Living in this life, you've never gotten to have much say in anything. What you wear, who you hang out with, and now, who you marry and you're dreading your arranged marriage to the Italian mob boss, Chris Evans. Expecting to suffer through a life o...
Series Summary: Living in this life, you've never gotten to have much say in anything. What you wear, who you hang out with, and now, who you marry and you're dreading your arranged marriage to the Italian mob boss, Chris Evans. Expecting to suffer through a life of abuse while being kept under lock and key, you're pleasantly surprised when Chris is nothing like you expected. He's the most feared man on the East Coast, only brought to his knees by one thing and one thing only. You.
Warnings: language, alcohol, arranged marriage (Chris's family signs contract with readers family that promises their firstborn daughter to their firstborn son), parental abuse mentioned, age gap. The reader is 25, Chris is 35. Guns, violence, reader stitches up Chris, blood. A teeny little bit of smut but nothing crazy. (18+only)
W/C: 6.2k
This is a work of fiction.
Italian and Italian translation in italics. (The translations were run by someone who fluently speaks Italian, if there are any corrections to be made, please let me know!
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You studied Chris as he moved around the kitchen, the clanking of pots and pans combined with the string of obscenities he was mumbling over his breath made you chuckle. He turned, throwing you a playful scowl.
Him. Cooking? He looked like a fish out of water.
Keeping an eye on him over the brim of your coffee mug, you smirked, "Need help?" you teased before blowing the hot beverage lightly.
"I survived for 35 years without a wife, I am perfectly capable of cooking breakfast," he growled.
You hid another snicker by sipping your coffee, knowing damn well that Chris had Gina prepare all of his food up until you moved in. Once you found out that Chris she did that, you'd asked kindly for her to show you what he liked and then let her know you would be taking over.
This house was humongous and Gina only had one other person help her with the upkeep, so she didn't mind.
It seemed so 1950s at the time, but you knew that as the wife of a don, you couldn't work, so you needed something that gave you some kind of purpose during the days. This week, you'd started diving into baked goods, trying your hand at an assortment of cupcakes, muffins, beignets, cookies, etc. You were pleasantly surprised when you came home from lunch with your mom to find a stack of cookbooks on the kitchen island for you. Chris teased you yesterday about needing to find a new hobby, one that wouldn't ruin his 6 pack, to which you asked for his black card, as a joke, and he was all too quick to hand it over. He was totally fine with shopping being your new hobby.
"Let me help you, marito." (husband)
A smile tugged at his lips when you cooed the Italian term of endearment as he impatiently waited for the gas range to flicker to life, "I got it, I got it. Siediti e rilassati" (sit and relax)
