You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 2) by Georgia le Carre Page B

Zane says.
    I turn to him. ‘Great. I’ve always wanted to see it.’
    ‘It is one of the most fascinating places on the earth,’ he says quietly.

    The villa is located in Formello about twenty kilometers from Rome, and is surrounded by lush trees and greenery. The wrought iron gates are opened by a small, white-haired man who nods at us formally as we drive through to a gorgeous house painted in burnt orange. It has a white stone balustrade and slated wooden shutters painted duck-egg blue on the windows. There is an ancient green Mazda parked by the side of the house.
    We step out onto the dusty road and a tiny woman comes out of the large wooden door and smiles in greeting. The man who opened the gates comes up the driveway as the taxi driver is taking our bags out of the boot.
    ‘Benevenuto Senor e Senora Zhivanecskaya,’ the woman says. Her face is full of wrinkles and her eyes are brown and rheumy, but her smile is real and full of spirit.
    ‘Grazia, Senora Rossi,’ Zane says.
    I smile at her.
    By now the sprightly old man is upon us and his weathered face is split into a large welcoming grin. He reaches forward and grasps Zane’s hand in both of his. To my surprise Zane starts talking to him in fluent Italian. After a while the man lifts his hand and bids us both goodbye. The woman, presumably his wife, nods at us, and they both get into the rickety car and drive off.
    ‘It’s just you and me now, rybka ,’ Zane says with a wink.
    ‘I didn’t know you could speak Italian.’
    ‘Many Russians can speak German, French, and Spanish too.’
    ‘Wow! Impressive.’
    Zane hauls up our luggage and we go into the villa. It is cool inside with terrazzo flooring and cold white walls. The hallway leads to a very large lounge with exposed beams, a massive fireplace, and a graceful rusted-iron chandelier. It is sparsely filled with reproduction rococo style Italian furniture and an upright piano in one corner of the room.
    The lounge opens up to a dining room with a long, highly polished table and eight tall chairs. At the back of the house there is a large country style kitchen with a much smaller farmhouse table and wooden chairs with straw seats. All the rooms wrap around an oriental style courtyard in the middle of the house.
    Up a flight of stone stairs there are three spotless double bedrooms with en-suites. We put our bags in the master bedroom. It is a beautiful room with a king-size bed covered in a damask bedcover, a large tapestry on the wall, and a velvet daybed. I go over to the window and see that there is a swimming pool right underneath the window. To my delight there is also a lemon grove in the grounds.
    It is nearly five by now and I turn to Zane with a happy smile. ‘What do you want to do, Mr. Zhivanescskaya?’
    ‘Guess, Mrs. Zhivanescskaya?’ he says, coming towards me.
    ‘Oooo, but Mr. Zhivanescskaya I—’ The rest of my words are cut out by his mouth swooping down on mine.

    I lie on the softly scented pillow and I think that though all our other sex sessions have been awesome this one has been undoubtedly the best. Why? Because Zane is a different man. His body is without that strung-wire tension and his eyes don’t house that peculiar wariness that I always associate with him. He even looks younger.
    A gust of wind redolent of the smell of lemons and fallen leaves comes in from the open window and blows over our heated skin. Outside it’s still light, but it is a kind of translucent light never found in England. I turn my head and look at Zane. A lock of his hair has fallen on his forehead. I push it away with my hand. He opens his eyes and looks at me.
    ‘Do you think it will rain?’ I ask.
    ‘No,’ he says softly.
    ‘I really like it here,’ I say, yawning and stretching lazily.
    He takes the opportunity to slip his finger into me. It makes my body arch and his finger crooks in me and starts stroking the delicate tissues inside me.
    ‘Oh, Zane,’ I whisper.
    ‘I love