descending into complete chaos.
And in the center of it all was Sophia, perched in her chair with the confident entitlement of someone who knew this entire production was in her honor. She wore a glittering plastic tiara with "Birthday Girl" spelled out in rhinestones, her pajamas matching her sisters' but with additional embellishments that marked her as the day's honoree.
Lewis paused almost imperceptibly at the threshold, his expression betraying nothing of his internal recalibration. You squeezed his hand briefly, leaning close to whisper, "Papa's a hard-ass every other day of the year, but birthdays make him soft. It's the one day we can get away with almost anything. Just go with it."
Before Lewis could respond, Sophia spotted you both and squealed with delight. "Finally! Everyone's here!" She bounced in her seat with unrestrained enthusiasm. "Birthday breakfast can officially begin!"
"You're late," Salvatore observed, though without the edge that typically accompanied his critiques. The feather boa somehow failed to diminish his authority.
"Sorry, Papa," you replied, moving to kiss his cheek before taking your seat. "We were up late reviewing security protocols for today."
The excuse wasn't entirely untrue—Lewis had indeed spent part of the night analyzing potential vulnerabilities in the estate's defenses given the influx of extended family expected for the evening's formal dinner. The fact that this analysis had been conducted between more intimate activities was a detail best left unmentioned.
Lewis took the seat beside you with practiced composure, nodding respectfully to Salvatore. "Good morning, sir."
"Sal," your father corrected, the single syllable carrying the weight of yesterday's shared experience at the warehouse. "And good morning. Coffee?"
Before Lewis could respond, Gabriella leaned forward with a mischievous grin. "Oh my God, what happened to your neck?" she asked, her question directed at you with deliberate innocence.
You instinctively reached up, your fingers brushing against what you suddenly remembered were several distinctive marks just below your collar—evidence of last night's activities that your hastily selected sweater had failed to conceal.
Maria feigned shock. "Are those bruises? Should we be concerned?"
Heat flooded your face as Lewis maintained his usual impassive expression beside you, though you caught the slight tightening of his jaw that suggested he was not as unaffected as he appeared.
"Girls," Francesca admonished lightly, her dark hands elegant as she gestured dismissively, eyes dancing with amusement despite her maternal tone. "Leave your sister alone. It's Sophia's day."
"Oh, I don't mind sharing the spotlight for this," Sophia chimed in, her curiosity now fully focused on the situation. "I have so many questions."
Salvatore cleared his throat, the sound immediately commanding attention despite the absurdity of the feather boa. "Leave your brother alone," he said, his gaze shifting meaningfully to Lewis.
The designation—brother rather than brother-in-law—hung in the air for a moment before Maria seized on it with delighted precision.
"Ooh, he's our brother now," she said, her teasing directed at both you and Lewis. "Papa has spoken."
"I always wanted a brother," Gabriella added with exaggerated wistfulness. "Someone to intimidate my boyfriends and teach me how to play poker."
"I'm quite capable of both those things," you pointed out dryly.
"Yes, but now we have a real brother," Maria countered, raising her mimosa in Lewis's direction. "Welcome to the family chaos, brother dear."
Miles, who had been silently observing this exchange from his position near the window—clearly having been invited but choosing to maintain a safe distance from the family dynamics—caught Lewis's eye and leaned over to murmur, "This could be your future if you two have a daughter someday. Pink feather boas and tiaras."
Lewis nearly choked on the espresso that had appeared before him, recovered with his usual efficiency, and replied in an equally low voice, "Let's focus on eliminating Suarez and our mole before considering further familial expansions."
Miles grinned. "Tactical priorities. Got it."
Meanwhile, Sophia had shifted her attention fully to Lewis, her expression transitioning to the purposeful look you'd warned him about. "Well, brother," she said, emphasizing the title with clear enjoyment, "did you get me a present?"
"Sophia!" Francesca and Salvatore exclaimed in unison, parental disapproval momentarily uniting them despite their distinctly different approaches to family management.
Lewis, however, appeared entirely unruffled by the direct question. "Of course," he replied with calm assurance. "I was planning to present it at dinner, as is traditional."
Sophia's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing this new obstacle with the strategic acumen she'd inherited from her father. "I want it now," she declared, a statement rather than a request.
You caught Lewis's eye and silently mouthed, "I warned you," your expression a mixture of amusement and resignation.
Lewis studied Sophia for a moment, recognizing in her the same determined focus he'd observed in you on numerous occasions—the Ricci trait of absolute certainty that one's desires were reasonable and should be accommodated.
"It isn't properly wrapped," he said finally, a token resistance that both of you knew was merely procedural.
"I don't care," Sophia responded immediately, her attention now entirely fixed on this new objective.
Lewis nodded once, rising from his seat with the smooth precision that characterized all his movements. "I'll get it. Naomi delivered it earlier this morning."
As he left the dining room, Maria turned to you with undisguised curiosity. "What did he get her? And when did he have time to shop with everything going on?"
"He has people for that," you replied with a small smile, not bothering to hide your pride in Lewis's efficiency. "And I'm not telling. You'll see in a minute."
Lewis returned shortly, carrying a distinctive orange Hermès bag that prompted an immediate reaction from all three sisters.
"Shut the fuck up! No way!" Sophia squealed, leaping from her chair with all pretense of sophisticated adulthood abandoned. She bounced up and down, hands making grabby motions toward the package, her reaction pure, unfiltered eighteen-year-old excitement.
Lewis, ever in control, held the bag slightly away from her reach. "Sit down, please," he instructed calmly. "It's heavy."
The effect was immediate and somewhat comical—Sophia dropped back into her seat with surprising obedience, hands now folded in her lap in a parody of patience that barely contained her vibrating excitement.
Lewis placed the box carefully in front of her, stepping back with the cautious respect of someone who understood he was witnessing a sacred ritual. Sophia attacked the packaging with focused intensity, tearing through the careful wrapping to reveal the distinctive shape of a Birkin bag in a deep, rich green that complemented her coloring perfectly.
Her scream of delight could likely be heard beyond the estate's iron gates where your father's men patrolled. "OH MY GOD!" She lifted the bag reverently, turning it to examine every angle. "IT’S PERFECT! JUST THE ONE I WANTED!!"
"Your sister mentioned this was the one you picked out," Lewis replied with characteristic understatement that failed to acknowledge the weeks of constant texts and threats from Sophia.
"Holy shit," Maria breathed, leaning forward for a better look. "That's not just any Birkin. That's the limited forest green with gold hardware. There were only fifty made."
Gabriella whistled low. "Brother has excellent taste," she observed, her teasing tone now tempered with genuine respect.
"He does," you confirmed, squeezing Lewis's hand when he returned to his seat beside you.
Even Salvatore appeared impressed, though he masked it with a gruff, "I hope you didn't spend too much. She's only eighteen."
"It's an investment piece," Lewis replied smoothly, meeting your father's gaze with calm assurance. "And a suitable acknowledgment of a significant milestone."
Sophia finally tore her attention from the bag long enough to launch herself around the table and practically tackle Lewis with a hug that clearly caught him off-guard. His momentary stiffness gave way to an awkward but genuine pat on her back, his expression reflecting the unique challenge of navigating physical affection from someone who wasn't you.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" Sophia exclaimed, squeezing him once more before releasing him. "You're officially my favorite brother now."
"I'm your only brother," Lewis pointed out with unexpected dry humor.
"Even better," Sophia replied instantly. "No competition."
The breakfast continued with the chaotic energy that seemed to characterize Ricci family gatherings, conversation flowing freely between serious topics like security arrangements for the incoming relatives and frivolous debates about whether Sophia's new Birkin required its own Instagram account.
Lewis observed it all with his usual analytical attention, cataloging the family dynamics and adjusting his understanding of the Ricci hierarchy with each new interaction. You watched him watching them, noting how he was gradually relaxing into the boisterous atmosphere despite its stark contrast to his own carefully controlled existence.
At one point, Francesca appeared at his side while you were engaged in heated debate with Maria about something entirely inconsequential. Your mother leaned down slightly, her voice pitched for Lewis's ears alone.
"Thank you for yesterday," she said simply, her gaze steady and knowing. "Salvatore told me what happened. What you did."
Lewis met her eyes with quiet acknowledgment. "It was necessary."
"Yes," she agreed, surprising him with her directness. "But more importantly, it was loyal. That matters more to this family than you might yet understand."
Before Lewis could respond, she straightened and moved on, rejoining the general conversation with seamless grace. But the brief exchange added another layer to Lewis's evolving understanding of the complex family structure he had married into—a system where violence and tenderness, business and family, tradition and adaptation all existed in precarious balance.
You caught his eye across the pink-festooned table, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Lewis gave you the smallest of smiles in response—a private communication that needed no words. In this moment, surreal as it was with feather boas and birthday tiaras, Lewis Hamilton was finding his place in a world far different from the one he had built for himself, yet somehow increasingly comfortable despite its chaos.
*********************************************
By seven o'clock, the Ricci estate had transformed from morning's intimate family breakfast into a full-scale celebration. The main house glowed with strategically placed lighting, security personnel blended seamlessly with catering staff, and the steady arrival of black SUVs and luxury cars announced the gathering of extended family from across the tri-state area.
You'd changed into a deep burgundy gown that complemented the gold cross at your throat, while Lewis had opted for an impeccably tailored charcoal suit that somehow made him look both approachable and dangerous—a combination you'd noticed worked particularly well with your family. The unspoken message: respect me, but don't fear me unless you give me reason to.
"Ready for the real interrogation?" you asked Lewis as you both stood at the window of the pool house, watching another vehicle pass through the security checkpoint. "Morning was just the warm-up. Wait until my great-aunt Lucia gets hold of you."
"I've survived professional interrogation techniques," Lewis replied, though there was the faintest hint of apprehension in his usually confident tone. "How bad could an elderly Italian woman be?"
You laughed, the sound genuine with just an edge of warning. "Nonna Lucia made two FBI agents cry during a raid in '92. And they weren't even asking her questions—she just decided they looked too smug."
Lewis raised an eyebrow, the subtle gesture speaking volumes. "Noted."
The walk to the main house felt like crossing a demilitarized zone—the calm before inevitable conflict. It was strange how much had changed since you'd made this same walk months ago, back when your marriage was still fresh and purely strategic. Back when Lewis had been Mr. Hamilton to you, a business partner rather than the man whose bed you now shared willingly.
You'd barely made it through the door when the first ambush occurred.
"There she is! With the Englishman!" Your cousin Vinny's voice boomed across the foyer. At thirty, he still possessed the subtlety of a freight train and the confidence of a man who'd never faced consequences for his volume level.
He approached with the characteristic Ricci swagger—designer suit, too much cologne, and a smile that had charmed countless women before they recognized the red flags. Behind him trailed your other cousin Gia and Vinny’s younger brother Carmine, all wearing expressions of barely contained curiosity.
"Vinny," you greeted with a measured smile, accepting his enthusiastic kiss on each cheek. "Gia, Carmine. You all remember Lewis."
"How could we forget?" Gia said, her eyes moving over Lewis with unabashed appraisal. At twenty-six, she'd already been married and divorced twice, each time emerging with better real estate and jewelry. "The mysterious Englishman your father arranged for you. Though you two seem much more... comfortable together than at the wedding."
Lewis stepped forward, extending his hand with the perfect balance of respect and self-assurance. "Good to see you all again. Happy to be here for Sophia's celebration."
What happened next surprised you. After the polite but distant greeting you'd have expected from him, Lewis's hand settled possessively at the small of your back, drawing you subtly closer to his side.
Carmine, just twenty and already working his way up in your father's business, shook Lewis's hand with a grip that was trying too hard to assert dominance. "Yeah, you too, 'bout time my cousin isn't flying solo to these things."
The subtle dig wasn't lost on Lewis, whose expression remained pleasantly neutral even as his fingers pressed slightly firmer against your back. The casual intimacy of his touch and the deliberate "us" in his response registered immediately with your cousins, whose glances at each other spoke volumes. The arranged marriage they'd all whispered about obviously had evolved into something else entirely.
"Well, you're practically one of us now," Vinny declared, slapping Lewis on the shoulder with fraternal presumption. "Especially after that thing with De Garza. Word travels."
Before Lewis could respond to this blatant fishing for details, a commanding voice cut through the foyer.
"Is that my niece finally coming to greet me? Or do I need to wait all night while you gossip in the hallway?"
Nonna Lucia sat enthroned in the main sitting room, a tiny but formidable figure draped in black silk and gold jewelry that announced both mourning and prosperity—the perfect combination for a woman who had been the family matriarch since your grandmother's passing five years ago. At eighty-seven, her mind remained razor-sharp, her tongue sharper still.
"Nonna," you said warmly, crossing to kiss her papery cheek. "You look beautiful."
"Flatterer," she dismissed, though pleased. Her dark eyes, sunken but alert, shifted immediately to Lewis. "And you. The husband who keeps my fiore away from her family."
"Not by choice, Mrs. Ricci," Lewis replied smoothly, approaching to take her extended hand. Instead of simply shaking it, he bent slightly to brush his lips against her knuckles—a gesture of old-world respect that clearly caught her off guard in the best possible way.
"Hmph," she sniffed, though the ghost of a smile tugged at her mouth. "At least he has manners. Better than the others Salvatore was considering. That Sicilian—" she made the sign of the cross dramatically, "—may the saints preserve us from such men. Like looking at a shark with a bad tailor."
You bit back a frown, remembering your own similar assessment when your father had first presented Lorenzo Bianchi as a potential husband.
"Come, sit," Nonna commanded, patting the sofa beside her. "I want to look at you both properly. Together. The light in here is better."
You recognized the examination for what it was—not just curiosity about Lewis, but assessment of your relationship. Nonna Lucia had negotiated three of her own daughters' arranged marriages, and her approval could shift family opinion more effectively than even your father's declarations.
As you sat beside Lewis, he surprised you by casually taking your hand, his thumb stroking absently across your knuckles in a gesture too natural to be calculated. The simple touch shouldn't have affected you after everything you'd shared, yet warmth bloomed in your chest at the public claim it staked.
"Now," Nonna declared, leaning forward to study you both like specimens. "You are good together. The coloring—his darkness, your warm tones. Very complementary. Your children will be beautiful."
"Nonna!" you protested, heat rising to your cheeks despite your usual composure. "We're not—it's too soon to—"
"Nonsense," she waved dismissively. "I was married at twenty, first baby at twenty-one. And that was an arranged match too! Your great-uncle and I didn't even meet until our wedding day. At least you two had time to get acquainted first."
Lewis, rather than appearing uncomfortable with this direct discussion of your potential reproductive timeline, seemed almost amused. "We're taking things one step at a time, Mrs. Ricci. But I appreciate your vote of confidence in our genetics."
His response—polite but gently deflecting—surprised you. Even more surprising was his arm sliding around your shoulders, drawing you slightly closer in a gesture that felt both protective and possessive.
Nonna nodded approvingly. "Smart man. Patience is important. But not too much patience, eh? I'm not getting younger, and great-great-nieces and nephews would be nice before I meet the Madonna."
"You'll outlive us all, Nonna," you deflected with practiced ease, though your mind was spinning at Lewis's unexpected public display of affection. This was more than your arrangement had ever called for, more than necessary for appearances with family who already knew yours was a strategic match.
Before Nonna could continue her reproductive interrogation, your cousins returned with drinks and renewed determination to extract information.
"So," Gia began, settling across from you with feline grace, "Sophia mentioned you two were staying in the pool house instead of the main guest suite. Very... private."
The implication hung in the air, reinforced by her knowing smirk. You'd forgotten how quickly information traveled through the family network, and how little remained truly private.
"The pool house offers certain security advantages," Lewis replied smoothly, his arm still comfortable around your shoulders. "Separate perimeter, controlled access points."
"Is that what they're calling it these days?" Carmine snickered, earning an elbow from Vinny that did nothing to diminish his grin. "Security advantages?"
"Some of us prefer discretion, Carmine," you replied coolly, though the marks still visible on your neck somewhat undermined your dignity.
"Speaking of discretion," Vinny leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "word is you and the Englishman here have gotten a lot... closer lately."
You stiffened slightly, wondering exactly how much detail had spread through the family grapevine. Lewis's hand squeezed your shoulder gently, a subtle reminder of his presence.
"The best arrangements evolve naturally," Lewis offered, his tone giving away nothing while confirming everything.
The deliberate ambiguity in his response made Gia laugh delightedly. "Oh, I bet it has. Remember when you were telling us how much you dreaded this whole arranged marriage thing? Funny how things change."
"Life is full of surprises," you replied with sweet venom, years of practice at these family dynamics keeping your composure intact despite your rising embarrassment.
Nonna Lucia cackled, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Let them be, vultures. When you all find someone who looks at you the way this one looks at her, then you can talk—arranged or not."
The observation startled you, your eyes darting to Lewis to find him already watching you with an expression that made your breath catch—something intense and genuine that transcended any performance for your family's benefit. Something that hadn't been there in those early days when your marriage was still just a business transaction between families.
Gia, undeterred by Nonna's scolding, slid closer on the pretext of refilling your wine glass. "So," she whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, "is it true what they say about Englishmen? All that proper exterior hiding something much more... interesting? Because those marks on your neck tell quite a story. Not bad for an arranged match."
You opened your mouth to deliver what would undoubtedly have been a scathing response when Lewis suddenly rose, extending his hand to you with impeccable timing.
"Would you like to dance?" he asked, nodding toward the adjacent room where music had begun playing and several couples already moved across the floor.
The rescue was so perfectly executed that you immediately placed your hand in his, allowing him to pull you smoothly to your feet.
"If you'll excuse us," Lewis said to your family with that subtle charm that somehow managed to be both polite and dismissive. "I promised my wife at least one dance before her sister monopolizes the evening."
"Go, go," Nonna waved you off with obvious approval. "Young people should dance. Builds passion. Even in arranged marriages."
Lewis led you toward the music, his hand warm against yours, leaving your cousins to their speculation and Nonna to her evident satisfaction with your match. The moment you were out of earshot, you exhaled with relief.
"Thanks for the save," you said as his arm circled your waist, pulling you into a proper dance hold that felt surprisingly natural. "My family is..."
"Exactly what I expected," Lewis finished, that hint of a smile you'd been seeing more often since Scotland appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Bold, protective, and determined to know everything about us."
"They never quit," you agreed, finding your rhythm with him easily as you moved across the floor. The way your bodies synced felt nothing like the stiff, formal dance you'd shared at your wedding reception, when you'd been practically strangers bound by contracts and family alliances. "But you handled them better than I thought you would."
Lewis guided you through a smooth turn, his movements precise but relaxed. "Necessary adaptation."
"Is that all this is?" you asked, suddenly very aware of his hand pressed firmly against your lower back, how naturally your body followed his lead. "Just adapting to the situation? Part of our deal?"
Something flickered across his face – a moment of unguarded emotion that vanished almost instantly, but not before you caught it. "Not just that," he said quietly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Some arrangements turn into something more than what was on paper."
The weight of his words hung between you, full of implications neither of you had openly discussed despite how much had changed since Scotland. This wasn't the strategic partnership you'd agreed to anymore, or even just convenient physical comfort. It had become something neither of you had anticipated when you'd signed those marriage documents in your father's study.
"My cousins think we actually fell for each other," you said, trying to sound casual despite the way your heart picked up speed.
"Your cousins might be smarter than they look," Lewis replied, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Though that's not saying much."
Before you could process what felt dangerously close to a confession, the music changed and suddenly Sophia was beside you, looking radiant in her birthday dress with the Birkin bag still proudly displayed on her arm despite how out of place it was with evening wear.
"There you are!" she exclaimed, practically bouncing with excitement. "Papa's ready for the toast! I need you both front and center right now. Family photo time!"
Lewis kept his hand at your back as Sophia dragged you both toward the main dining room where your father stood waiting with champagne. Whatever vulnerable moment you'd been sharing had passed, but something had definitively shifted between you – another step away from your arranged beginning toward something neither of you had planned.
As everyone gathered around Sophia, Lewis stayed close beside you, his presence no longer that of the outsider who'd walked into your father's study as the fourth suitor. He'd somehow found his place within the chaos of Ricci family dynamics, marked most clearly by the pistol that now resided in your pool house. When your father's fingers closed around his champagne glass, Lewis's fingers laced with yours, the simple touch communicating what neither of you had found the words to say.
Salvatore's commanding presence drew immediate silence from the gathered family members and associates. He stood at the head of the room, elegant in his tailored suit, looking every inch the powerful man who had built an empire through calculated decisions – including the strategic marriage that had brought Lewis into your life.
"Twenty-five years ago," Salvatore began, his voice effortlessly carrying through the space, "I welcomed my first daughter into this world. Eighteen years ago today, I welcomed my youngest. Each arrival changed our family in ways I could not have anticipated. Each daughter brought different gifts, different challenges, different joys."
His gaze moved to Sophia, genuine paternal affection softening his usually commanding presence. "Sophia, from your first breath, you have been a force of nature. Determined, passionate, impossible to ignore or direct against your will." Appreciative laughter rippled through the guests who knew your sister well. "You remind me daily of your grandmother—a woman who knew her own mind and refused to be anything less than exactly who she was meant to be."
Sophia beamed with pleasure at the comparison to your beloved grandmother, whose strength had helped build the Ricci empire alongside your grandfather.
"Eighteen years marks traditional entry to adulthood," Salvatore continued, his tone shifting to acknowledge the milestone's significance. "Though in truth, you have carried yourself with the confidence and clarity of purpose of someone far beyond your years for as long as I can remember."
You felt Lewis's silent attention beside you, watching your father with the careful assessment that was second nature to him. But there was something else there too – a growing understanding of the complex family he'd married into. Not just the business side he'd initially negotiated with, but the deep bonds and traditions that sustained it across generations.
"To Sophia Ricci," your father concluded, raising his glass higher. "May your determination serve you well, may your passion bring you joy, and may you always know that behind you stands a family that will support and protect you through whatever path you choose."
"To Sophia," everyone echoed, raising their glasses in unified celebration.
As tradition dictated, Sophia rose to acknowledge the toast, her expression momentarily serious despite her usual vivacity. "Thank you, Papa," she said, her voice carrying the emotion the moment deserved. "And thank you all for being here tonight, especially given the... adjusted circumstances."
The delicate reference to the security concerns that had necessitated scaling back her original plans was handled with surprising maturity. For all her youth and apparent impulsiveness, Sophia demonstrated the family's innate understanding of appropriate public presentation.
"I've been looking forward to this birthday since I was little," Sophia continued, her natural confidence evident as she addressed the gathering. "Not because of parties or presents, though those are excellent bonuses—" appreciative laughter rippled through the room "—but because in our family, eighteen means being truly included. Being trusted with the full reality of who we are and what we do."
Her gaze found your father briefly, something passing between them that transcended words. "I've waited a long time to be fully part of this family's legacy. To contribute, not just benefit. To protect, not just be protected."
You felt Lewis's hand tighten slightly around yours, a subtle recognition of the weight her words carried in your world. Unlike many outsiders who married into families like yours, he understood completely what Sophia was really saying – she was officially being welcomed into the family business, trusted with secrets and responsibilities that had been shielded from her until now.
"So tonight," Sophia continued with a bright smile that somewhat masked the significance of her words, "I not only celebrate turning eighteen, but also officially joining the family business. Thank you all for being here to mark this milestone with me."
She raised her glass in a gesture that mirrored your father's. "To family—by blood, by marriage, and by choice. Our greatest strength and most sacred responsibility."
The formal dinner transitioned to more relaxed celebration as tables were cleared to create space for dancing, a small orchestra positioned at one end of the room beginning a selection of music that bridged generational preferences. Salvatore led Francesca to the floor for the traditional first dance, their movements together demonstrating decades of partnership both in dancing and in life.
"They still love each other," you remarked, watching your parents with quiet admiration. "Through everything, all the complications of this life—they've never lost that connection."
Lewis studied the couple with analytical interest, noting the easy synchronicity of their movements, the way your father's usually commanding presence softened in your mother's company. "It's rare," he acknowledged. "Especially in our world."
"But not impossible," you added, your fingers still intertwined with his.
The comment hung between you, weighted with implications neither of you had fully addressed despite the evolving reality of your relationship. Other couples joined your parents, the formal space filling with movement and conversation as the celebration shifted into its next phase. As you scanned the room, you caught sight of Sophia cornering Miles by the bar, notepad in hand and expression intensely focused as she fired questions at him.
"Should we help him?" Lewis asked, genuine concern for his friend evident beneath his usual composure.
"Absolutely not," you replied with sisterly mischief. "She's been dying to talk to someone with his background. He's the perfect subject with that mysterious military past. Besides, it's good for him."
Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Good for him?"
"Miles relies too much on that charm of his. Sophia won't fall for it – she'll just keep pressing until she gets real answers. He needs the practice dealing with someone who isn't immediately charmed by that whole routine he does."
Your assessment of both Miles and your sister drew another of those rare almost-smiles from Lewis. "Tactical weakness identified," he observed dryly.
You laughed, the sound drawing glances from nearby family members who were still adjusting to seeing you so at ease with the man they'd originally viewed as just another of your father's business arrangements.
As the evening progressed, you found yourselves circulating through the gathering, accepting congratulations from family members who'd heard about Lewis's recent "promotion" to family status after the De Garza situation. The news had traveled quickly through the Ricci network – Salvatore giving Lewis his father's gun, calling him "son" rather than son-in-law, bringing him into inner family business that went beyond the original alliance parameters.
At one point, your father appeared at Lewis's side, two glasses of his special reserve whiskey in hand. You excused yourself to let them speak privately, but watched from across the room as they stood in quiet conversation, their body language telling its own story. Your father no longer maintained the careful distance of a business partner; there was respect there, and a growing trust that went beyond strategic necessity.
"They look good together, don't they?" your mother said, appearing beside you with her usual quiet grace. "Your father needed someone like him – young enough to adapt to changing times but experienced enough to understand our world."
"Is that why he chose Lewis from the others?" you asked, curious about your mother's perspective on the arrangement that had changed your life.
She smiled knowingly. "Partly. But I think he also saw something in the way Lewis looked at you during that first meeting. Something different from how the others looked at you."
"Different how?"
"The others saw what they wanted from you. Lewis saw who you actually were." Her dark eyes, so like your own, studied your face carefully. "And now you see him too, not just the arrangement."
"Lewis! It's your turn to get in the photos!" she demanded, waving imperiously. "Family picture time, and you're not escaping!"
You watch him tense slightly – these domestic rituals still pushed him out of his comfort zone despite how far he'd come since your wedding. But to your surprise, he nodded and moved toward the gathering without hesitation, his hand finding yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
As your sister organized everyone into position, you watched Lewis navigate this new territory with the same precision he brought to everything. The family photographer directed you all into position, with Sophia centered as the birthday girl and the rest of the family arranged around her. Lewis stood beside you, tall and composed, no longer the outsider cautiously maintaining strategic distance. When his arm slid around your waist, the gesture felt both protective and possessive in a way that had nothing to do with your original agreement.
"Perfect!" the photographer declared after several shots. "Beautiful family portrait."
Family. The word hung in the air between you and Lewis as the group dispersed back to the celebration. Not business partners, not strategic allies, but family – with all the complicated obligations and unexpected connections that entailed.
"You're officially one of us now," you said lightly as you moved away from the photography setup. "No escape possible. The Riccis have claimed you."
That ghost of a smile appeared again, transforming his severe features momentarily. "I'm discovering there are worse fates," he replied, his eyes holding yours with unexpected warmth. "Some arrangements have unexpected benefits."
As the party continued around you, that simple statement settled somewhere deep in your chest. What had begun as your father's strategic decision, a business arrangement between families, had evolved into something neither of you had anticipated. Something that felt increasingly like a choice rather than an obligation.
# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist
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Sunlight flooded the room in bright, unforgiving streams when you finally opened your eyes. You blinked at the bedside clock, the digital numbers momentarily refusing to make sense. 10:47 a.m. Impossible. You never slept past seven, a lifetime of your father's strict schedules and your mother's quiet insistence on proper appearances having trained you out of such indulgence years ago.
The absence beside your bed registered next—no wrinkled bulldog face greeting you with expectant eyes, no impatient snuffling demanding your attention. For seven consecutive mornings, Roscoe had appeared in your room like clockwork, his canine precision more reliable than any alarm. His absence felt strangely significant, another routine disrupted in a house where control and predictability reigned supreme.
Memories from the previous night flooded back as you pushed yourself upright—the shattering glass that had woken you, Lewis's uncharacteristic rage, blood dripping from his split knuckles into ice water turned pink. The kidnapping attempt. Suarez's operative infiltrating the house to reach your suite. The discovery of betrayal from within Lewis's organization, someone trusted enough to provide access codes and patrol schedules.
The Geneva trip, accelerated to tonight rather than next week.
You moved with practiced ease despite the late hour, selecting clothes appropriate for travel yet versatile enough for whatever situations might arise—dark jeans, a cashmere sweater in deep burgundy, boots with hidden compartments where a ceramic blade could be secured if necessary. Practicality disguised as style, preparation masked as fashion choices. In your world, even wardrobe decisions carried strategic implications.
The house felt different as you descended the main staircase—additional security personnel stationed at intervals, faces you didn't recognize mixed with the usual guards. The controlled chaos of crisis response operated beneath a veneer of normalcy, like watching blood spread beneath skin without breaking the surface.
Jensen stood in the entrance hall, directing a team of men unloading equipment from large metal cases—tactical vests, communication devices, and an array of weapons that would have been impressive even by your father's standards. The conversation halted momentarily as you passed, Jensen acknowledging you with a respectful nod before continuing his instructions in lowered tones.
You caught fragments as you moved past—"perimeter reconfigured," "additional scanners," "rotating protocols"—the language of security being reinforced, of vulnerabilities being eliminated. The intrusion had wounded Lewis's pride as much as it had threatened your safety; the response would be proportionate to both concerns.
Lewis's office door stood partially open, light spilling into the hallway. You hesitated briefly before knocking, the events of last night having shifted something fundamental in your relationship that hadn't yet found its proper balance.
"Come in." His voice sounded rougher than usual, fatigue eroding the edges of his usual control.
The sight that greeted you was so unexpected that it momentarily halted your stride. Lewis sat on the edge of his desk—not behind it in his usual position of authority—dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt that revealed the full extent of tattoos normally hidden beneath bespoke tailoring. The casual attire humanized him in ways that were strangely more intimate than if you'd seen him undressed. This was Lewis with his armor removed, the carefully constructed image of power deliberately set aside.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, his normally immaculate braids slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through them repeatedly. The knuckles you'd bandaged last night were now properly wrapped, though spots of blood had seeped through the white gauze like morse code transmitting messages of violence.
"You didn't sleep," you observed, closing the door behind you.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so quickly it might have been imagined. "Observant as always."
"Difficult not to be when you look like something Roscoe dragged in from the garden."
The unexpected teasing drew a flicker of genuine surprise across his features, followed by something that almost resembled amusement. "I've had more restful nights," he acknowledged, studying you with that intense focus that somehow felt more penetrating without his usual formal attire creating distance.
"How did you sleep?" he asked, the casual question carrying more weight than it would have in normal circumstances.
"Apparently too well," you replied, gesturing toward the ornate clock on his office wall that confirmed the late hour. "Why didn't anyone wake me? We're leaving tonight, and there must be preparations—"
"I gave explicit instructions not to disturb you," Lewis interrupted, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Someone tried to kidnap you last night. I figured rest might be prudent before we uproot to Geneva."
"Fair point," you conceded, unable to keep a touch of sarcasm from your voice. "Though typically when someone tries to kidnap me, sleeping in feels rather low on the priority list."
"Typically?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "These attempts happen with such regularity that you've established protocols?"
"Figure of speech," you clarified, though the Ricci family did, in fact, have specific procedures for various threat levels and kidnapping attempts. Your father had drilled them into all his children from an early age—the macabre equivalent of other families' fire evacuation plans.
Lewis studied you for a moment longer before beckoning you closer with a subtle gesture. You moved toward him without hesitation, curious about this more casual version of your husband and what had prompted the summons.
He reached out when you drew near, his hands settling lightly on your upper arms in a touch that wasn't quite an embrace but far more intimate than any previous contact between you. The unexpected physical connection sent a current of awareness through your body, goosebumps rising beneath the soft fabric of your sweater. This close, you could detect the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker beneath, expensive but not ostentatious, like everything else about Lewis Hamilton.
"Lorenzo Bianchi is dead," he said without preamble, his eyes fixed on yours to gauge your reaction.
The news wasn't surprising—you'd heard him order the execution yesterday in the car—but the confirmation still carried weight. Another piece removed from the chessboard, the game advancing with Lewis's precise strategy.
"Confirmed?" you asked, practical rather than shocked.
Lewis nodded once, appreciation for your directness evident in his expression. "This morning. Clean execution, no witnesses, no traces back to us. Martinelli has received his warning and appears to be reconsidering his alignment with Suarez."
"How did Martinelli take it?" The question was relevant to your safety as much as to business operations—allies frightened into submission often proved more dangerous than open enemies.
"With appropriate recognition of the consequences," Lewis replied, his thumb moving almost unconsciously against your arm in a small circular motion that was oddly comforting despite the subject matter. "His response suggests that he wants neutrality moving forward rather than continued opposition."
"Smart choice," you noted. "Though Suarez is unlikely to be as easily convinced."
"Suarez is a different problem entirely," Lewis agreed, something cold flickering in his eyes. "One that requires more comprehensive measures."
This reminded you of discussions in your father's study, tactical evaluations of threats and necessary responses, except Lewis approached such matters with calculated precision rather than explosive reaction. Different methods, same lethal results.
Without releasing you, Lewis reached across to open a desk drawer with his free hand, extracting a small matte black Glock. The weapon was compact but deadly, a professional's choice rather than a showpiece.
"You know how to use this." Not a question but a statement of fact, his tone reflecting confidence in your capabilities.
You nodded anyway, familiar with firearms since your early teens when your father had insisted all his daughters learn to protect themselves. "Since I was fourteen."
Lewis extended the gun toward you, handle first. "Keep this on you at all times," he instructed, his voice leaving no room for discussion. "It's registered under a clean identity, untraceable. The safety features are minimal—it will fire if you need it to, without complication."
You took the weapon, its weight familiar in your palm. Your father had given you your first gun on your sixteenth birthday—a delicate silver .22 with pearl inlay that looked more decorative than deadly. This was its opposite—purely functional, designed for one purpose without pretense or embellishment.
"The house has been secured, but until we identify the source of the breach, assume nowhere is completely safe," Lewis continued. "Naomi will remain your primary security detail, but this—" he nodded toward the gun, "—provides insurance no bodyguard can offer."
"Thank you," you said simply, appreciating both the practical protection and the respect implied by the gesture. Lewis wasn't attempting to shield you from danger through ignorance, but empowering you to participate in your own defense—another subtle distinction from your father's more paternalistic approach.
Lewis didn't immediately release the gun, his hand still wrapped around yours, creating a connection both literal and symbolic—shared danger, shared responsibility, shared understanding of the world you both inhabited. Your eyes met over this physical bridge, something unspoken passing between you that transcended the practical aspects of the moment.
For the first time, you noticed flecks of amber in his dark irises, visible only at this closeness. The observation felt strangely intimate, like uncovering another secret carefully hidden beneath Lewis's controlled exterior.
The moment stretched, tension building not from awkwardness but from something more complex—recognition, perhaps, of shifting boundaries, of territory being explored beyond strategic alliance into something neither of you had fully anticipated.
A knock at the door broke the spell, Naomi's voice calling through: "Lewis, you need to see this. The surveillance footage from the east entrance shows something interesting."
Lewis didn't immediately respond, his eyes still holding yours, hand still connected through the weapon between you. "One minute," he finally called, not looking away.
Then he did something so unexpected it momentarily stopped your breath. Leaning forward slightly, he pressed his lips to your forehead—a gesture too deliberate to be casual, too restrained to be passionate, yet somehow more meaningful than either extreme would have been.
The contact lasted only seconds before he withdrew, releasing the gun fully into your possession as he straightened. Without another word, he moved past you toward the door, the familiar mask of controlled power sliding back into place despite the incongruity of his casual attire.
You remained motionless for a moment after he'd gone, the ghost of his lips still warm against your skin, the weight of the gun in your hand a tangible reminder of danger and protection inextricably linked. Like everything in your world, intimacy and violence existed side by side, neither fully separate from the other.
Carefully, you secured the weapon in your waistband, adjusting your sweater to conceal its presence. Another layer of protection, another secret carried beneath the surface. In many ways, it felt more natural than the diamond ring on your finger—deadly practicality over decorative symbolism.
The unexpected kiss lingered in your thoughts, not because it represented romantic development, but because it suggested trust developing in a world where trust was the rarest and most valuable currency of all. You slipped the gun from your waistband briefly to check the magazine and chamber with practiced movements—fully loaded, one in the chamber, ready for immediate use. Just like you. No longer merely a Ricci daughter or Hamilton wife, but something evolving into its own dangerous identity.
You slid the gun back into place and moved toward the door, ready to prepare for Geneva and whatever awaited there. The game continued, the stakes escalating, the players adjusting strategies with each new development.
And you, once merely a piece to be moved across the board, were increasingly becoming a player in your own right.
Back in your suite, you paced the length of the bedroom, phone pressed to your ear as Sophia's indignant voice filled the space. The conversation with your sisters had started with concern about your safety wrapped in complaints about canceled plans and was rapidly evolving into the particular brand of guilt only younger siblings could perfect.
"This is complete bullshit," Sophia declared, her frustration practically vibrating through the phone. "We've been planning this London trip for a week. Maria already bought new clothes, and Gabriella rescheduled three different appointments."
"I know, and I'm sorry," you replied, keeping your tone measured despite your own frustration. "But circumstances have changed. It's not safe right now."
"Since when has 'not safe' ever stopped a Ricci from doing anything?" Sophia challenged, the eye roll practically audible in her tone. "Papa taught us to move through danger, not hide from it."
You pinched the bridge of your nose, weighing how much to reveal versus how much to conceal. The delicate balance of big sister responsibilities—protect them from unnecessary worry while not treating them like children who couldn't handle truth.
"This isn't standard business danger, Soph. Someone breached Lewis's security last night." The partial truth, enough to convey seriousness without sending your sisters into panic. "We're relocating temporarily while the situation is handled."
"Relocate to where?" Maria's more practical voice cut in, suggesting Sophia had put the call on speaker without warning—typical of your youngest sister's disregard for privacy.
"Can't say over the phone," you replied, caution ingrained by years of your father's paranoia about communications. "But I'll let you know when it's safe to visit. It won't be long."
"So we're just supposed to sit here in New York while you're off playing international crime wife?" Sophia's dramatic flair hadn't diminished with distance. "This wasn't the deal when you got shipped off to London."
"I wasn't 'shipped off,'" you corrected automatically, though the description wasn't entirely inaccurate. "And yes, for now, that's exactly what you're supposed to do. Listen to Papa's security team, stay within protected areas, and wait for my call."
Gabriella's calm voice joined the conversation, the voice of reason among your sisters as always. "She's right, Soph. If Lewis's security was breached, that's serious. Better to delay than walk into a situation."
Sophia made a disgusted sound. "Fine. But you owe me for this disappointment."
You recognized the negotiation opening for what it was—Sophia's transition from outright refusal to bargaining phase. "What exactly do I owe you?"
"That Birkin bag I showed you last week. The green one."
"A thirty thousand dollar bag for postponing a trip?" You couldn't help but laugh. "Your extortion skills need work."
"Twenty thousand with the discount Papa's friend could get," Sophia countered. "And I've been wanting it forever."
"Ten thousand maximum, and you follow all security protocols without complaint until this is resolved," you countered, falling into the familiar rhythm of sisterly negotiation.
"Fifteen, and I want it in the special edition leather."
"Twelve, standard leather, and you stop interrogating Papa's guards about my situation. They have actual work to do besides satisfying your curiosity."
A pause, then a reluctant sigh. "Fine. But I want it by my birthday."
"Done," you agreed, knowing the bag was a small price for your sister's cooperation and safety. "Now put Maria back on."
As you shifted into more practical conversation with your middle sister about security arrangements and family matters, movement caught your peripheral vision. The connecting door between your suite and Lewis's—a door that had remained firmly closed since your arrival in London—stood slightly ajar, a sliver of the adjoining room visible through the gap.
Words died in your throat as Lewis came into view, back turned toward the door, clearly in the process of changing clothes. He pulled his t-shirt over his head in a smooth motion, revealing a canvas of muscle and ink that momentarily short-circuited your thoughts. Unlike the decorative softness of mobsters from your father's generation, with their espresso-paunches and gold chain necklaces, Lewis's body was a functional weapon—all lean sinew and defined strength without unnecessary bulk.
Tattoos covered his torso in strategic patterns—a large compass design centered on his chest, its intricate detail suggesting meaning beyond mere decoration. A rose bloomed along his left side, its thorny stem wrapping around his ribs like a warning. A huge cross cascaded down his spine, religion and art intertwined in permanent ink.
"Hello? Are you still there?" Maria's voice suddenly pierced your focus, jarring you back to the phone conversation you'd completely forgotten.
"Sorry, got distracted," you managed, quickly moving to close the connecting door with as little sound as possible. "What were you saying?"
"I was asking when you think we might actually get to visit," Maria repeated, suspicion coloring her tone. "What was so distracting?"
"Just security staff needing confirmation on something," you lied smoothly, turning your back on the now-closed door. "And I'm not sure about visit timing yet. I'll call you from... where I'm going... once we're settled."
The conversation wrapped up with the usual sisterly threats of bodily harm if you didn't call regularly, promises to keep them updated, and Sophia's final reminder about her bag—"Green, special edition, size 30, and I'll send the exact reference number to make sure there's no 'confusion'."
You set the phone down after hanging up, your mind returning unbidden to the glimpse of Lewis through the door. The sight shouldn't have affected you as it did—you'd seen shirtless men before, had even had a few lovers during college, but something about the unexpected vulnerability of Lewis, seeing the man beneath the tailored suits and controlled exterior, stirred something complicated in your chest.
The connecting door's sudden accessibility raised questions as well. Had it been unlocked all along, or was this a recent development? Another boundary shifting in the wake of last night's events, perhaps—security considerations trumping privacy concerns. The thought of Lewis having access to your bedroom at any time should have been unsettling, yet somehow wasn't, which was potentially more disturbing than the access itself.
You returned to packing methodically, selecting clothes appropriate for Geneva's early autumn climate along with a few pieces elegant enough for whatever business functions Lewis might need you to attend. The Glock he'd given you was carefully wrapped in a silk scarf and tucked into a hidden compartment in your luggage—easily accessible but not immediately visible.
A knock on your door interrupted your thoughts. "Yes?" you called, closing your suitcase with a decisive click.
Lewis pushed the door open slightly, his head appearing in the gap. "May I come in?"
"Of course," you replied, straightening as he entered the room fully.
He'd changed into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked both casual and expensive, the sleeves pushed up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. The outfit was a middle ground between the formal suits he typically wore and the unexpectedly revealing sweatpants from earlier—comfortable but still controlled, like Lewis himself.
"Almost ready?" he asked, eyes scanning the packed luggage at the foot of your bed.
"Just about. Waiting for my passport from Naomi—she's adding the Swiss visa."
Lewis nodded, moving further into the room with his characteristic measured grace. "The jet's being prepared. We should be wheels up by seven, arrival in Geneva around eleven local time."
"And your meeting is tomorrow?" you asked, recalling fragments of information gathered over the past week.
"Afternoon, with Augustus Mueller. He heads the digital currency department at Banque Privée Genève." Lewis leaned against the bedpost, his posture more relaxed than usual though still carrying that coiled readiness that never fully left him. "I've been trying to secure accounts there for years. They've finally agreed to a formal meeting."
"They've made you wait that long?" you asked, genuine surprise coloring your tone. Most financial institutions fell over themselves to accommodate clients with Lewis's resources, regardless of how those resources were acquired.
A hint of that rare smile touched his lips. "Swiss bankers are the original assholes of the financial world. They make you prove your worth before deigning to take your money." The light profanity and touch of humor felt unexpectedly intimate—another glimpse behind the carefully constructed facade. "Three years of negotiations to get a meeting that should have happened in three weeks."
You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you. "Impressive patience on your part."
"Strategic necessity," he corrected, though amusement lingered in his expression. "Their security protocols are worth the wait. Once established, the accounts will provide protection beyond what any other institution can offer."
You nodded, understanding the value of such banking relationships in your world. The right financial infrastructure could provide protection more effective than armed guards—money properly secured was power properly preserved.
"I've made additional arrangements for Geneva," Lewis continued, something shifting in his tone that caught your attention. "Given the circumstances, I thought it appropriate to adjust our itinerary."
"In what way?" you asked, curiosity piqued by his suddenly careful phrasing.
"We need a legitimate reason to remain in Switzerland while certain situations develop," he explained. "A proper honeymoon provides perfect cover while allowing us to remain close to banking operations."
Honeymoon.
The word hung in the air between you, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with security protocols or business strategy.
Lewis watched your reaction with careful attention, reading the momentary unease that you couldn't quite mask. "Not like that," he clarified quickly, then with unexpected hesitation added, "...unless?"
"Unless?" you echoed, eyebrow rising in genuine surprise at the uncharacteristic ambiguity from someone typically so precise in his communication.
The question drew a genuine chuckle from Lewis—not the controlled almost-smile you'd grown accustomed to, but actual amusement that transformed his severe features. The sound was rich and unexpectedly warm, like discovering a rare instrument could produce music when you'd only ever heard it used for formal announcements.
You found yourself smiling in response, oddly pleased to have elicited such a reaction. It was then you noticed his dimples—those small indentations that appeared only with genuine smiles, a detail you'd intellectually registered when first meeting him but hadn't truly seen in action until this moment. When had that feature become so attractive? The shift in your perception was subtle but undeniable, like suddenly noticing a painting's details after passing it daily.
Lewis scratched his beard thoughtfully, head tilting slightly as he studied you. "Never mind on that," he said, though the amusement hadn't fully left his eyes. "But I thought you might appreciate some time to relax."
"I wouldn't mind that," you admitted, surprised by your own sincerity. The idea of breathing space, even within the constraints of your complicated situation, held unexpected appeal.
He nodded, gaze sweeping around your room as if mentally cataloging its contents. "I'll let you finish packing, then."
"Okay."
Another moment of charged silence stretched between you, neither entirely comfortable nor precisely uncomfortable—a space of possibility neither of you seemed quite ready to define. Then Lewis turned, crossing to the door in a few measured strides and pulling it closed behind him with a soft click.
You released a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, the oxygen leaving your lungs in a rush that left you slightly light-headed. The conversation replayed in your mind, focusing on that single word—"unless"—and the implications that hung unspoken behind it.
Had Lewis Hamilton, your strategic husband of calculated precision, just implied interest in consummating your marriage of convenience? Like everything about Lewis, it had been carefully calibrated—an opening created without pressure applied, a possibility presented without expectation attached.
More surprising than his implied interest was your own reaction to it—not revulsion or even reluctance, but a complex mixture of curiosity and something warmer that you weren't entirely prepared to examine. The memory of his shirtless form seen through the doorway resurfaced.
You moved to the window, gazing out at the manicured grounds of the estate while your thoughts reorganized themselves around this new development. Marriage in your world had always been primarily strategic—emotional connection an added bonus. You'd entered this arrangement fully expecting a business partnership, perhaps eventually a friendship of mutual respect.
The possibility of genuine attraction hadn't factored into your calculations, yet here it was, introducing a variable you hadn't prepared for. Not unwelcome, but certainly interesting.
The private jet hummed around you, its engines a steady drone that matched the circular pattern of your thoughts as you stared out the window at darkness punctuated by occasional city lights below. Across the aisle, Lewis worked steadily on his laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across the angles of his face, emphasizing the controlled focus you'd come to recognize as his default state.
Two hours into the flight to Geneva, and the conversation from your bedroom still circled your mind like a persistent melody—that single word "unless" and all it implied hanging in the air between you even now. Not that Lewis showed any sign of it. Since boarding, he'd been courteous but professional; the momentary crack in his composure sealed as if it had never existed.
You took another sip of the excellent red wine the flight attendant had poured before discreetly retreating to the forward cabin, leaving you and Lewis alone in the main cabin's luxurious privacy. The alcohol warmed your throat but did nothing to quiet your thoughts about what Lewis had been suggesting in your bedroom.
Sex. Fucking. Consummating a marriage that existed on paper but had yet to become physical reality.
It wasn't that the idea itself was disturbing. Lewis was objectively hot—that glimpse of his tattooed torso through the doorway had confirmed what his tailored suits had merely suggested. But the implications of crossing that particular line felt more significant than a simple physical act. Sex changed things, complicated arrangements that functioned perfectly well without such entanglements.
Lewis had been nothing if not respectful of boundaries since your arrival in London. Every interaction had maintained careful distance, every conversation balanced between professional and personal without tipping decisively toward the latter. Even his suggestion had been presented as possibility rather than expectation—a door opened but not insisted upon.
Your mother's words from years ago surfaced in your memory: "Men in our world handle danger in predictable ways—with violence, with alcohol, or with sex. Sometimes all three in sequence." She'd been explaining your father's particularly aggressive bedroom demands after narrowly escaping a federal investigation, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his behavior part of the unspoken contract of their marriage.
Perhaps Lewis was simply experiencing the natural male response to threats and violence—physical desire as a release valve for tension. The kidnapping attempt, the betrayal from within his organization, the complications with Suarez—enough pressure to drive any man toward basic outlets for stress. Sex as a biological need rather than an emotional connection.
You'd been aware of your father's numerous mistresses since adolescence, had seen the knowing glances between your mother and his guards when he'd stay out late on certain nights. Not that he'd been disrespectful enough to bring evidence home, but the pattern had been clear enough to recognize even before you understood its mechanics. Men had urges, had needs—Ricci daughters were taught this reality early, prepared for the inevitability of husbands who would seek physical satisfaction beyond marriage beds while expecting absolute fidelity from their wives.
Maybe Lewis, for all his controlled distinction from men like your father, was ultimately driven by the same basic male programming. The timing certainly aligned with your mother's warnings about danger heightening sexual impulses. The breached security, the blood-spotted bandages on his knuckles—violence already engaged, perhaps sex naturally following in the cycle your mother had described.
You glanced at him across the aisle, studying his profile as he focused on whatever complicated financial maneuvers filled his screen. Nothing in his demeanor suggested a man consumed by sex. If it was indeed on his mind, he concealed it with the same precision he applied to all potentially compromising emotions.
The question that kept circling back wasn't whether Lewis wanted sex—his "unless" had made that possibility clear enough—but whether you did. And if so, what it would mean beyond the obvious physical consequences.
You weren't naive about sex. College had provided opportunities for exploration before your father's reputation inevitably scared away potential partners. You understood the basics, had even enjoyed some wildness on occasion, but you had always maintained emotional distance.
Sex with Lewis would be something else entirely—crossing a threshold that couldn't be uncrossed, creating connection where strategic distance might be safer. Yet the prospect wasn't without appeal. That glimpse of his body, the rare genuine smile with those dimples, the focused intensity that characterized everything he did—
"You're thinking very loudly," Lewis observed without looking up from his screen, his voice startling you from your thoughts.
"Excuse me?" you replied, caught off-guard by the sudden break in silence.
Now he did look up, those dark eyes finding yours with practiced precision. "Your expression. It's quite... concentrated. Like you're solving a complex equation."
You couldn't help the slight smile that tugged at your lips. "Something like that."
"Care to share the problem? I'm reasonably good with difficult calculations." The hint of dry humor was becoming more frequent in his interactions with you.
"Just processing everything," you replied, deliberately vague. "It's been an eventful twenty-four hours."
Lewis closed his laptop, giving you his full attention. "That's an understatement. How are you handling it? The attempt was directed at you specifically."
"I've had kidnapping threats before," you reminded him. "The Ricci name comes with certain occupational hazards."
"There's a difference between abstract threats and someone physically breaching security to reach your bedroom," Lewis pointed out. "Most people would find that deeply disturbing."
"I'm not most people," you echoed his own words from earlier with deliberate parallelism.
That almost-smile appeared briefly. "No, you certainly aren't. But the question still stands."
You considered how to respond honestly without revealing the actual direction of your thoughts. "I'm more concerned about what it represents than the attempt itself. Suarez has connections inside your organization—that's the disturbing part."
Lewis nodded. "We're making progress identifying the source. The operative who died had communications that point toward specific personnel. It's being handled."
The clinical phrasing couldn't quite disguise what "being handled" likely meant—interrogations considerably more thorough than what had left Lewis's knuckles bloody, followed by disposal methods that would leave no evidence for authorities to find.
"How extensive do you think the breach is?" you asked.
"Limited but strategically placed," Lewis replied, his expression hardening slightly. "Someone with access to security protocols but not operational details. Which narrows the field considerably."
"Then there's hope your Geneva banking connections haven't been compromised?"
"The compartmentalization should have protected that information, yes." Lewis leaned back in his seat, an uncharacteristically casual posture that suggested growing comfort in your presence. "Mueller doesn't know about Suarez or Bianchi. To him, we're simply a wealthy couple looking to establish private accounts for legitimate business interests."
"With a honeymoon cover story," you added, deliberately addressing the elephant that had followed you onto the plane.
Something flickered in Lewis's expression—surprise at your directness, perhaps, or appreciation for not dancing around the subject. "Yes. It provides legitimate reason for an extended stay if needed."
"Practical," you acknowledged, holding his gaze. "Though complicated."
"Most effective strategies involve some level of complexity," Lewis replied, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of unspoken meaning beneath his words. "The question is whether the advantages outweigh potential complications."
"And what's your thoughts on that particular equation?" you asked.
Lewis studied you for a moment, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I think it depends entirely on mutual agreement about desired outcomes and acceptable risks."
"Very diplomatic," you observed with a hint of genuine amusement.
Something like self-awareness crossed his features. "Occupational hazard. Precision in communication prevents misunderstandings with potentially significant consequences."
"Then let me be precise," you said, setting your wine glass down decisively. "Earlier, in my bedroom, you had an implied question. I'd like clarity on what exactly you were suggesting."
The directness clearly caught him off-guard, that rare unguarded expression briefly crossing his features before control reasserted itself.
"I was saying that our marriage could potentially incorporate additional aspects if mutually desired," Lewis replied after a moment, his phrasing still careful but considerably more direct than before. "Not as requirement or expectation, simply as... an option available should preferences align."
"Sex," you translated bluntly. "You were asking if I might be interested in having sex with you."
Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly at your candor, but he didn't flinch from it. "Yes. Though with more emphasis on choice and timing being entirely on your terms."
"I appreciate the honesty," you said. "And the emphasis on choice."
"Your father made clear from the beginning that certain traditional expectations wouldn't be part of our initial arrangement," Lewis explained, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "I've respected those parameters and will continue to do so unless you indicate otherwise."
The information was new—your father negotiating sexual boundaries on your behalf without your knowledge, Lewis accepting limitations that men of your father's generation would have considered insulting to their masculinity. Another unexpected dimension to an arrangement that continued revealing new facets with each passing day.
"And yet you made the suggestion," you observed, not accusatory but curious about the shift.
Something almost like vulnerability suddenly crossed Lewis's features. "Circumstances change. Relationships evolve. What begins as purely strategic can develop into something else when people work closely together."
"My mother always said men in our world have predictable responses to danger," you said, deciding honesty deserved equal honesty in return. "Violence, alcohol, or sex—usually in that order."
Understanding registered in Lewis's expression. "You think my suggestion was just a response to a threat."
"The timing fits with her theory," you added. "Less about me specifically and more about male needs after danger triggers certain responses."
Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful rather than offended. "There's likely some truth to that observation as general pattern. Stress and danger do trigger certain biological responses." He met your eyes directly. "But I'd like to think I'm capable of distinguishing between chemical reactions and genuine interest."
"And which category did your suggestion fall into?" The question was bold, but the conversation had already crossed into territory where traditional caution seemed unnecessarily limiting.
"Both, if I'm being entirely honest," Lewis replied after a moment, the admission clearly costing something in terms of his usual controlled presentation. "The danger certainly heightened awareness of mortality and corresponding impulses. But those impulses were directed specifically toward you for reasons beyond mere proximity or convenience."
It was perhaps the most revealing statement he'd made since your marriage—acknowledgment of genuine attraction rather than strategic consideration alone, of personal desire beyond contractual arrangement.
"I see," you said simply, processing this new information and its implications for your evolving relationship.
"My suggestion wasn't made with an expectation of immediate response," Lewis added, apparently sensing your need for space to consider. "Geneva provides the opportunity, but creates no obligation whatsoever. We have more immediate concerns to address regardless."
The statement offered graceful retreat from territory that had perhaps been explored further than either of you had initially intended.
"Mueller's banking connections being primary among them," you agreed, accepting the shift back to business.
Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop again though not immediately opening it. "Get some rest if you can. We land in just over an hour, and tomorrow will likely be demanding."
You recognized the gentle conclusion to a conversation that had revealed more than perhaps either of you had planned. "Good advice. I think I will."
As you reclined your seat and closed your eyes, not actually expecting sleep but welcoming the opportunity to process without observation, you found your thoughts considerably clearer than before the conversation. Whatever developed between you and Lewis, at least it would be based on direct communication rather than assumption or manipulation.
Geneva greeted you with crisp autumn air. Lewis's security team had traveled ahead, establishing protocols before your arrival, so when you emerged from customs, the transition was seamless—black Mercedes waiting, driver holding a discreet sign, no names required.
The city gleamed under moonlight as you were driven from the airport—old money and new power coexisting in architectural harmony, the lake reflecting lights like scattered diamonds across its surface. Everything pristine, everything controlled, everything operating according to precise rules that were never overtly stated but universally understood.
Lewis spent the drive exchanging texts with his advance team, the blue glow of his phone illuminating his profile in brief flashes as you gazed out at the passing scenery. Despite the eleven p.m. arrival, he looked unfazed by travel—the same controlled composure he maintained regardless of circumstances. You wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to truly disrupt that legendary control. The bloodied knuckles had been one glimpse. Perhaps there were others to discover.
The hotel—a discreet five-star establishment that catered to wealth that preferred anonymity—welcomed you with the particular deference reserved for guests who paid in cash and required no credit check. The lobby was a study in understated luxury, nothing so gauche as gold fixtures or other displays, just perfect proportions and materials that whispered rather than shouted their quality.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the concierge greeted you, his English impeccable, his eyes professionally warm without being presumptuous. "Welcome to La Réserve. We've been expecting you."
Lewis placed a protective hand at the small of your back as you were escorted to a private elevator—a gesture that could have been performative for watching eyes but felt oddly genuine in its subtle pressure. The flight had shifted something between you, the direct conversation about potential consummation of your arrangement clearing air that had grown increasingly charged with unspoken possibilities.
The penthouse suite occupied the building's entire top floor, its windows offering panoramic views of the lake and mountains beyond. A security sweep had already been completed, Jensen nodding confirmation to Lewis as you entered, before discreetly retreating with the remaining hotel staff. Within moments, you were alone in the expansive space, the door closing with a soft click that emphasized the sudden privacy.
You moved further into the suite, noting the elegant furnishings, the fresh flowers arranged with Swiss precision, the bottle of Dom Pérignon chilling in a silver bucket—all the expected luxuries for guests of your presumed status. What caught your attention, however, was the bedroom visible through open double doors—specifically, the single king-sized bed that dominated the space.
One bed. Not the two you'd anticipated based on your careful maintenance of separate sleeping arrangements in London.
Lewis followed your gaze, a momentary frown crossing his features as he registered the same detail. Without comment, he moved to the house phone, dialing with controlled precision.
"This is Hamilton in the penthouse," he said when someone answered, his tone polite but carrying that edge of authority that expected immediate resolution. "There seems to be a misunderstanding regarding our accommodation requirements."
You couldn't hear the response, but Lewis's expression tightened incrementally as he listened.
"I specifically requested a two-bedroom suite or connecting rooms," he continued. "This arrangement wasn't part of our agreement."
Another pause, longer this time, his fingers tapping a controlled rhythm against the polished desk surface—the only visible indication of his displeasure.
"Until Monday?" he repeated, glancing in your direction with a question in his eyes. "That's four nights."
You moved closer, the telephone exchange now audible as you approached—a professionally apologetic voice explaining that the hotel was fully booked due to an international banking conference, that no other suites were available until early next week, that they deeply regretted the inconvenience but could offer no immediate solution beyond a substantial rate reduction for the trouble.
"It's fine," you said, the decision made with practical ease. After all, it was hardly the most complicated situation you'd navigated in recent weeks. "We can manage."
Lewis studied you for a moment, clearly gauging the sincerity of your acceptance before returning to the call. "Thank you for checking. We'll make the current arrangement work." He paused, listening to further apologies. "Yes, that rate adjustment would be appropriate. Thank you."
He replaced the receiver with the same careful control he applied to all movements, turning to face you fully. "I apologize for the mixup. I was very specific about our requirements when making the arrangements."
"It's not a problem," you assured him, moving toward your luggage to unpack essentials. "We're adults, not teenagers at prom. I think we can handle sharing a bed for a few nights."
"I'll take the couch," Lewis said immediately, nodding toward the living area with its admittedly luxurious sofa. "You take the bedroom."
The offer was entirely expected—the gentlemanly solution to an awkward situation, precisely what etiquette demanded from a man of his position. But something about the automatic distancing struck you as unnecessary after the directness you'd established on the plane. If anything, the separate spaces in London now seemed like artifice maintained out of habit rather than necessity.
"Don't be ridiculous," you replied, moving to the bed and grabbing one of the many pillows from its elaborate arrangement. You placed it lengthwise down the center of the mattress, creating an improvised boundary. "There. Now we have space."
Lewis stared at your solution for several beats, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. "Interesting," he finally said, the single word carrying layers of potential meaning.
"Practical," you corrected, though you couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. "And considerably more comfortable than that couch."
Something that might have been amusement flickered across his features—there, then gone, controlled as always but not completely extinguished. "Practicality does appear to be a shared value."
You grabbed necessities from your suitcase—silk pajamas, toiletries, the small handgun Lewis had given you earlier that day—and moved toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower and change. It's been a long day."
Lewis nodded, already turning his attention to his own luggage. "Take your time. I have calls to make regarding tomorrow's meeting anyway."
The bathroom was a marble-clad sanctuary larger than some New York apartments, with a rainfall shower and a soaking tub positioned to capture views of the mountains through privacy glass. You turned the water as hot as you could stand it, letting steam fill the space as you stripped away clothes that carried the staleness of travel and the weight of the day's tensions.
As water sluiced over your skin, you found your thoughts drifting to the man in the next room and the strangeness of your evolving situation. Not just the marriage itself—though that remained surreal enough, but the unexpected developments within it. From strategic arrangement to potential partnership to whatever liminal state you now occupied, with shared beds and direct acknowledgment of possibilities.
The pillow barrier was childish, perhaps, a symbolic division that would do nothing to address the actual complexities between you. But symbols mattered in your world. They established boundaries and expectations, created frameworks within which negotiations could occur. The barrier wasn't about physical separation so much as psychological space—acknowledgment that whatever might eventually develop between you would happen by choice rather than circumstance.
You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in one of the hotel's robes, hair damp and curling around your shoulders, to find Lewis speaking quietly into his phone near the windows.
He ended the call as you approached, tucking the phone away with practiced ease. "Everything alright?" he asked, his eyes making a quick assessment that felt professional rather than invasive.
"Fine," you assured him, gesturing toward the bathroom. "All yours. There's enough hot water for a small army."
Lewis nodded, gathering his own necessities before disappearing into the steamy bathroom. The door closed with a decisive click, leaving you alone in the suite with thoughts that refused to settle into orderly patterns.
You changed quickly into silk pajamas after blow drying and wrapping your hair. The gun went under your pillow, old habits from the Ricci household transferring seamlessly to this new context. In your world, weapons during sleep were as essential as teeth brushing before bed—just another routine of self-preservation.
You'd just settled on your side of the pillowed barrier, checking emails on your phone, when Lewis emerged from the bathroom. Unlike your robe-wrapped transition, he was already dressed for sleep—dark pants that might have been either expensive loungewear or athletic gear, and a simple white t-shirt that did nothing to disguise the muscular definition beneath. More tattoos were visible now—the intricate linework extending down both arms in patterns too complex to decipher from a distance.
He paused briefly, taking in your position on the bed, before moving to his own suitcase to secure something inside, likely a weapon similar to the one beneath your pillow.
"Jensen reports no unusual activity around the hotel," he said, the security update offered as neutral conversational territory. "Additional personnel are stationed on the floor below and in the lobby. Naomi will join us for breakfast to review tomorrow's schedule."
Lewis settled on his side of the barrier, his movements economical as he arranged himself against the headboard, close enough for conversation but carefully observing the boundary you'd established. The king-sized bed was large enough that you weren't truly crowded, yet the awareness of his presence carried a charge that made the space feel more intimate.
"May I ask you something?" you said, curiosity overriding caution.
"Of course." His tone suggested openness, though his posture remained carefully controlled.
"The tattoos," you gestured toward his arms and what was visible of his chest beneath the white shirt. "They're more extensive than I realized. Do they have significance?"
Lewis glanced down at his forearms, as if briefly seeing them through your eyes rather than his own accustomed perspective. "Most have specific meaning, yes. Milestones, reminders, certain principles I choose to keep literally close."
"The compass?" you asked, recalling the design you'd glimpsed through the connecting door.
"Direction," he replied after a brief hesitation, one hand unconsciously moving to his chest where the tattoo lay beneath fabric. "A reminder to maintain course regardless of external pressures or distractions."
"And the rose?" The question pushed further into personal territory, acknowledgment that you'd seen more of him than perhaps he'd intended through that partially open door.
Something shifted in his expression—surprise giving way to understanding. "The connecting door," he said, neither accusatory nor embarrassed. "I didn't realize it had opened."
"Just a glimpse," you clarified, not wanting him to think you'd been deliberately watching. "While talking to my sisters."
Lewis nodded, accepting this without apparent concern. "The rose represents beauty with defense—thorns necessary for survival in hostile environments." His hand moved to his side where you'd seen the flower design wrapping around his ribs. "Beauty alone is vulnerability; defense alone is isolation. The combination creates sustainable strength."
The philosophy revealed more about Lewis Hamilton than perhaps he intended, values encoded permanently in skin, carrying meaning beyond mere decoration. Not the crude symbology of traditional mobsters with their misspelled Latin phrases and religious iconography.
"Do you have any?" he asked, turning the question back to you with genuine curiosity. "Tattoos?"
You shook your head. "My father considers them common—beneath a Ricci's dignity. My sisters and I were forbidden from getting any."
"And now?" Lewis raised an eyebrow. "Your father's prohibitions no longer apply to your choices."
The simple observation carried more weight than its surface suggestion about body art—acknowledgment of your shifting status from daughter under paternal authority to wife with autonomy within new parameters. The transition was still ongoing, boundaries still being established between old identity and new reality.
"I haven't given it much thought," you admitted. "There's been rather a lot happening lately."
That almost-smile appeared briefly. "Fair point."
Silence settled between you—not uncomfortable but charged with awareness of the unusual intimacy of your position. Two people legally married yet practically strangers, sharing a bed divided by pillows rather than walls, navigating territory neither had fully anticipated when signatures formalized your union.
"We should get some rest," Lewis said finally, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. "Tomorrow's meeting with Mueller will require focus."
"Of course," you agreed, settling further beneath the covers on your side of the barrier.
Lewis turned off his light, the room plunging into near-darkness broken only by city glow through partially drawn curtains. You followed suit, switching off your own lamp and adjusting to new shadows in unfamiliar space.
For several minutes, silence reigned, broken only by the distant sounds of occasional traffic below and the subtle rhythm of two people breathing in careful awareness of each other's presence. Despite exhaustion from travel and the day's tensions, sleep remained elusive—too many unprocessed thoughts circling your mind.
"Lewis?" you said quietly, uncertain if he was still awake.
"Yes?" His response came immediately, suggesting he'd been equally unable to find sleep.
"Thank you for being direct on the plane. About everything."
The darkness concealed his expression, but his voice carried a warmth rarely present in daylight conversations. "Directness seems to work well between us. Better than alternatives."
"It does," you agreed, finding unexpected comfort in this simple shared understanding.
Another silence, this one softer somehow, settled between you. Just as sleep began to pull at the edges of your consciousness, Lewis spoke again, his voice low in the darkness.
"For what it's worth, I respect the barrier. Both what it represents and what it potentially allows."
The statement carried layers of meaning—acknowledgment of boundaries established and possibilities left open, respect for choice without presumption of outcome. It was perhaps the most perfectly calibrated communication yet from a man who specialized in precise calculation.
"I know," you replied simply, the words carrying more certainty than you'd anticipated. Whatever else remained uncertain between you, Lewis's respect for your autonomy had been consistently demonstrated through actions rather than merely words.
Sleep claimed you shortly after, the strange intimacy of shared space somehow less disruptive than expected. Your last conscious thought was recognition that danger and desire continued their parallel trajectories in your new life—both requiring careful navigation, both carrying potential for either destruction or something unexpectedly valuable.
Tomorrow would bring Mueller and banking arrangements and the continued strategic dance of your unconventional marriage. But tonight, for the first time since arriving in London as Lewis's wife, you slept without Roscoe's watchful presence or security personnel patrolling outside your door—just the measured breathing of the dangerous, controlled man beside you, separated by pillows but increasingly connected by something neither of you had fully anticipated when signatures sealed your arrangement.
*************************************************
Consciousness returned in layers, warm and hazy around the edges as morning light pressed against your closed eyelids. Something felt different—the weight of covers, the texture beneath your cheek, the subtle rhythm against your ear that wasn't quite the sound of your own heartbeat.
You opened your eyes to find yourself not on your designated side of the bed, the carefully arranged pillow barrier long abandoned during the night. Instead, you were curled against Lewis's side, head resting on his chest, one arm draped across his torso in unconscious intimacy that sent a jolt of surprise through you.
You jerked upright, disoriented by the unexpected closeness, only to hear Lewis's voice—deeper, slightly rough with sleep, yet still carrying that fundamental control that never quite left him.
"Don't worry about it," he murmured, making no move to shift away despite your sudden movement.
Your eyes found his, one arm casually positioned behind his head as he regarded you with surprising nonchalance given the circumstances. No sign of discomfort or awkwardness, just calm acceptance of waking to find his strategic wife cuddled against him like a lover.
"I'm sorry—" you began, embarrassment heating your cheeks.
"Don't," he interrupted gently. "It's fine. You talk in your sleep sometimes... did you know that?"
Embarrassment deepened, your mind racing through potential revelations you might have unknowingly shared while unconscious. Growing up in a household where information was currency and vulnerability was weakness had made you pathologically private, even in sleep.
Lewis's expression softened, a hint of amusement warming his usually reserved features. "It wasn't anything serious. You didn't reveal anything vital to destroy an empire, if you're worried about that."
You couldn't help but return his half-smile, surprised by the light-hearted reference to your shared world of secrets and power. "Good to know my subconscious isn't committing treason."
A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound still touched with sleep. "Sounded like you had a nightmare... so I pulled you closer to me."
You furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, the statement so at odds with the controlled, calculated man you'd come to know. Lewis, deliberately drawing someone closer during vulnerability rather than maintaining careful distance? The revelation felt more intimate than the physical closeness itself—a glimpse behind carefully constructed walls that few were likely permitted.
"Come 'ere," he said, the words carrying the unmistakable weight of command despite their quiet delivery, brooking no argument or hesitation.
You found yourself complying without conscious decision, moving closer until you were near but not quite touching as you had been moments before.
"More," Lewis prompted, a teasing lilt warming his voice that you'd never heard before—playfulness from the man who approached even casual conversation with strategic precision.
Drawn by something that felt like gravity, you shifted until your head rested in the crook of his arm, the position deliberate rather than accidental this time. His arm wrapped around you with surprising naturalness, hand settling against your upper arm with gentle pressure as his other arm completed the embrace.
You inhaled deeply, his scent filling your senses—that expensive cologne now mingled with the warmth of sleep, creating something more intimate than the carefully curated presentation he maintained in public. The combination was unexpectedly appealing, triggering responses you hadn't anticipated when placing that now-forgotten pillow barrier between you.
Lewis sighed, the sound carrying contentment rather than resignation. "I enjoy cuddling," he revealed, the simple admission somehow more surprising than if he'd confessed to complex criminal operations.
The idea of Lewis Hamilton—the dangerous, controlled crime lord who ordered executions between wine selections—being someone who "enjoyed cuddling" created cognitive dissonance so profound it almost made you laugh. Yet here was evidence in the form of strong arms holding you with gentle but definite intention, his body relaxed against yours in a way that suggested genuine comfort rather than strategic performance.
"Your skin is so soft," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower timbre that sent an involuntary shiver through you. His hands skimmed delicately over your arms, the touch light but deliberate, somewhere between affection and assessment.
The observation immediately transported you back to your conversation on the plane. His tone carried the same quality now, appreciative without demanding, noting without claiming.
"Thank you," you replied, the response automatic though hardly adequate for the complex moment unfolding between you.
"You're welcome," Lewis said simply, seemingly content with both your response and the continued physical contact that neither of you appeared inclined to end.
Silence settled comfortably around you, allowing space to absorb the strangeness of this new intimacy—strategic partners becoming something less defined yet more connected, the carefully maintained distance of previous days giving way to whatever this tentative embrace represented.
You listened to birds calling outside the windows, watched as early sunlight strengthened across the room. Lewis's heartbeat maintained its steady rhythm beneath your ear, his breathing even and calm as if this level of physical closeness were commonplace between you rather than unprecedented.
"I've been attracted to you since our first meeting," Lewis said finally, his voice quiet but clear in the morning stillness. "Not just for strategic advantage or family connection, though those factors were certainly relevant to the arrangement."
The revelation caught you by surprise, though in retrospect, it shouldn't have. Lewis approached most matters with calculated precision—once a decision was made to address a topic, he did so without unnecessary pretense.
"Your father showed me the notes," he continued, his hand still moving in gentle patterns against your arm. "The ones Suarez sent with his flowers. The presumption, the crude possessiveness disguised as courtship. It was... illuminating."
You stiffened slightly at the mention, unaware that Lewis had seen the messages the Cuban had sent—increasingly threatening "romantic" overtures your father had apparently shared during negotiations without your knowledge.
"I didn't realize," you said, uncertain how to feel about this exchange of information about you without your participation.
"Your father wanted me to understand what I was potentially standing against," Lewis explained, sensing your discomfort. "Though I suspect his intent was more to gauge my reaction than out of concern for your feelings about Suarez's attention."
The assessment aligned with your understanding of your father's methods—using information as both test and manipulation, revealing vulnerabilities to assess responses rather than from genuine concern.
"What was your reaction?" you asked, curious despite yourself about how Lewis had responded to seeing another man's presumptuous advances.
His arms tightened fractionally around you, the only indication that the memory triggered something less controlled than his usual presentation. "Professional outwardly. Your father needed to see reasoned strategic assessment, not emotional response."
"And inwardly?" you pressed, somehow knowing there had been more beneath the surface.
Lewis was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing small circles against your shoulder as he considered his answer. "Inwardly, I found myself... unexpectedly territorial about someone I hadn't yet met. It wasn't strategic. It was visceral."
The admission carried weight beyond its simple words—Lewis acknowledging emotional response that transcended calculated advantage, revealing layers beneath controlled exterior that few likely witnessed.
"Seeing you bandage my hand that night after the intruder," he continued, his voice taking on a quality you hadn't heard before, "watching you think through strategic countermeasures when most would have been focused solely on the danger... it did something to me."
His hand moved from your arm to your shoulder, then traced a path down your back with deliberate slowness, the touch firm enough to be intentional but gentle enough to allow withdrawal if unwanted. "Your intelligence, your composure under pressure, the way you see through performances to underlying motivations—those qualities are intriguing beyond any physical attraction, though that certainly exists as well."
His hand continued its careful exploration of your back, not straying beyond appropriate boundaries but making its awareness of your body unmistakably clear.
"I'm not going to push," Lewis said, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "That isn't how this works between us. But I find myself... anticipating possibilities. Savoring moments like this in the interim."
His hand stilled against your lower back, pressure firm but not restrictive. "Imagining what it might be like to hear you, to feel you... to watch you come apart before pulling you back together." The statement was delivered with the same measured control as business assessments, yet carried heat beneath its precision. "But patience has always been among my stronger qualities."
As if to emphasize this point, his hand lifted from where it had been creating distracting patterns against your body, the withdrawal of contact almost as potent as its application had been.
You glanced up, needing to see his expression, to read whatever might be visible in features that typically revealed only what he deliberately allowed. You found his eyes already watching you, intense focus softened by something that might have been genuine affection. His lower lip was caught briefly between his teeth—a rare display of even minor loss of control that drew your attention with unexpected force.
"Yes, babygirl?" he asked, the unexpected nickname sending a jolt of something electric through your nervous system.
The term of endearment—possessive yet affectionate, dominant yet caring—highlighted how rapidly territory was shifting between you. From Mrs. Hamilton to given name to this new designation in the span of weeks, each step changing the landscape of your arrangement in ways neither of you had fully anticipated.
Your eyes dropped briefly to his lip, still caught between teeth in uncharacteristic display of actual human impulse, before returning to meet his gaze directly. "You said you liked control," you reminded him, referencing the conversation in your father's garden where he'd first alluded to preferences that transcended business interactions.
"I do," Lewis confirmed, something darkening in his expression that wasn't quite dangerousness but carried similar intensity. "In certain contexts, control is... essential to my satisfaction."
The deliberate phrasing didn't disguise the fundamental meaning—Lewis preferred dominance in sexual encounters, requiring surrender from partners in ways that aligned with his carefully controlled approach to all other aspects of his existence.
"It's not about degradation or inequality," he clarified, reading potential concern in your expression. "It's about trust. About someone choosing to surrender control rather than having it taken. About creating space where submission becomes strength rather than weakness."
The philosophy revealed more than perhaps he intended—values that extended beyond bedroom preferences into fundamental worldview, approach to power that differed from men like your father who equated dominance with negation of others' agency.
"I would never do anything you wouldn't like," Lewis continued, his tone carrying absolute certainty. "That's not the point of control. It's about maximizing pleasure through structure and boundaries, not imposing unwanted experience."
The detailed explanation was both reassuring and intriguing, the implications of what such dynamic might entail in practice rather than theory.
"How would I know if I like it?" you asked, the question emerging from genuine curiosity rather than challenge or evasion.
Instead of answering directly, Lewis's expression shifted into something that could only be described as smugly confident—a smile that contained certainty born of experience rather than mere theory. The expression was so unlike his usual controlled presentation that it caught you off-guard, revealing yet another facet of the increasingly complex man whose ring you wore.
Before he could respond verbally, a sharp electronic tone cut through the moment—his phone signaling priority communication that couldn't be ignored regardless of personal preference. The sound broke the intimate bubble that had formed around you, reality reasserting itself with typical inconvenient timing.
Lewis sighed—a rare display of actual frustration—before reaching for the device on his nightstand. "Hamilton," he answered, professional mask sliding seamlessly back into place despite the lingering effects of your conversation.
You shifted away, using the interruption as opportunity to collect thoughts scattered by the unexpected intimacy. Whatever had been developing between you would need to wait—business calling as it always did in your world, possibilities deferred but not forgotten as you both returned to the roles that had brought you together initially.
Strategic partners first and foremost, regardless of what else might be evolving beneath that fundamental arrangement.
Lewis's expression hardened as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the call, the intimate warmth from moments ago replaced by the calculated focus of a man handling business complications. "Send me the details. I want the complete file before the meeting," he instructed, rising from the bed in a single fluid movement. "And double the surveillance on Mueller's associates. If he's meeting with Castellano's people, I want to know why."
You slipped from the bed as well, giving him privacy for the call while gathering clothes for the day. The transition felt abrupt but familiar—moments of personal connection inevitably interrupted by business demands, the constant rhythm of life in your world. That fundamental reality hadn't changed with marriage, just the specific players and territories involved.
"Bloody hell." Lewis ended the call with terse efficiency, setting the phone down with controlled precision that didn't quite mask the tension radiating from him. He turned to find you watching him, his expression softening fractionally when your eyes met.
"Problem?" you asked, practical rather than disappointed about the interrupted moment.
"Potential complication," he clarified. "Mueller's been meeting with representatives from a rival banking group with connections to certain Italian interests in Milan."
The careful phrasing didn't disguise the actual concern—potential compromise of your banking arrangements through competing criminal organizations. The Swiss financial world operated within careful parameters, maintaining neutrality while still facilitating transactions other institutions wouldn't touch. Loyalty wasn't guaranteed to the highest bidder, but alliances shifted based on calculated advantage.
"Castellano?" you asked, the name triggering recognition. "As in Giovanni Castellano?"
Lewis raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by your familiarity with what should have been an obscure connection. "You know the family?"
"My father considered an alliance with them three years ago," you explained, memories surfacing of overheard conversations and files you weren't supposed to access. "The negotiation broke down over territorial disputes in Newark."
Lewis's expression shifted from surprise to something closer to genuine appreciation. "That information wasn't in your father's briefing materials about your family connections."
"It wouldn't be," you acknowledged. "The discussion never reached formal negotiation stage. But I remember my father mentioning their Swiss banking arrangements were particularly sophisticated, especially regarding digital assets."
Lewis studied you with renewed intensity, that focused assessment that made you feel simultaneously examined and valued. "The Castellanos have been strengthening their European operations, particularly in fintech. If they're meeting with Mueller before our appointment—"
"They could be positioning to block our access," you finished, mind already analyzing potential countermeasures. "Or at minimum, raising Mueller's expectations regarding compensation for his services."
Lewis nodded, something like genuine partnership passing between you—shared understanding of the complex chess game your world operated within, mutual recognition of threats and opportunities without need for simplified explanation.
"I need to make some calls," he said, reaching for his phone again. "The meeting's been moved up to eleven rather than afternoon—Mueller's office 'apologizes for any inconvenience' but claims scheduling conflicts."
"Convenient timing," you observed dryly. "Almost as if someone wanted to limit our preparation."
"Exactly." Lewis was already scrolling through contacts. "This changes our approach. Instead of separate meetings, I want you with me for the Mueller discussion."
The statement caught you by surprise—not because of inclusion itself, which aligned with your emerging role in his operations, but because of its implications for strategy. "You want to present unified front rather than using me as unexpected asset later?"
Lewis paused, giving you his full attention despite pressing concerns. "I want Mueller to understand exactly what he's dealing with—not just another criminal with money to hide, but a partnership with complementary capabilities. Your understanding of the Castellano connections creates leverage we didn't know we had."
The assessment was both practical and oddly gratifying—recognition of value beyond decorative accessory or symbolic alliance. "What's our angle, then? Good cop, bad cop? Sophisticated couple? Business partners?"
Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful despite the time pressure. "Executive team, I think. Professional, knowledgeable, with clear division of expertise but unified direction." His eyes held yours with unwavering focus. "No pretense of traditional marriage roles—Mueller needs to see you as equal strategic partner, not wife along for decorative purposes."
The approach differed markedly from how your father would have positioned you in similar circumstances—as silent ornament whose occasional intelligent comment would surprise by contrast with assumed decorative function. Lewis was suggesting something fundamentally different.
"I'll need information on what we know about Mueller's digital banking operations," you said, mind already shifting to practical preparation. "And the specific services we're seeking from his institution."
Lewis nodded, reaching for his laptop. "I'll have Claire send the complete file immediately. We have just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting."
The next ninety minutes passed in focused preparation—files reviewed, strategies discussed, contingency plans established for various potential complications. The intimate moment from earlier remained unacknowledged but not forgotten, its implications temporarily set aside rather than dismissed as you both channeled energy into the immediate challenge.
You emerged from the bathroom dressed for battle in your own way—charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy silk blouse that managed to be simultaneously professional and striking, heels adding height without sacrificing mobility should circumstances require quick exit. Not dramatically different from your usual business attire, but selected with particular attention to the impression it would create on Swiss bankers with traditional expectations constantly at war with reality of their clientele.
Lewis looked up from his laptop as you entered, his eyes making a quick but thorough assessment. "Perfect," he said simply, the single word carrying more weight than elaborate compliment.
He had transformed as well—the relaxed, cuddling man from earlier morning completely replaced by the dangerous, controlled crime lord his reputation described. His suit was flawlessly tailored black with subtle gray pinstripe, white shirt providing stark contrast to the deep blue tie secured with mathematical precision. The tattoos were once again hidden beneath formal armor, the only hint of their existence the edges visible at his wrists when his cuffs shifted and the markings on his hands.
"Mueller has particular views about appropriate business attire," Lewis explained, making a final adjustment to his tie. "Traditional to the point of anachronism. It's one battle not worth fighting if we want his cooperation."
You nodded, understanding the strategic concession. In your world, adapting to certain expectations created space to challenge others more central to your objectives. Conformity in surface matters often facilitated deviation in more substantial ones.
"The car will be ready in twenty minutes," Lewis continued, closing his laptop with decisive click. "Naomi and Jensen are already downstairs coordinating security for the route."
"What about the gun?" you asked, pointing to the Glock still sitting on the nightstand. "I'm guessing Swiss bankers aren't big fans of armed clients, no matter how nicely we dress."
Lewis's mouth quirked up slightly. "Jensen took care of it. Apparently 'clients of Mueller's particular specialization' get diplomatic courtesy for their security measures."
You couldn't help but smile at the delicate phrasing—"clients of particular specialization" instead of just saying "criminals with enough money." The Swiss had turned discretion into an art form long before modern organized crime even existed.
Lewis moved closer, near enough that you caught his cologne but not so close it felt like he was crowding you. "There's something else you should know before we meet Mueller," he said, his tone more serious now.
"What is it?" you asked, immediately on alert.
"Mueller's got this thing about marriages in our world," Lewis explained. "He sees them as proof of stability and succession planning. His best deals go to clients whose family setup looks like it'll last."
That made immediate sense. "So our honeymoon cover actually serves a real business purpose."
Lewis nodded. "Exactly. Mueller likes dynasty-building—banking relationships that'll continue through generations instead of ending when one person dies or goes to prison."
"So he'll be sizing up our marriage as much as our business," you translated. "Looking for signs we're actually partners and not just a convenient alliance."
"Yes," Lewis confirmed. "Which means we need to... perform a bit differently than your standard business meeting."
The meaning was clear—to convince Mueller, we'd need to show a connection beyond just strategic arrangement, suggesting something with a future. Not fake romance exactly, but definitely showing a united front beyond just business.
"So we need to act like a real couple, not just business partners," you clarified. "What, should I call you 'darling' while we talk about blockchain?"
That drew another brief smile from him. "Nothing that over-the-top. Just... being comfortable around each other. Familiar with each other's movements. The little tells of people who actually share a life, not just a business card."
The irony wasn't lost on you, given how this morning you'd woken up cuddled against him after crossing the pillow barrier in your sleep.
"I think we can handle that," you said, feeling oddly confident about this particular act. The pillow barrier had been abandoned in more ways than one, making space for whatever was developing between you.
Lewis studied you a moment longer, as if checking that you were really okay with this. "Good. But if anything crosses a line you're not comfortable with, just say 'Geneva protocol' and I'll back off immediately."
That consideration—setting up a safety word for something as simple as physical closeness—told you volumes about Lewis's approach to your partnership. Consent mattered to him in ways that stood out among powerful men, creating a foundation of respect regardless of strategic needs.
"I appreciate that," you said sincerely. "But I don't think it'll be necessary."
Lewis nodded, accepting your word without pushing. "We should head downstairs. Naomi will want to brief us on security before we leave."
As you gathered your things, you caught Lewis watching you with an expression that wasn't entirely professional. The look disappeared quickly as his usual control took over, but that brief glimpse confirmed what your morning conversation had established—Lewis was interested in you beyond just strategic advantage, creating possibilities neither of you had expected when you signed those marriage papers.
Those possibilities would have to wait, though. Mueller and his banking empire came first—another move in the complex game that defined your shared existence, another piece on the international chessboard of power and influence.
You followed Lewis toward the door, mentally reviewing key points from the files while thinking about how to show the right level of marital connection that Mueller would expect. The double performance felt strangely fitting—operating on multiple levels at once had always been a survival skill in your world.
At least with Lewis, you weren't carrying the strategic burden alone. For the first time in your experience with powerful men, you had a partner who saw your mind as an asset rather than an inconvenience, who treated you as an equal player instead of just decoration.
Whatever else might develop between you—whatever that heated look and your morning conversation might lead to—that fundamental respect created a foundation unlike anything you'd experienced in your father's world of traditional power structures.
The thought brought an unexpected warmth as you stepped into the elevator beside Lewis, his hand resting briefly at the small of your back in a gesture that could have been just for show but somehow felt more genuine than calculation alone would explain.
Banque Privée Genève occupied a discreet limestone building that managed to project both historical gravitas and understated wealth without resorting to the ostentatious displays that characterized newer financial institutions. No gleaming steel and glass here, no modern architectural statements—just three centuries of accumulated power disguised as conservative respectability.
The car dropped you at a side entrance where private clients could avoid the public lobby, a concierge in impeccable formal attire greeting you by name without consulting any visible record. Such flawless execution spoke to thorough preparation—Mueller's operation had been studying you both well before your arrival.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton," the man said with perfect Swiss precision—not too warm, not too distant. "Herr Mueller is expecting you. If you would follow me, please."
The corridors you traversed could have belonged to an exclusive museum rather than financial institution—antique furnishings that were clearly original rather than reproduction, oil paintings by masters whose works rarely appeared at public auction, display cases housing historical documents that traced the bank's lineage through European wars and financial crises it had weathered with characteristic neutrality.
Lewis walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders occasionally brushed—establishing the comfortable physical proximity your strategy required without overplaying the connection. His hand rested briefly at the small of your back as you entered an elevator requiring key card access, the touch feeling less calculated than previous similar gestures. Whatever was developing between you had begun bleeding through the performance, creating something that felt increasingly genuine despite its strategic foundations.
Mueller's office occupied the building's top floor, a space that managed to be both grand and understated—old money that had no need to announce its presence with flashy displays. The man himself embodied similar contradiction—mid-sixties with silver hair and patrician features, his suit so perfectly tailored it appeared molded to his frame.
"Mr. Hamilton," Mueller greeted, extending his hand with precisely calibrated pressure in the handshake. "A pleasure to finally meet in person after our extensive correspondence."
"The pleasure's mine," Lewis replied smoothly. "Thanks for accommodating our schedule change."
Mueller turned his attention to you, his assessment quick but comprehensive—taking in every detail from your carefully selected attire to the wedding band on your finger. "And Mrs. Hamilton. A delightful addition to our meeting. I was unaware you would be joining us today."
"My wife has a unique perspective on digital currency integration that's particularly relevant," Lewis explained, the word 'wife' somehow sounding natural in his British accent. "Her financial tech background has given our operations an edge I've come to rely on."
Mueller's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly reassessing initial assumptions about your presence. "How fascinating. The younger generation's embrace of technology provides critical advantage in evolving markets. Please, both of you, be seated."
The chairs positioned before Mueller's massive oak desk were deliberately placed, close enough to suggest unity between occupants while maintaining clear sightlines for all participants. You took your seat with practiced grace, crossing your legs at the ankle in the conservative posture your mother had drilled into you for such situations.
"I understand congratulations are in order," Mueller continued, gesturing toward your wedding rings. "A recent union, yes? You're in Geneva for your honeymoon, I'm told."
"Thank you," Lewis replied, his tone warming slightly. "Yes, we're combining business with pleasure while in Switzerland. Geneva has special significance for both our families."
The careful phrasing established both personal connection to the location and hint of generational ties, exactly the type of dynastic implication Mueller reportedly valued in clients. Your briefing materials had emphasized the banker's preference for family operations over individual entrepreneurs, his belief in bloodlines and succession as indicators of reliable long-term partnerships.
"The most successful unions in our world balance both practical alliance and personal compatibility," Mueller observed, his gaze moving between you with evaluative precision. "Particularly across traditional territorial boundaries. Quite progressive, bringing American and British operations together through marriage."
"The old geographical divisions don't really matter in digital markets anymore," you replied, joining the conversation naturally. "Strategic positioning across financial systems matters more than physical location now."
Mueller's attention sharpened at your contribution, his assessment visibly adjusting. "Indeed. A perspective many of my more traditional clients struggle to embrace." He leaned forward slightly. "Your father's operation maintains more conventional territorial focus, if I recall correctly."
The direct reference to your family connection confirmed what you'd suspected, Mueller had thoroughly researched both your backgrounds, understanding exactly what alliance your marriage represented. No point in pretense with someone so well-informed.
"My father's good at what he does within established boundaries," you acknowledged diplomatically. "Lewis and I see opportunities in pushing beyond them."
Lewis's hand moved to rest lightly on your forearm—a subtle gesture of approval that felt warmer than mere performance would justify. "Her insights on regulatory adaptations have already given us an edge in our European expansion. Especially with integrating blockchain and traditional banking systems."
The discussion shifted into technical territory—Mueller probing your combined knowledge of financial systems, testing both expertise and unity of vision through increasingly pointed questions. You and Lewis responded with natural coordination, each covering areas of strength while supporting the other's perspectives.
The banker's skepticism gradually transformed into genuine interest as the conversation progressed, particularly when you outlined how digital currency conversion could address traditional banking vulnerabilities.
"Your approach is more sophisticated than I anticipated," Mueller acknowledged, making notes in an actual leather-bound ledger rather than electronic device—old-school methods for old-school power. "Most clients in your... particular industry... focus exclusively on concealment rather than legitimate integration opportunities."
"Hiding money only works for so long in today's world," Lewis responded. "We're more interested in building systems that work across different regulatory environments, not just hiding assets."
"A longer-term perspective," Mueller noted with approval. "Generational thinking rather than quarterly objectives."
"Exactly," you confirmed, seeing the perfect opening to appeal to Mueller's known preferences. "We're building foundations that will last well beyond our lives."
Mueller's eyes moved meaningfully between you, the implication clear without being stated directly—foundations that included potential heirs, succession planning, dynasty-building that appealed to his traditional values despite your modern methodologies.
"I believe we can establish arrangements that would serve your particular requirements," he said finally, closing his ledger with deliberate precision. "Though certain additional verifications will be necessary before accounts can be fully activated."
"Of course," Lewis agreed easily. "We expected thorough due diligence. My team has prepared all the documentation you'll need."
Mueller nodded, apparently satisfied with both your professional presentation and the subtle but consistent indicators of genuine partnership. "Excellent. My assistant will coordinate the next steps with your team. I anticipate we can have preliminary accounts established within forty-eight hours, with full functionality following verification protocols."
The timeline was significantly accelerated from typical banking procedures—clear indicator that your combined approach had successfully convinced Mueller of your value as clients. Lewis's hand found yours briefly, a gentle squeeze communicating shared victory without need for words.
"We appreciate your efficiency," Lewis said, rising as Mueller did to indicate the meeting's conclusion. "And your flexibility regarding our accelerated timeline."
"Honeymooners should focus on pleasure rather than extended business negotiations," Mueller replied with surprising hint of warmth. "Geneva offers much to appreciate beyond banking facilities."
You stood as well, smoothing your skirt with practiced grace. "We're looking forward to exploring the city more once the business matters are settled."
Mueller extended his hand to you, the gesture conferring equal professional respect rather than merely ceremonial acknowledgment. "A pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton. Your contributions to today's discussion were most illuminating."
"Thank you," you replied, accepting the handshake with precisely the right balance of firmness and feminine grace your mother had taught you for dealing with the traditional European businessmen. "We look forward to a productive relationship with your institution."
The practiced phrases carried weight beyond their surface courtesy—establishing expectations for ongoing connection rather than merely transactional interaction. Mueller's approving nod suggested the message had been received exactly as intended.
Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you prepared to leave. Something was shifting between you with each such contact—boundaries slowly dissolving.
"One moment," Mueller said as you reached the door, his tone suddenly more cautious. "I should mention that an associate of yours is currently in the building. Giovanni Castellano arrived for his appointment earlier than scheduled. I believe you may know each other?"
The name hit you like an unexpected punch despite your earlier discussion of potential Castellano connections. Giovanni's presence immediately following your meeting couldn't be coincidence—the timing was too perfect to be anything but a deliberate power play.
Lewis's expression remained controlled despite the obvious provocation, only the slightest tightening around his eyes betraying his recognition of the competitive challenge. "We know each other," he acknowledged neutrally. "Though it's been a while since we've crossed paths directly."
Mueller's careful neutrality couldn't quite disguise his awareness of the underlying tension. Swiss banking thrived on maintaining relationships with competing interests, providing services to rivals without becoming entangled in their conflicts. "I mention it only as professional courtesy," he explained. "To avoid any... awkward encounters in the lobby."
"Appreciated," Lewis replied smoothly. "Though I don't have any problem greeting a colleague if needed."
The diplomatic phrasing barely disguised the underlying reality—neither man could afford to appear intimidated by potential confrontation, not with Mueller observing their respective responses. Backing down or avoiding contact would signal weakness neither could strategically afford.
"Your wife is welcome to make her own assessment," Mueller said, turning to you with a carefully neutral expression. "Given certain historical connections, I understand."
The reference to your father's previous negotiations with the Castellanos further confirmed your earlier suspicion—Mueller knew exactly who you were and what complex alliances your marriage represented. His seemingly casual mention of Giovanni's presence was actually calculated test of both your individual reactions and your unity as a couple.
"Family connections often go beyond business complications," you replied with the diplomatic smile your mother had perfected through decades of navigating your father's complex allegiances. "I'd be happy to say hello to Signore Castellano if we run into each other."
The response struck a perfect balance—acknowledging the relationship without overstating its significance, maintaining professional courtesy without suggesting actual alliance.
As if on cue, a knock at the office door preceded the entrance of Mueller's assistant. "Herr Mueller, Signore Castellano has arrived for his appointment," he announced.
"Thank you, Klaus," Mueller replied. "Please show him in. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were just leaving."
The timing couldn't have been more perfectly orchestrated if planned in advance—which, you suspected, it very well might have been. Mueller's seemingly coincidental scheduling created an opportunity to observe direct interaction between competing interests.
The door opened fully to reveal Giovanni Castellano in all his traditional Italian glory—Brioni suit in charcoal gray, Ferragamo shoes polished to mirror shine, gold Rolex peeking from beneath French cuffs secured with diamond links. At sixty-five, he remained handsome in that distinctly Mediterranean way that aged like fine wine—silver threading through still-thick black hair, lines around his eyes speaking of laughter rather than hardship, the overall impression one of vitality rather than diminishment.
His eyes widened slightly at the sight of you—genuine surprise not quite masked by practiced social grace. Then a smile spread across his features, transforming serious business demeanor into something warmer and distinctly more Italian in its expressiveness.
"Madonna mia," Giovanni exclaimed, spreading his arms in theatrical gesture of delighted surprise. "Piccolo fiore! Is it really you?"
The childhood nickname—bestowed during a summer gathering at your father's Hampton estate when you were barely ten—carried uncomfortable weight given your current position as another man's wife. Lewis remained perfectly still beside you, his physical presence somehow intensifying without any visible movement.
"Uncle Gio," you replied, using the familial designation despite lack of actual blood relation—the traditional form of respect in your world for older family associates. "What a surprise to see you in Geneva."
Giovanni moved further into the room, his attention focused entirely on you as if Lewis and Mueller had temporarily ceased to exist. "Look how you've grown, piccolo fiore. A woman now, and such a beautiful one." His eyes moved deliberately to your wedding ring, expression shifting toward something less warm. "Though I must say, I was disappointed to learn of your marriage. Especially to..." his gaze finally acknowledged Lewis's presence, "...someone outside our traditional circles."
The implied criticism—Lewis lacking proper Italian heritage—carried deliberate provocation beneath its surface courtesy. Giovanni had always been among the most traditional family leaders, placing enormous value on bloodlines and ethnic connections despite his organization's international operations.
"Lewis and I just click," you replied simply, stepping closer to your husband in a subtle but visible show of unity. "Some traditions are worth moving beyond."
Giovanni's expression registered both surprise and something closer to grudging respect at your direct response—clearly having expected the silent deference traditional wives displayed in your world. Lewis's hand settled at your waist in quiet show of support, the touch feeling protective without being possessive.
"Stefano was quite upset to hear the news," Giovanni continued, referencing his eldest son with deliberate emphasis. "He always had special fondness for you, piccolo fiore. Such a shame timing didn't align differently."
The implication was clear—your father's failed negotiations with the Castellanos might have resulted in very different marriage arrangement had circumstances developed differently. Stefano Castellano's "special fondness" had always left sour taste in your mouth—his attention during family gatherings carrying entitled presumption that had made your skin crawl even as a teenager.
"Please give Stefano my regards," you replied carefully, avoiding the implied romantic connection. "It's been a few years since we saw each other at my father's Christmas party."
"Too many years between our families," Giovanni agreed, his attention finally shifting more directly to Lewis. "Business complications create unnecessary divisions where alliances would be more productive. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Hamilton?"
Lewis's expression remained controlled, his response measured. "Partnerships work when they're built on shared values. The right foundation matters for anything that's going to last."
The professional phrasing couldn't quite disguise the underlying message—some divisions existed for substantive reasons beyond mere territorial competition. Giovanni's smile tightened slightly, recognition flashing beneath practiced cordiality.
"Of course, of course," the Italian agreed with theatrical wave of his hand. "Values, traditions, foundations of family operations. Speaking of which," his attention returned to you, "we've been watching your family's recent developments with great interest. Particularly the expansion into new territories through... unconventional alignments."
The indirect threat was thinly veiled—surveillance of your family's operations wrapped in seemingly casual observation. Lewis remained outwardly relaxed beside you, though you could sense the heightened alertness.
"How nice of you to keep such close tabs on us," you replied, deliberately emphasizing the word 'close' to acknowledge awareness of the surveillance without showing concern. "Of course, Uncle Gio. Our families have always kept an eye on each other's activities."
Giovanni's eyes narrowed slightly at the subtle countermove—your acknowledgment transforming his implied threat into mutual observation rather than one-sided vulnerability.
"Indeed," he agreed after brief pause. "Family connections transcend temporary business complications. Speaking of family," his tone shifted toward seemingly casual inquiry, "how is your lovely sister Gabriella? She must be, what, twenty now?"
The question carried weight beyond surface curiosity—Giovanni's well-known preference for strengthening alliances through marriage making his interest in your unmarried sister's status unmistakably strategic rather than merely conversational.
"Nineteen," you corrected. "And doing great. She's actually mentioned wanting to spend some time in Milan. I think she's been texting with Marco fairly regularly."
The reference to Giovanni's younger son—dropped casually as if it wasn't calculated—landed exactly as intended. Giovanni's expression shifted toward genuine interest, business maneuvering temporarily superseded by parental curiosity.
"Marco? My Marco has been speaking with Gabriella?" The surprise seemed genuine rather than performative. "He didn't mention this development."
"Young people and their private communications," you replied with a conspiratorial smile.
The implication was masterfully structured—suggesting potential romantic interest between Giovanni's son and your sister without making claims that could be directly verified. The "connection" was technically true—Gabriella and Marco had exchanged a few text messages following a charity event both had attended—but substantially exaggerated in its significance.
Giovanni processed this information with visible calculation, his strategic mind already incorporating potential new alliance pathway into existing plans. Despite past differences with your father, the Castellano patriarch had always been among those who placed highest value on uniting powerful families through marriage especially those with strong Italian bloodlines on at least one side.
"How interesting," he said finally, his tone warming considerably. "Young people finding their own paths while still honoring traditional connections. Perhaps we should arrange a family gathering when you return from your... honeymoon." The slight pause before the last word carried clear acknowledgment that your current marriage represented obstacle to a potential Castellano alliance with your sister.
"That would be lovely," you replied with practiced social grace that committed to nothing concrete. "Once our current business matters are settled and we've returned to London, of course."
Lewis chose this moment to re-enter the conversation, his tone balancing professional courtesy with subtle assertion of position. "We shouldn't keep Signore Castellano from his appointment with Herr Mueller any longer. Banking matters wait for no one, as we've just discovered ourselves."
The gentle redirection was masterfully executed—acknowledging Giovanni's status while establishing clear conclusion to the unexpected encounter. Mueller, who had been observing the entire exchange with careful neutrality characteristic of Swiss bankers witnessing potential conflicts between valued clients, nodded in agreement.
"Indeed, schedules remain tight today," the banker confirmed. "Though this unexpected reunion has been most... illuminating."
The final word carried knowing weight, Mueller clearly cataloging the complex dynamics he'd just witnessed for future reference regarding all parties involved. In the Swiss banking world, such intelligence often proved as valuable as financial assets themselves.
"Of course, of course," Giovanni agreed, though his attention remained primarily on you rather than the men. "We mustn't delay important financial matters. But piccolo fiore," he stepped closer, taking your hand with old-world formality, "it truly warms my heart to see you again. You've grown into a magnificent woman, just as your mother once predicted."
The reference to your mother—subtle reminder of Giovanni's longstanding connections to your family that predated current business complications—created another layer of complexity.
"Thank you, Uncle Gio," you replied, accepting the hand clasp with appropriate respect for his age and status despite your marriage to someone he clearly viewed as competitor. "Please give my regards to Aunt Nina and the family."
"I shall, I shall," he promised, finally releasing your hand with reluctant formality. "And we will be watching your progress with great interest. Both of you," he added, finally acknowledging Lewis directly again. "The banking world presents unique challenges for newcomers to its particular traditions."
The subtle warning—Castellano connections potentially influencing your banking arrangements—hung in the air between you as Giovanni stepped back to allow your departure. Lewis's hand returned to its now-familiar position at the small of your back, the touch carrying more definite pressure than in previous similar gestures.
"Until next time, Signore Castellano," Lewis said with perfect professional courtesy that didn't quite mask the underlying steel. "I'm sure our paths will cross again soon enough."
"In our world, they always do," Giovanni agreed, the seemingly casual observation carrying weight of both promise and potential threat. "Safe travels, Signore e Signora Hamilton. Geneva can be treacherous for unwary visitors."
You maintained perfect composure as Lewis guided you from the office, the practiced social mask never slipping despite the multiple layers of threatening subtext beneath seemingly cordial exchange. Only once the elevator doors closed, leaving you momentarily alone in the confined space, did you allow yourself to exhale fully.
"Well," you said quietly, aware of potential surveillance even in private banking elevators, "that was unexpected."
"Was it?" Lewis asked, his voice equally low though his expression remained neutral for any watching cameras. "Mueller strikes me as someone who creates opportunities to observe client interactions rather than leaving such intelligence to chance."
"True," you acknowledged. "Though Giovanni's presence itself might have been a coincidence. The Castellanos have maintained Swiss banking relationships for generations."
Lewis's hand found yours, fingers interlacing with deliberate intent that felt more protective than performative now that you were beyond Mueller's direct observation. "There are remarkably few coincidences in our world, particularly involving banking arrangements and family rivalries."
The elevator reached the ground floor, doors opening to reveal the discreet private lobby where Mueller's special clients could exit without being seen. Lewis's security team waited with their usual vigilance, Jensen stepping forward immediately.
"Car's ready, sir," he reported crisply. "Route's secure, no unusual activity."
Lewis nodded, his hand still holding yours as you moved toward the exit. The touch felt different now—a connection born from navigating those tricky waters together rather than just putting on a show for watching eyes.
"Meeting with Mueller went well," Lewis told Jensen as you approached the waiting vehicle. "But we've got a complication with Castellano showing interest. Keep surveillance up until we're clear of the banking district."
Jensen took this with professional calm, already activating his comms to alert the others. "Understood. Adjusting now."
As the car door closed behind you, creating a bubble of privacy, Lewis finally let his controlled expression relax slightly. "You were amazing in there," he said quietly, genuine admiration in his voice. "Mueller was impressed by your technical knowledge, but how you handled Giovanni was something else."
The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on looks or charm—he actually recognized your strategic skills, and that hit differently.
"The 'Uncle Gio' thing definitely caught him off guard," you acknowledged, remembering the surprise on Giovanni's face. "He's used to throwing around family connections to intimidate people, not having it turned back on him."
"It divided his attention perfectly," Lewis added, clearly appreciating your tactical thinking. "He couldn't focus solely on competing with us anymore."
This felt like real partnership, not just an arranged alliance—recognizing how your different skills created something better than either of you could manage alone.
"Mueller will approve the accounts," Lewis said, shifting to practical matters. "Our unified front was exactly what he wanted to see."
"Funny how our honeymoon cover story actually served a real purpose," you noted with a touch of irony.
Something changed in Lewis's expression, shifting from purely professional assessment to something more personal. "Sometimes strategies work out better than we plan," he said quietly. "Creating value we didn't expect."
As the car moved through Geneva's elegant streets, Lewis's hand found yours again. The contact wasn't necessary for show anymore, but he maintained it anyway. Something was shifting between you with each moment like this—boundaries fading not through violation but through mutual recognition of a connection developing beyond what was in the contract.
The famous lake gleamed outside your window, mountains rising majestically in the distance, beauty that had witnessed centuries of alliances made and broken, while Swiss neutrality provided a safe harbor regardless of who won or lost. Your own situation seemed both significant and tiny against this backdrop—personal changes playing out where generations had navigated similar waters before you.
"I believe that calls for celebration," Lewis said once you'd returned to the hotel suite, loosening his tie with uncharacteristic casualness. "Mueller's approval typically takes weeks, not hours. And I still can’t get over the way you handled Giovanni. Brilliant."
The suite felt different somehow upon your return—the morning's unexpected intimacy having shifted your perception of the space. Lewis moved to the bar, selecting a bottle of champagne with the efficient precision you'd come to expect from him.
"Mueller definitely didn't expect us to tag-team him like that," you acknowledged, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief. "Though I bet Giovanni showing up was Mueller's idea all along."
"No doubt," Lewis agreed, opening the champagne with a controlled pop. "Swiss bankers love to watch how their clients handle pressure. Two birds, one stone kind of thing."
He poured two flutes and handed one to you, his eyes warmer than usual. "To kicking ass in banking negotiations."
"And surprising the hell out of Italians," you added with a smile, clinking your glass against his.
The champagne was excellent—crisp and not too sweet. You moved toward the window, enjoying the view of Geneva while allowing yourself a rare moment to actually feel satisfied about something.
"That Castellano move was smart," Lewis said, joining you at the window. "Bringing up Gabriella and Marco was a nice touch too."
"Giovanni's always thought of himself as everyone's Italian patriarch," you explained, remembering summers where he'd dispensed unwanted advice to all the younger generation. "He can't resist the chance to play matchmaker, even when he's supposed to be threatening us."
Lewis watched you with that intense focus that still sent an unexpected warmth through you. "You know, most people would've gotten defensive when he brought up your marriage. But you turned it around on him completely."
The compliment felt different from the usual male appreciation focused on appearance. He actually respected your mind, and that hit differently than you expected.
"My mother would say I just applied her lessons on handling difficult men," you replied with a half-smile.
"She taught you well," Lewis said, that rare smile briefly appearing. "But I think you've got natural talent."
You settled onto the window seat cushion, relaxing in a way that would have been impossible in public. Lewis remained standing, still carrying that readiness that never fully left him.
"Do you ever actually relax?" you asked. "Even now, you look ready to take down a threat at any second."
Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Hard habit to break," he admitted. "Survival mode becomes your default setting after a while."
"Even with champagne and a win this big?" you pressed, sensing a rare opportunity to see behind his carefully maintained facade.
Something shifted in his expression—a decision to let you see a bit more than usual. "Especially after a win," he said quietly. "That's when you're most vulnerable. When you think you're safe... that's usually when everything goes sideways."
The insight felt personal rather than theoretical. You found yourself genuinely curious about the experiences that had shaped him, what had created both his controlled precision and those glimpses of warmth you'd been seeing more frequently.
"Sounds like you learned that the hard way," you observed.
Lewis moved to join you on the window seat, reducing the physical distance between you. "Yeah," he acknowledged, setting his champagne aside. "Experience is a hell of a teacher. Especially when the lessons involve blood rather than just bruised pride."
His simple statement carried the weight of history you'd only glimpsed in fragments. The scars on his knuckles and forearms told stories his carefully measured words typically concealed.
"I got too comfortable after some early successes," he continued, surprising you by elaborating without further prompting. "Let my guard down. Started celebrating before I should have. And it cost me... more than I was prepared to lose."
The clinical way he said it couldn't quite hide the emotion underneath—personal pain transformed into hard principles through self-discipline. For the first time, you wondered about Lewis's life before he became the powerful, controlled man you knew—what relationships he might have had, what connections might have been severed.
"I'm sorry," you said simply.
Lewis looked momentarily surprised by your response, as if he'd expected something more strategic. "It was a long time ago," he replied, though his expression suggested the impact hadn't faded with time. "Made me better at what I do now, anyway."
Even personal loss became strategic advantage with Lewis—pain recalibrated into useful principles. Yet this glimpse of vulnerability felt like trust extended rather than weakness revealed.
"To lessons learned," you said quietly, raising your glass.
Lewis's expression softened as he picked up his champagne to meet your toast. "And doing better with them going forward."
The conversation drifted to more practical matters—next steps with Mueller, security plans, how to handle the Castellanos. Yet that underlying current remained, your connection subtly transformed by this shared moment into something more substantial than professional alignment alone.
When Lewis's phone eventually interrupted with a call that couldn't be ignored, you felt an unexpected disappointment. The realization itself was surprising—that you'd started to value these quieter moments with him.
"I should take this," Lewis said, genuine regret in his tone as he checked the caller ID. "Claire wouldn't call unless it was important."
"Of course," you said, professional understanding replacing personal disappointment with practiced ease. "Business never waits. Mueller taught us that much today."
Lewis stood with his usual grace, but paused before moving away to take the call. In a gesture that felt both calculated and spontaneous, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss against your forehead—brief contact that felt warmer now that no one was watching to make it necessary.
"Thanks," he said simply. "For everything today."
Then he was moving toward the office space, already shifting into business mode as he answered Claire's call, transforming from briefly relaxed to fully operational despite the champagne and momentary lowering of guards between you.
You remained at the window, watching Geneva spread out before you while your thoughts circled this latest evolution in your relationship with Lewis. Not quite a traditional marriage, not merely a business arrangement, but something developing its own unique shape, a connection building itself rather than following any predetermined pattern.
The celebration had been brief but genuine, the victory truly shared. Whatever developed next would build on the foundation being established through moments like this—trust extended through both professional respect and personal confidence, understanding built through actually seeing each other rather than just the roles you played.
Your wedding ring caught the afternoon light as you finished your champagne, the diamond's sparkle a reminder of a binding that had begun as strategic necessity but was evolving into something neither of you had anticipated. Not quite love in the traditional sense, but a connection increasingly substantial beyond mere convenience.
Lewis's voice carried from the office, handling whatever complication Claire had identified with his usual efficiency. The sound reminded you of the reality underlying your shared existence—danger and strategy never truly gone.
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