Betrayal & Biscotti

BENEDETTO

One week of marriage, and I’m already learning that being a husband means dealing with problems I never anticipated.

“The Moretti shipment cleared customs without issue,” Marco says, sliding a folder across the bar toward me. “And the South End property deal closes next Tuesday.”

I nod, scanning the documents. The bar is quiet at this hour—just past noon on a Wednesday. Most of our regulars won’t arrive until evening, which makes it the perfect time for business discussions that require privacy.

Marco’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, and his expression shifts—subtle, but I’ve known him long enough to read the change.

“What is it?” I ask.

He looks up, his jaw tight. “Viktor Markov’s men. They’ve been spotted outside Lucia’s flagship restaurant.”

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “How long?”

“At least an hour. Maybe longer.” Marco’s fingers fly across his phone screen, pulling up surveillance photos. “Two men in a black Mercedes. They’re not even trying to be subtle about it.”

I lean forward, studying the images. The car is parked directly across from the restaurant’s entrance, positioned for a clear view of anyone coming or going.

Gemma is in there right now, working to get the place ready for reopening.

“Leonid must have told Viktor something about her,” I say, my voice low and dangerous. “Something that made him interested enough to keep tabs on her.”

“Probably,” Marco agrees. “The question is what, and why now?”

I stand, already pulling out my phone. “It’s time to make our presence known. Round up some of the men and meet me there in fifteen minutes.”

Marco’s already moving toward the door. “On it.”

I send a quick text to Gemma: Be there soon. Don’t leave the restaurant.

Her response comes immediately: Why? What’s wrong?

Tell you when I get there. Stay inside.

I don’t wait for her reply. I’m already heading for my car, my mind racing through possibilities. Viktor Markov isn’t Leonid—he’s smarter, more strategic, less prone to emotional outbursts. Which makes him more dangerous in different ways.

If he’s watching Gemma, there’s a reason. And I need to know what it is.

The drive to the North End takes twelve minutes. I spot the Mercedes immediately—exactly where Marco’s surveillance photos showed it. Two men inside, both watching the restaurant entrance with the kind of focused attention that makes my blood heat.

Marco pulls up behind me with three of our men. We approach the Mercedes together, our presence impossible to miss.

I tap on the driver’s side window.

The man inside—mid-thirties, built like he knows how to handle himself—rolls down the window slowly. His expression is carefully neutral, but I see the calculation in his eyes.

“Gentlemen,” I say, my voice pleasant. Conversational. “Beautiful day for a drive through the North End.”

“Mr. Bellucci.” The driver nods. “Just enjoying the scenery.”

“The scenery.” I lean down slightly, making sure he can see my face clearly. “That’s interesting. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re watching my wife’s restaurant.”

The passenger shifts in his seat. His hand moves toward his jacket, but Marco’s already there, his own weapon visible enough to make the point.

“I’m going to give you some friendly advice,” I continue, my tone never changing from that pleasant, almost casual register. “Find something better to do with your time. This is Bellucci territory. That restaurant belongs to my wife. And she’s under my protection.”

“We’re just—”

“I don’t care what you’re just doing.” I straighten, adjusting my cuffs. “Tell Viktor that if he wants to have a conversation about territorial boundaries, he can call me directly. But surveillance of my wife?” I smile, and I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “That’s not going to continue. Understood?”

The driver exchanges a glance with his passenger. After a long moment, he nods.

“Good.” I step back from the car. “I’d suggest you leave now. Before my wife notices you’re here and decides to handle this herself. Trust me—you don’t want that.”

The Mercedes pulls away from the curb, and I watch until it turns the corner and disappears from sight.

“Want me to have them followed?” Marco asks.

“Yes. And find out where Viktor is staying. If he’s in Boston, I want to know about it.”

Marco nods and steps away to make calls. I turn toward the restaurant, my jaw tight with residual anger.

Leonid was impulsive, emotional, easy to predict. Viktor is none of those things. Which means whatever game he’s playing, I need to figure it out fast.

I push open the restaurant door and immediately hear her voice from the kitchen.

"Cazzo! Why won’t you just—merda—cooperate, you stubborn piece of—”

The string of Italian and English curses continues, creative and increasingly colorful. Despite everything—the surveillance, the threats, the constant pressure—I feel my lips twitch.

My wife has a temper.

And God help me, I find it sexy as hell.

GEMMA

The dough is mocking me.

I know it’s irrational to be angry at pasta dough, but I’ve been working on this batch for forty minutes and it’s still not coming together the way it should. Too dry in some places, too sticky in others, refusing to form the smooth, elastic texture my mother could achieve in her sleep.

"Vaffanculo," I mutter, adding another splash of water and kneading harder.

The restaurant kitchen is a disaster. My father’s sabotage is evident everywhere I look—missing equipment, outdated ingredients in the pantry, grease buildup on surfaces that should have been cleaned daily. It’s going to take weeks to get this place back to the standards my mother maintained.

And on top of everything else, I woke up this morning with cramps that feel like someone’s twisting a knife in my lower abdomen.

Perfect timing. Absolutely perfect.

I’m elbow-deep in flour when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn, ready to snap at whoever’s interrupting, and find Benedetto standing in the doorway.

Relief floods through me—immediate and overwhelming. Just seeing him makes some of the tension in my shoulders ease.

But I’m also irritable and uncomfortable and this fucking dough won’t cooperate, so what comes out of my mouth is: “If you really love me, you’ll go buy me the biggest chocolate bar you can find. Right now.”

Benedetto’s eyes widen slightly. He looks me up and down—not in the heated way that usually makes my skin flush, but with the careful assessment of someone solving a puzzle.

Then understanding dawns on his face, and he actually chuckles.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, wiping flour off my hands. “I didn’t mean to bark at you. I’m just—I’m going to be a bitch for the next few days. Fair warning.”

“I kind of figured that out already,” he says, his voice warm with amusement rather than judgment.

I blink at him. “You did?”

“Kitten, I’ve been married to you for a week and lived with you a few months now. I’m learning to read the signs.” He crosses to me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Chocolate. Got it. Anything else?”

“Maybe some ibuprofen. And wine. Definitely wine.”

“I’ll handle it.” He brushes a strand of hair back from my face. “But first, we need to talk.”

The gentleness in his tone makes my stomach clench with a different kind of anxiety. “What’s wrong? Why are you here in the middle of the day? You had meetings—”

“Viktor Markov had men parked outside,” Benedetto says quietly. “Watching the restaurant. Watching you.”

"Che cazzo?" I spin toward the front windows, my hand already reaching for the rolling pin on the counter. “Are they still out there? Because I swear to God, Benedetto, I will march out there right now and—”

“They’re gone.” His hands settle on my shoulders, firm and grounding. “I took care of it.”

“Took care of it how?”

“Marco and I had a conversation with them. Made it clear that surveillance of my wife isn’t going to be tolerated.”

I want to feel relieved. I should feel relieved. But instead, rage bubbles up in my chest—hot and sharp and demanding release.

“I am so sick of this,” I say, my voice shaking. “My father sends that cryptic threatening text on our wedding day. Now Viktor has people watching me like I’m some kind of—of target or asset or—” I grip the rolling pin tighter. “I’m adding them all to my list.”

“Your list?”

“Of people I’m going to beat with this rolling pin.”

Benedetto’s lips twitch. “That’s quite a list you’re building.”

“It keeps growing.” I set the rolling pin down before I actually throw it at something. “First my father. Then your mother. Now Viktor Markov. Anyone else want to threaten my happiness? Get in line.”

“Hey.” Benedetto turns me to face him, his hands gentle on my arms. “I know you’re frustrated. And angry. And dealing with cramps that are probably making everything feel ten times worse—”

“How did you—”

“I’m observant.” He kisses my forehead again. “And I’m going to take care of you. Chocolate, ibuprofen, wine, whatever you need. The next few days, you’re going to be pampered. Understood?”

Some of the fight drains out of me. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “You’re my wife. Taking care of you isn’t a burden, Gemma. It’s a privilege.”

I’m about to respond—maybe even cry, because hormones are making me emotional and he’s being so sweet—when Marco appears in the kitchen doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, his expression grim. “But we have a problem.”

Benedetto’s entire demeanor shifts. “What kind of problem?”

“Your mother. She’s trying to move large sums of money from the shared accounts to offshore accounts. My contact at the bank flagged it as suspicious activity.”

I laugh—sharp and humorless. “Perfect. Add her to the rolling pin list.”

Marco’s eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t comment.

“Freeze all her accounts,” Benedetto says immediately. “Every single one. I don’t care if she’s trying to buy groceries or fund a coup—nothing moves without my explicit approval.”

“Done.” Marco types something on his phone. “Anything else?”

Benedetto glances at me, then back at Marco. “We need to go buy chocolate.”

Marco blinks. “Chocolate?”

“The biggest bar we can find.”

Marco looks between us—Benedetto’s serious expression, my flour-covered apron and probably wild-eyed appearance—and understanding dawns on his face.