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DARK CROWN

SHANNA HANDEL

CONTENTS

Welcome Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Epilogue Bonus Content FREE Chapter Book 2 in Russo Royals About the Author Also by Shanna Handel

WELCOME

Click for Shanna Handel’s Newsletter Sign Up FREE BONUS When you’re finished reading Dark Crown, Get Dark, a Russo Royals Bonus Prologue FREE NOW Click HERE for FREE Bonus (NOTE: To avoid spoilers only read Dark AFTER you’ve read Dark Crown) Shanna Handel Copyright © 2020 Shanna Handel Cover Art by Pop Kitty All rights reserved.

Dark Crown: A Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance Russo Royals; Book 1 He’s the king of the Mafia. I’ve been promised to him as payment.

I’ve dreamed of my wedding day since I was a little girl.

Only this is not a dream but a nightmare.

I’m forced to marry the most dangerous man in Italy.

He’ll steal me away to his castle. Make me his wife.

Demand my obedience.

Take all of me.

I loathe him.

And yet…

When he puts his hands on my body…

My secrets reveal themselves.

I lose control, I crave this man I hate...

My husband.

PROLOGUE

V

incent

T HERE ARE two things a man can never have enough of in this life. Power, and wealth.

Not money, but wealth.

Money comes and goes, flowing like water. Slipping through your fingers like fine grains of sand.

Wealth is the stone you build your kingdom with. Hard.

Unmoving. Timeless.

Power can be bought, or it can be taken. I’ve come to Italy and conquered, earning the trust of a carefully chosen army.

I’ve become the king of the Italian mafia, giving it my blood, my sweat, and my surname: Russo.

My castle stands high on the hill, surrounded by thick stone walls, complete with turrets where my men stand guard over our family. To my right, the green rolling hills make their way down to the village, the pristine shops and cottages dotting the land like a storybook. To the left, the land lowers into the aquamarine expanse of the sea.

I’ll never tire of this view.

I lack for nothing.

And yet…

There is one final conquest I must reign victorious.

A win so trivial, yet it nags constantly at the back of my mind.

A marriage.

Felicity Alfano.

She’s a beauty, a shy girl, working in her father’s store attempting to keep it from going under, but with his surmounting debts—money owed to me—its demise is inevitable.

The last wish of my grandfather was for me to take her for my wife.

I’ll steal her body. Demand her loyalty.

And her heart?

She can keep it to herself for all I care.

She’s nothing more to me than a toy; something to play with.

Something to break.

But when I finally take her in my arms, I find I’ve gotten it all wrong.

1

F

elicity

I’ VE DREAMED of my wedding day since I was a little girl. I knew I would wear a white dress with longs sleeves and a full skirt. I would dance with my father to his favorite song, Figlia Mia: My Daughter, and I would carry a bouquet of deep red roses.

And my groom—my prince charming, my knight in shining armor—I didn’t know who he would be, but I knew what he would be. A warm, funny man with a crooked smile and an easy laugh. One that would hold me tight, kiss my forehead, shower me with his love.

A kind man. A gentle man.

Now, as strangers surround me, preparing me for what should be the happiest day of my life, I find myself swallowing back bitter tears. I watch them in the mirror as they curl my dark hair, blush my cheeks, and pin my veil into place, smiling and laughing with one another as they work.

After all, a wedding in the family is a joyous occasion.

I take in my reflection. Other than the flashing terror behind my hazel eyes, I’m the picture perfect bride. They’ve thought of everything, no detail has been overlooked.

He’s thought of everything.

My keeper, my dark king. And by the end of this day, my husband.

I will be his.

His will be done.

The youngest member of his sta , seventeen year old Esme, hovers at my side. She’s eight years my junior, impulsive and flighty, but there’s a deep wisdom that resides within her. With her light hair and contrasting dark eyes, they call her perla neara, the black pearl. She longs to please, to prove her place in the ranks. She can read this unhappiness in my face and she fears she’s the one who’s put it there.

Placing a birdlike, fluttering hand on my shoulder, she says, “Miss Felicity? Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Catching her worried eyes in the mirror, I try to reassure her with a smile. It comes out forced and tight. My voice breaks as I speak. “No, my darling. You’ve done everything perfectly. Thank you.”

Her face etched with concern, she gives me a timid nod.

I’ve noticed she can be a bit distracted and seems somewhat boy crazy, but now, sensing my need to be alone, she gathers the other women, shooing them out the door. For someone so young, she’s extremely perceptive and helpful.

I tuck the thought in the back of my mind. Perhaps Esme will be of assistance when I plan my inevitable escape.

Because though I may be legally bound to this man in a few short hours, there’s no way in hell I’m staying here.

Where will I go?

I’ve no idea.

And to complicate matters, I must save my father as well, even though he was the one who put me in this hell. After borrowing money from the Russo family that he couldn’t pay back he sold the only thing he had left of value.

Me. His only child. His precious daughter.

There’s only one thing I take solace in on this day.

Marrying this man means my father will live out his days in safety. And thanks to my husband gifting my father a monthly stipend, he won’t be living in the streets.

My groom is generous with his wealth to those who are tied to him. For that, I cannot fault him.

Vincenzo Russo.

I’ve heard his name plenty of times, but never seen the man in person. Everyone calls him Vincent. Sophia, the matronly woman who’s been employed by his family all her life tells me his name means to win, to conquer.

And he does. In every avenue of his life. He always gets what he wants.

And he wanted me.

Apparently, a few months ago, he visited my father’s shop before we had to close it down due to money troubles from Dad’s gambling addictions. I must have made an impression because he took me for his own, plucking me from the store, like a can of dry goods from the shelf.

I’ve racked my brain, wondering what possessed him to choose me. Surely there were other girls whose fathers were indebted to him? Girls more beautiful, or interesting. Girls who longed to be the queen of the mafia, to live the lavish lifestyle he o ers.

Why choose me?

As a shy bookworm, I often kept my nose stuck in the pages of a fairytale as I worked the counter at my father’s shop on the main street in the village. I’d often spent lonely

afternoons gazing upon, watching the members of the Russo family as they made their way home from the village to their chateau in little clusters. Talking. Laughing. Happy. I’d envied them their lives.

The irony grows bitter in my mouth.

Sophia briskly enters the room, shu ing over to my side, her generous, floral-covered hips pressing against my arm.

“Get up, il mio amore, my love. It’s time.”

It’s time.

I find myself frozen to the chair, unable to move.

She grabs my shoulder, gently tugging at me to stand.

“Come, come. You mustn’t keep him waiting. He’s not fond of delays.”

“I’m not fond of being forced to marry.”

My words make her face fall and I instantly regret them. I soften my tone, putting a hand over hers where it rests on my shoulders. “It’s not your fault, I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

She sni s as if I’ve complained of my hairpins being too tight. “I understand. But my dear, things could be worse. In my day, our parents had the say in who we married. And it was di cult to move up in this world other than through marriage. At least in Vincent, you will never want for anything.”

Anything, other than love.

Though her demeanor is tough, in her gaze I can read her apologies. She’s not the one at fault. I give her the same tight smile I braved for Esme.

Patting her hand, I say, “I know. He’s been more than generous.”

She gives a grateful sigh, as if I’ve taken the weight of guilt from her shoulders. “I understand this isn’t the way you envisioned your life heading, but you will grow to love

him. I have a sixth sense about these things and I’ve not been wrong yet.”

There’s a first time for everything, Sophia.

I will never love him.

As soon as I can break out of the castle walls safely, I’m going to flee. Grab my father, and get us out of the country.

Maybe we can go back to New York, where we lived before coming to Italy.

But first, I must play the part of the bride.

Standing, I smooth my shaking hands over my dress, a slinky white silk slip gown, the seaming hugging my curves, the back rising into baguette-encrusted halter straps that lead to a black grosgrain bow-topped T-back. It’s nothing I would have chosen for myself, but as I gaze in the mirror, I find it suits me.

“How do I look?” I o er Sophia a smile I hope is kind. She hemmed this dress for me, painstakingly making every stitch by hand when I arrived the other morning, telling me if she left it up to the castle’s tailor, he’d snag the silk with his rough hands.

Tears brush up in her eyes as she gazes at me through her wire-framed glasses. “Dear, you look lovely. Vincent is a very lucky man.”

Taking my arm in hers, she leads me from the room. We make our way through the castle.

It’s a truly beautiful building, a structure built for fairytales. I’ve read so many books, and in every one pictured myself walking along the halls of the castles on the pages.

But now, it’s real.

Deep red rugs line the halls. Paintings of the Italian countryside, and the regal ancestors of the family hang from the walls below black iron sconces that holding burning candles. Servants flutter behind me, ready and willing to meet any need I may have.

I’ve dreamed of castles like this.

And now, my dream feels like a nightmare.

Together, we walk down the back stairs of the castle, beneath an arched entrance. My feet pad over the soft green grass of the rolling hills toward the Gothic cathedral style church that sits on the property.

Shaped topiary trees twist up from the ground, lining our path to the stone building. Above the elaborately carved archway, the front of the church curves into five sharp points that seem to be reaching for the clouds, the center one wider than the others, a massive cross rising from its peak.

Where hundreds of curious eyes are waiting.

I will walk down the aisle alone—my father was not invited.

As we walk under the warm sun, a breeze blows by, fluttering my veil. The weather is so pleasant, I almost smile, but then my gaze goes to the dark wooden doors of the church and I tense.

The doors are flanked by guards.

Are they here to keep us safe from rivals, or to keep me from running?

My shoulders sti en as the guards eye me, their gazes heavy, their jaws clenched.

The guards open the doors, and my knees go weak. So many people. The church is packed, the guests standing shoulder to shoulder, dressed in crisp suits and satin gowns, their faces turning toward me.

Overwhelmed by their gazes, my eyes turn upward. I focus on my breath, taking in the architecture, the domed ceiling with its carving and paintings of angels with feathery gold wings. I’ve dreamed of visiting this duomo, built in the eleventh century and an integral part of our village’s history, but only the Russo family and their guests are ever allowed

on the property. If I was here under other circumstances, I would stay for hours, taking in the beauty of this place, lighting a candle for the spirits of my mother and my grandmother.

But this is not a day out.

This is my wedding.

And I must move my body, force my legs to obey me, make my feet glide down the cold, stone aisle, where, at the end of this sea of people, I will get the first glimpse of the man I am to marry.

The music is beautiful and full, as it echoes through the church. The organ plays the notes of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus, but in my heart it feels more like a funeral march, reminding me this is not the happy day I dreamed of.

With trembling limbs and not even a bridal bouquet to hide my shaking fingers, I somehow manage to force my way down the aisle, the sound of the magnificent organ thrumming through my chest.

There he is.

It’s…him?

His jaw is cut from stone, his eyes as dark as his soul. His lips, though full, rest in a line, a near scowl. There are a few strands of early silver woven through his thick, chestnut hair. He holds his shoulders as if he’s going into battle.

An icy tremble runs through me, a chill running down my spine.

I remember him.

I was working the store, my nose stuck in a book when he first walked in with his posse. He was buying a bouquet of purple roses.

For a special lady, he said, his accent a blend of Italian and American, like mine.

His eyes lingered on my face. He brought his finger to my cheek, running it down the curve of my face, leaving a line of fire

behind from his touch. The move was so exciting, so possessive, I felt a welling in my chest.

But this was a stranger. And judging by the men in dark suits that flanked both his sides, a dangerous one at that.

When I went upstairs to our home that night, I found the roses in a vase on my front steps. No note. No sign of him.

I took the flowers into the apartment, leaving them on the center of the table. When my father saw them, his face blanched.

He scurried from the room without a word.

I figured the gift had made my father uncomfortable, a case of him not wanting his little girl to be all grown up, receiving gifts from strange men. I gave the beautiful roses to a neighbor, but kept the vase.

My father said nothing in the morning, but acted strangely for days. Then the money ran out, our suppliers no longer making deliveries. He confessed his lifelong gambling addiction.

And I forgot about the man with the purple roses.

That was weeks ago.

Now, I stand before him, realizing his gift of flowers was simply a prelude to him claiming me as payment. I want to turn, to run. But I think of my father, and do the only thing I can to keep him safe; put one foot in front of the other and close the final distance between us.

I reach the front of the church, and I stare straight ahead past his looming presence, focusing my eyes on a bouquet of white lilies resting on a table just behind the priest.

The mass is in Italian. The Russo family has ties to Italy as well as America, and like me, are bilingual. I let the words flow around me, unable to focus. Vincent stands beside me, his arm a hand’s length from mine. I feel heat emanating from his body, making my spine rigid, my muscles tense.

The priest drones on. My feet pinch in my shoes. Dread creeps through my body, weighing heavy in my stomach. My heart thumps in my ears. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes.

I will them away.

Do not cry, Felicity.

The language changes to English, I assume for the benefit of Vincent’s friends who have flown in from the states. They will want to hear the words, to understand what is said as we bind our lives to one another for all eternity.

Only there will be no exchanging of vows today. My hands shake as I realize I can’t do this.

His dark eyes lock on mine.

And he begins to speak.

He’s saying the words by heart. He’s taken the time to memorize them.

"I, Vincenzo, take thee, Felicity to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I pledge thee my faith."

For one bizarre, fleeting moment, I’m touched.

Then, I remember the monster in the man that stands before me.

The priest turns to me. “Now Felicity, please repeat after me. ‘I, Felicity, take thee, Vincenzo, to be my wedded husband…”

The priest awaits my response, dewy perspiration forming above his brow.

My throat feels tight and I clear it so that my words will be heard and there can be no mistaking of my response.

“No.” The single word echoes through the church like the sound of the guillotine crashing down on the block.

All eyes are on me.

Including his.

They smolder with flames from the depths of hell. Fear and fire fill my belly as his hand reaches toward me. I flinch

as he grabs my hand in his. His touch surprises me. Strong.

Warm. Possessive.

He turns to the Priest, murmuring, “You’ll have to excuse us for one moment.”

The haunting silence finally breaks in the crowd as hushed whispers fill the church. He drags me past the altar to the side. He opens a door, guiding me down a long hallway.

Terror pierces my heart. I try to tug my hand from his.

“Where are you taking me?”

He ignores my question, opening another door, pulling me inside.

“Let me go!” I struggle to pull away, but his strength overpowers me.

We’re standing in a small, rectangular room, what looks like a butler’s pantry. A window overlooks the gardens, the walls are lined with shelves of food, and a counter runs down the length of the room. It reminds me of the store, adding sadness to my anger.

He shuts the door, facing me.

His words come, harsh and fast. “It’s time you received your first lesson in respect. You are nothing without me.

Penniless, homeless, left with your father’s debts. No education, no career, you have nothing.”

How dare he. Anger rises in me, looming so large I’m briefly no longer afraid of him.

I lean in, pressing my fingertip into his chest. “Let me o er you your first lesson in respect. You, sir, are wrong. I may have nothing, but that does not make me nothing. I’m bilingual and highly educated from books I’ve read. I have a community that I served every day, before you brought me here. And yes, though I am burdened with my father’s debts, I am also filled with his love.”

His gaze lowers to my hand, my finger still poked into his chest. He takes my hand in his, removing it. It drops limply to my side.

His jaw tightens. His eyes flash. The muscles in his shoulders tense.

He leans in, close, his voice lowered to a dangerous rumble. “Well played. But no one, no one, tells me no.”

I’ve crossed a line. A dangerous one. And I’m going to pay for it.

Fear swirls around me, fogging my mind, making me numb. No other defense, I back toward the window like a caged animal. There’s no escaping him—his broad shoulders block my way.

My voice shakes. “Why are we here?”

“Why do you think?” he asks with the growl of a tiger, stalking toward me as if I’m his prey.

“You plan on…punishing me?”

“You are smart, aren’t you?” he sneers.

What will he do to me?

Though I’m terrified, my sharp tongue breaks through the shock. I shoot my words at him like arrows. “You’re such a strong man, but you can’t handle a woman speaking her mind. Can’t tolerate someone not bending to your will?”

He grabs me roughly and as his fingertips dig into my flesh, I find my tongue going dry, my mouth, my words disappearing like sawdust in the wind.

“I’ve no need to bend you to my will. I’ll break you.”

With that, he turns my body, forcing me to bend at the waist. My hands reach out, grabbing at the edge of the counter for stability. His left arm wraps around my torso, pinning my left hip and side to his hard body.

His hand comes crashing down on my ass with a sharp sound that echoes through the small room.

The pain is like lightning, flashing and spreading over my skin. My teeth sink into my lip, holding in my cries. But his hand comes down again, harder this time, and the pain is too much to bear. “Stop!”

“You don’t tell me when to stop.” His hand comes down again and again, punishing every inch of my silk-covered curves. “The sooner you learn that, the better o you’ll be.”

Is he speaking of his rough punishments…or more?

The way he handles my body with such confidence, such force; will he be just as commanding when he takes me as his wife for the first time?

I hope so.

A shameful thrill runs through me at the thought, my insides becoming liquid.

A white heat flushes my cheeks as my stomach turns to knots. My confusing thoughts are forgotten as he brings his hand down again. My only thoughts now are of the stinging, painful fire that’s spreading over my skin.

I loathe this man. I hate him.

And yet…the assault on my ass has ceased and now, his big, open palm strokes over my stinging curves. As his hand runs from my waist, sliding down the silky material of my dress, caressing the cleft in my bottom, a warm heat begins to grow in my core.

A pool of arousal gathers between my thighs.

Shame covers me like a blanket, my varnished fingernails digging into the soft wood of the counter. I’ve been with men…a few…no serious boyfriends, just an evening or two with an admirer from the village. Nothing about them kept me coming back for more.

They were all good men. Nice men. Sweet men.

Men not at all like Vincent. After only a few moments alone with him I’m charged with desire, lust filling my veins like it’s been injected into my bloodstream.

This can’t be.

How can a man I despise, one that’s just violated my pride as well as my body, make me react like this? My breasts ache, my nipples strain against the thin silk of my dress, as if they are begging for his touch.

He pulls me up, holding me, my back pressed against his hard, broad chest. His arm tightens around my waist. My hands clutch at his arm trying to pull it from me, but his mouth finds the base of my neck.

And he kisses my delicate flesh with a harsh punishing kiss on that soft spot just a finger’s length below my ear. His lips press, his teeth nip at my tender flesh. Despite my best e orts to harden my will, my head lolls back, my eyes close, and I let out a soft moan.

The sound of surrender.

And it feels so fucking good.

One brutal kiss on my neck and suddenly every man I’ve been with, every perfectly pleasant evening of gentle lovemaking evaporates from my mind, disappearing forever, making me forget that warm, kind man I dreamed of marrying.

This man, to his core, his very nature, is the thing I’ve secretly been craving.

Blame it on reading too many medieval fairytales, or too many hours alone…or just the way I’m wired, but I’ve laid awake dreaming of an encounter like this for a long time.

Why am I so weak? Why am I melting in the arms of this monster? I should fight, I should kick, I should scream. But now his hand slides up my belly, palming and squeezing my breast. Hard. Punishing. Possessive.

My nipples tighten, peaking further against the fabric of my dress. He takes one in between his fingers, pinching as his mouth moves down, sucking and biting at my shoulder, marking my flesh with his harsh kisses.

“You fight me, little girl, but I know down here,” his hand dips below my waist, his fingers cupping between my thighs with the lightest of pressure, “you’re wet and aching for your husband to take you.”

Damn him to hell for being right.

Damn him for making my body crave him, his rough touches waking up my deepest desires.

I’ve no weapon against him, only my tongue. “You’re not my husband.”

“Not yet. But unless you want a repeat of what happened in this storeroom out there in front of the curious eyes of all of our wedding guests, you will walk down that aisle and say your vows like a very good little girl.” The pads of his fingertips stroke my pussy over the dress as his thumb brushes over the tips of my nipples.

He presses against my swollen, pulsing clit. And I come undone. My breath catches in my throat as a pool of moisture gathers below his caresses.

“More.” Shame fills me as I utter the word, begging for my captor’s touch.

He gives a dark chuckle. With a nip of my earlobe, the warmth of his body is gone from mine.

Leaving me standing with weak knees, my eyelids heavy, my breasts aching, my panties damp. My slick sex throbs for more of his touches. My ass still stings where his hand rained down.

He gives me a look of triumph. “Come,” he commands, his dark eyes locked on mine. He holds his hand out to take mine.

And in this moment of madness, I give it to him.

2

F

elicity

W E WALK DOWN THE AISLE , his arm locked tightly around mine, holding me prisoner against his body. When we reach the altar, he does not release me.

He addresses the priest. “My soon-to-be wife would like the vows to be read for her. A simple ‘I do’ from her will su ce.”

The priest gives Vincent a tight nod. His eyes scan over his massive, black leather bible as he quickly reads the words before him. “Do you, Felicity, take thee, Vincenzo, to be your wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish and to obey, till death do you part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto, pledge him your faith?”

To obey…

I think of my father in his home, safe and fed. I think of Vincent’s punishing hands. The promise slips from my mouth. “I do.”

And with those two whispered words…it’s done.

Over.

Finished.

After his heated touches in the storeroom, I find myself waiting for his lips to meet mine, almost wanting him to take my mouth in his in a possessive kiss, claiming me as his wife.

But he makes no move toward me. Instead, he turns to his right. A man in a dark suit appears from nowhere. In his hands he holds a cushion made of burgundy velvet.

On it sits a crown.

The crown is black.

The metal is twisted into intricate loops and swirls, chunks of onyx cut like jewels resting in the limbs of the curved branches.

Vincent takes the crown from the pillow, lifting it as if it were an explosive and the slightest bump could blow up the church.

He stands before the crowd, speaking to them, his gaze resting heavy on their faces.

But his words are meant for me.

“If I am the king of my world, let my wife be the queen.

Let her wear this crown with pride, knowing that though others serve her, she serves me—her husband,” he turns to me, stepping so close only my ears can hear his whispered words, “and her master.”

He places the crown upon my head, giving me a smug smile that makes me want to claw his eyes from his face. The kiss he marks my cheek with is soft, gentle, but it may as well be a slap. Heat rises in my face.

He’s mocking me.

The crown weighs heavy on my head like a curse.

I won’t let him break me.

I’ll never wear his crown.

I tear it from my head, tossing it at his feet. It lands with a ringing clatter that fills the silent church.

The priest flounders, his gaze going from me to Vincent.

“Err…you may now kiss the bride?”

The look in Vincent’s eyes tells me to run, that I’m moments away from more of his punishments. Knots tighten in my stomach.

To my surprise, he gives a slow, smoldering smile.

Taking my face in his hands, he brings his mouth to my ear. “You’ve just declared war. And to be clear—I never lose.”

His mouth moves to mine, hot, covetous, and dangerous.

His kiss is a warning. One that has my body fighting my mind. One that both angers me and enlivens me. His hand wraps round the back of my neck, pulling me in closer to him. His tongue darts into my mouth, caressing mine possessively, tasting me.

Claiming me.

When he pulls away, there’s no mistaking the look of conquest in his gaze.

We’re quickly swept from the church.

The celebration is in the great hall of his medieval castle.

My new home. The reception is an opulent a air. I’ve done nothing to prepare this event—everything was chosen for me. The monstrously long table is set for a hundred. It’s beautiful, decorated in black and golds. Somber classical music plays. Flames burn from candles on sconces on the walls, and from black chandeliers that hang from the ceiling.

Did he intend for the evening to have an ominous tone?

Of course he did. I think of the crown. He clearly loves to play mind games.

Two thrones sit at the head of the table for the bride and groom.

Or in this case, king and queen, the Russo Royals.

Felicity Russo. I hadn’t given my mind time to think, turning it o in an attempt to remain in survival mode.

But Russo is the name I bear. And now this, this is my home. At least until I can escape.

If I can…

Tears burn in the backs of my eyes, reminding me why I’ve chosen not to think.

We are seated, servants shu ing around us, wine being poured into our glasses.

His arm brushes mine as he lifts his glass, leaving a trail of fire on my flesh.

Everyone is seated now, all eyes on my husband, and at his cue, the raise of his glass, they raise their glasses in turn.

He says, “To an enchanting evening. And to my new bride.”

“Hear, hear!” shouts rise from the room. I grab my own glass, not to toast, but because my body needs something, anything, to relax.

I take a deep sip from my glass. I know nothing of wine, but the taste is rich, fruity, and smoky and it warms me as I drink it. It’s delicious.

Courses begin to be served and the guests busy themselves with chatter, eating, and drinking. I eye the plates as they go by, suddenly ravenous. The scent of garlic and herbs fills the room.

Vincent leans over toward me. “I had a gift for you this evening.”

“Had?” I ask, with a raise of my brows.

He gives a nod, reaching for a slice of bread. “Yes. Had.” “What was it? A ball and chain to match my crown?” I watch as he tears the bread in half.

He gives a shrug of his shoulder. “No. It was your father.”

My father?

I’d give anything to have the comfort of family right now.

I look around the room, finding him nowhere among the sea

of faces. “He’s here?”

“He was. I had him escorted back home after that shrewish act you pulled with the crown I had made for you.”

The bread drops to the plate. His hand slides up the back of my neck, pulling me over to him until my ear meets his mouth. “Learn this, and learn it quickly. Disrespect me and there will be consequences. Immediate and harsh. And if you want to play games, know I will win.”

“You are the only one playing the games.” I don’t give him the satisfaction of begging for my father back— Vincent’s made his choice. I refuse to let tears fill my eyes, waiting from him to release his hold on me.

I’ll not be meek. I’ll not bow my head.

If I’m the queen, then I’ll fill my role. Bide my time until I can flee. And while I do, I will maintain every ounce of dignity I can.

“You do make a beautiful bride. Look at the lovely flush in your cheeks.” He lets me go.

“Thank you.” I tilt my chin in the air, the only act of defiance I can manage safely. “Seems to me you’ll look ungracious to have disinvited your new father-in-law.”

Bored with our repartee, he turns to his meal. “He’s nothing to me. I only invited him because I knew he meant something to you.”

“And a orded you an opportunity to punish me.”

The corner of his lips raises. “Exactly.”

“You’re quite calculating, aren’t you?”

He raises his glass to me. “You don’t get to be the head of the Italian mafia without being good at strategy. After all, life is nothing more than a game of chess.”

“And I’m your pawn.”

“No, Bella, you are my queen.” His dark eyes bear down on me.

I want to toss my wine at him.

Instead, I tip my glass, pouring the liquid down my throat and finishing it o . He surprises me by politely refilling it.

Such a dutiful husband.

Music begins to play in the background, still classical, but now upbeat. People begin circling us, congratulating us. As if we are the happiest couple in the land. As if we feel love for one another.

Pretending he didn’t steal me from my home. That I didn’t first refuse my vows, then destroy his crown.

It’s not their fault.

I sip my wine and o er our guests polite smiles, short phrases of thanks, brief eye contact. I realize I’ve not eaten and take in the food before me. Instead of clearing my uneaten courses, they’ve left them for me.

I taste the crisp salad, the tender meat, the thinly sliced potatoes. The food is a delicacy, like nothing I’ve had before.

My father’s money tied up in other things, the most we ever splurged for was takeout pasta.

I’ve never dined in a fine restaurant.

I take another bite of the beef, and it melts on my tongue.

The food is phenomenal and not only did I not prepare it, I won’t have to wash a dish. I could get used to this part of being a Russo Royal. Our bottle empty, I call for a servant, requesting more wine. If I’m going to be trapped here for an indefinite amount of time, I may as well enjoy myself.

The guests are seated. Vincent makes conversation with his men as they pass. I ignore them, thoroughly enjoying my meal. After polishing o my dinner, I find myself looking around for dessert.

Instead, I find his gaze, heavy on my face. “Come, Bella. I want to dance with my bride.”

He stands, o ering me his hand.

And once again, I take it.

Rising from my chair I feel the wine. It’s done its job, calming my mind. Relaxing me. Helping me get through this night.

He leads me through the high arched stone opening to the next room. A band plays on a stage. Couples decorate the floor, dressed so elegantly I ache, just gazing at their beauty.

He pulls me into him and the music slows, as if even the notes bow to his will.

His left hand holds my right. Our fingers lace together as one. My free hand goes to his shoulder.

His arm wraps around my waist. Our eyes lock.

And we dance.

We move across the floor as one.

He’s a gifted dancer. He holds me with the confidence of a man who rules the world. We twirl across the floor, all eyes upon us.

And I almost fall for the fairytale.

Then I remember his rough treatment of my body in the storeroom. The mocking crown. The punishment of disinviting my father.

This is all a game to him. I’m just a pawn in his hand. And he intends to win.

To what purpose I bring, I’m not yet sure. But I feel, deep within in my soul, he’s got a bigger reason for wanting me.

For he is a king, and not one to settle with a pretty shopgirl.

I have something he wants. I don’t yet know what it is.

Having my body pressed against his, feeling the heat of his flesh meld with my own, I begin to focus on my greatest fear—the one I’ve not yet succumbed to worrying about: my wedding night, and consummating our marriage.

It’s too much—to think of how he will use my body. How my body, in return, will desire his. My meal suddenly feels heavy in my stomach. The wine has gone to my head.

Pressing my palm to his chest, I stop dancing. “I—I think I’m tired. I may…go to bed now.”

His eyes study my face, harboring a glint of determination. He won’t be this easily put o . “We’ll go together. The festivities are just beginning. No one will miss us.” He links his arm in mine, guiding me through the ballroom before our wedding cake is even served.

An older gentleman elbows Vincent as we make our way from the room. “Eager groom, eh? Can’t wait till the party’s over to enjoy your bride?”

Vincent gives me a dark look, a grim smile. “Something like that.”

As we walk up the great stairway—the one that will lead to his bedroom—my stomach flips, my palms grow damp.

My mind is hazy. He is going to claim me as his wife.

And I know only one thing for certain. He will not be gentle.

The thought makes me ache between my thighs, shame filling me at my body’s traitorous response.

We reach his room. It’s a massive suite, fit for a king.

Deep red velvet curtains are drawn over tall windows. The four-poster bed is centered in the room, donned in luxurious looking gold silk sheets, and covered in thick black velvet blankets and pillows. Beside a mahogany wardrobe sits a throne-like chair with black upholstery and gold gilding, a pair of worn leather boots discarded beside it.

A man’s room, set in another time. One where kings ruled and their women obeyed.

There is no such thing as equality within these walls.

I stand, shivering in the center of the room, despite the large fire that roars in the fireplace. He closes the door, locking it with a flip of the great brass knob.

What now?

He’s over to me in two long strides. One hand slips into my hair, gathering it into a knot in his hand. The other flattens against my lower back, pulling my body into him.

“We can do this one of two ways.”

“Consensual or non-consensual?” I snap back.

His gaze darkens. “I’m your husband. I bought you from your father. You’re my wife. Your body belongs to me.”

“My body belongs to no one but me.” I make my words hard, though I’m a trembling willow whipped in the winds of a hurricane. “What are your two ways?”

He raises a brow—a cue that he’s initiated one of his games. “Tedious, or thrilling.”

“What does tedious entail?” I hold his gaze.

His hand slides across the back my neck. “You lie on your back and I take you for my wife.”

“A hopeless romantic, I see?” I mean for the words to carry a harsher edge. To fight. But his game makes me weak with desire and my words come in a hushed whisper. “And thrilling?”

“You fight me.” He pulls me toward him, intending to claim me with his kiss. “And then, I take you anyway.”

I come to my senses, breaking from his spell. “I choose neither.” And with that, I bring my knee up true and hard, right between his legs.

He doubles over, hissing between his teeth.

My knees are weak, but they hold my weight as I run for the door. With trembling fingers, I throw the lock to the left, and push open the door. My eyes widen as I face two large men standing guard, their arms crossed over their chests.

I slam it back shut, turning to face him. He recovered quickly and stands with his arms crossed over his chest, a smug smile on his face.

Bile rises in my throat. “Such a strong man, but you need guards to protect yourself from me, to keep me here?”

“No. They are to protect me from those who want to steal my place. This is a large event. There are many people here.

You can never be too careful. Though, care is something you apparently know nothing about.”

He steps toward me, grabbing the hair at the nape of my neck pulling until I cry out. My head flies backward as his other hand cups my face, sweetly. His lips are on my neck, kissing me, as he presses his chest against mine. His mouth moves upward, his kisses leaving a trail of fire.

The cacophony of pain, his harshness, and the soft caress of pleasure make my thoughts blur.

He nips at the lobe of my ear, a shooting pain rushing over my skin. “Bad girls get what bad girls earn. And you, my Bella, are a very, very bad girl.”

I gasp in shock, as he twists my body, his grip still tight on my hair. I’m facing the bed, my back to him. He holds me against him, releasing my hair, one arm wrapped tight around my waist pulling me hard into him, the other is savagely groping my breasts, each one in turn, his pinching fingers leaving my nipples peaked.

Pushing behind me, he moves us over to the bed. Roughly, he bends me at the waist, pushing me downward. My cheek lays flat against the covers, my stomach compresses against the edge of the mattress.

I can feel the erection welling in his crotch, pressing into the cleft of my ass.

He wants this hard and fast. He wants to claim me now, as quickly as we said our shallow nuptials.

What is this madness?

I loathe him and yet I find myself wet and throbbing between my thighs, aching for relief.

My deepest desires surface at his touch.

It was only a fantasy, a dirty story in my imagination.

I’ve always wanted to be handled roughly. To be taken by a man more powerful than myself. To be dominated.

This is real.

This, is that man.

I hate myself for it, I hate him for it, but I want this.

I feel a tug at the hem of my dress as he pulls it up over my waist. My panties are torn from my body, the scrap of a G-string required to pull o this curve-hugging silk dress is gone with one harsh tug.

His fingers dive between my legs. I give a gasp as he enters me, the force of two of his fingers at once, pressing through my opening, stretching me, my flesh burning as he fucks me with them.

“So, so wet for your husband, aren’t you? You play innocent, but admit it, you want every inch of my cock inside of you.” His fingers twist. “You want me. Tell me, you want this.”

My answer is a moan as his fingers torment me. I do want his cock right now; my pussy demands it.

But him?

This self-righteous, power-hungry man who taunts me?

Do I want him?

“Answer me, wife. Do you want me inside you?” He gives my bare ass a slap, the sting spreading over my flesh.

He’s my husband. To have and to hold, to obey, until death do us part—at least for now.

And I want a hard fuck. I need the release, I need to lose myself in this moment.

I want my fantasy fulfilled.

I swallow my humiliation and I lose his game with three words.

“I want this.” I spread my legs.

My fingertips grab the covers, they crinkle in my hands. I close my eyes, my cheek resting on the bed. His fingers slide

from me, leaving me aching and empty. I moan with satisfaction as the head of his cock presses against the tight entrance of my sex. He pushes harder, demanding access, the head of his cock stretching me as he enters.

As he fills me, I let out an unabashed moan of pleasure.

Even though it’s so wrong, it feels so fucking good.

I want more.

He grabs my wrist. Pins it to my lower back. And buries his cock the rest of the way into me.

And I almost come. From that one, incredible thrust.

Shame covers me, my will gone. How could I give in so quickly? How could my body betray me so?

But it does. My nipples tighten as my core grows heavy.

Begging for more.

One hand is wrapped behind my back, my other slides across the bedding, resting beneath my cheek. He moves inside me, hard, the front of his thighs pressed against the backs of mine, his balls hitting my bare ass. His cock pounds into me, creating the delicious friction I crave. As he moves in and out of me, my body melts into the bed. My mind floats above the castle as the endorphins rush through me.

His cock is pure perfection.

A perfect fit—so big, it hurts so good as I stretch to accommodate him.

We fit together perfectly.

Releasing my wrist, he grabs my hips, lifting them and pulling my ass toward him, so he can enter me deeper. He thrusts in, then pulls away, taunting me by pausing for a long moment. Making me beg.

The shameful moan rises from my chest. “Please…”

“Please, what, Bella?”

“Please, fuck me.”

He grants my wish, entering me fully. His cock rubs inside me while his rough hands grab at my flesh. He’s

pounding me, claiming me, and each times he forces his way inside me, my body melts just a little more, giving further into his dominance.

It’s my greatest nightmare, my darkest fantasy. To be taken like this by a man who’s a stranger. Taken, out of control, until I cry out in shame.

And now, I cry out his name.

Vincent.

With my exhalation comes exultation as I ride a wave of euphoria at his hands, his cock thrusting into me with no mercy. As I ride the waves of climax, I feel an emptiness inside me being filled. Though I don’t want him, I need him.

I’ve been alone for so long, investing in the hopeless project that was the store, I didn’t realize how desperate I was for touch.

And this man, despite his horrific faults, his body is tuned to mine in a way no one has ever been.

He is my every sexual fantasy fulfilled.

He strokes my hair, my back, crooning, “Come for me, Bella. Come for me, my beautiful wife.”

My sex locks down on his and a strange noise rises in the back of my throat as the heavens burst, falling down to Earth and enveloping me in the final throes of climax.

He releases my wrist and my hand goes to my mouth. I bite down on it as he fucks me, harder, faster, until I’m coming again.

The throes of pleasure rock my body, my limbs tightening, then shuddering as the climax breaks, leaving me limp on the bed.

His fingers dig into my flesh as his body cups mine. He gives a moan, his hot come bursting forth and filling me.

Between my thighs, I’m full of his seed.

My hips wear the angry red marks of his greedy hands.

My neck surely has purple bruises, a reminder of his harsh kisses.

We lie there a moment, panting and catching our breath.

He leans down, stroking my damp hair away from face. And places a chaste kiss on my cheek.

He pulls out from me and shame covers me as I feel his hot seed rush from me, running down the inside of my leg.

I stand on shaky knees, pulling my dress down as best I can. Smoothing my hair.

What now?

His back is to me, but I hear the zipper on his pants, see that he’s buttoning his shirt. “Sophia will show you to your room.”

Disappointment rises in my chest, making me feel entirely silly, used, and naive. To be dismissed so quickly after our intense coupling—I’d thought we’d forged at least a thread of a connection.

One that should have at least earned me a goodbye.

But why would I expect anything less from this monster?

And why the hell do I even care? This husband, this stranger of mine, I want his rough ways when he’s touching me, kissing me, but then when he so easily dismisses me, I get my feelings hurt? Get over it, Felicity, you hate the man.

Don’t be expecting a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story from him.

Hearing the door creak open, I turn over my shoulder to find Sophia, her face peeking through the crack. “Are you ready, dear? I can show you to your room.”

I turn to leave.

A clearing of his throat makes me pause. Hovering by the door, I keep my gaze on the hallway, but I wait for him to speak.

“I’ve paid the loan o on the store. Your father will have his shop back. He can open as early as next week. My

wedding gift to you. Sleep well, Bella.”

My father’s store is happy place, the last memories of my mother reside there. And, it’s his connection to the community he loves so dearly. A generous gift.

But it comes at the highest of costs.

Do I thank him? Spit at him?

I choose to say nothing, following Sophia through the doorway.

3

V

incent

H ER BODY RESPONDED to my rough touch. She craves my dominance. Without knowing, she fights, and denies, before finally accepting and embracing the fact that our bodies, perhaps our lives, were made for one another. My touch pulls a rose flush to her cheeks. She’s intoxicating....

Perhaps, as my grandfather said, the shopgirl was meant for me, after all.

I think of her face when I arrived at her father’s store, weeks ago. She was so lovely, I found myself reaching out to her, stroking my finger down her face, knowing she would be my bride.

Many women have longed to be in her place. Beautiful, cunning women who would go to great lengths to wear my ring, to take my name. Women whose only desire is to wear the dark crown of the Russo family on their heads.

But none are worthy.

And none owed my family quite like she did.

Now, the debt is repaid, my family avenged. And she is mine. Forever.

There is no one quite like Felicity.

Her perfume clings to the fabric of my clothes as I redress, making it di cult to focus on anything other than her. The room still smells of her scent, sweet and musky and her. My bedcovers are mussed and wrinkled from her fingers clutching at them as I brought her body to the throes of climax.

I think of her too much. I think of her…always.

It’s late, but I generally sleep little and tonight is no exception. With my marriage consummated, my mind must go back to work. There’s a man who’s traveled a long way to attend our wedding. A man I want to meet with.

Rockland Bachman.

Leader of the American and Greek branches of the elusive Bachman mafia. They’re the do-gooders of the criminal world, robbing from the corrupt and redistributing the wealth to the people who were made impoverished by the greed of the top one percent.

I want to speak to him, to convince him to allow us to tour his arms warehouse, a heavily guarded cache of weapons hidden on their private island o the coast of Greece.

Here, there’s tensions growing between the Russos and our rivals, the Romanos. I want to increase our security, our weapon stores, two things the Bachman family is known for.

In exchange for sharing his information, I can o er him real wealth, treasure you can hold in the palm of your hand, its weight heavy against your flesh. Something Americans know nothing about, putting their trust in the almighty paper dollar, or the invisible one, hidden in their computer bank accounts, paid out on plastic cards.

Gold is wealth. Gold is power.

Rockland waits for me in my library, my favorite room in the castle. It’s a small, dark, intimate place, smelling of leather and cigar smoke. At my command, a fire is burning in the stone fireplace every evening, a full bar prepared on a gold cart awaiting me at night, a French press of co ee prepared for me every morning.

I enter the room, making my way to the leather wingback chairs angled before the roaring fire. Rockland stands to greet me, serious man who rarely smiles, though his skin is tanned from the sun. He runs his hand over his short, dark beard assessing me. Calculating.

I reach out a hand, taking his. Firm grip—I’d expect nothing less from the head of America’s most powerful— albeit secretive—mafia. “Rockland. I’m so glad you could make it to the wedding. Please, take a seat.” We settle down into the deep cushions of the worn leather chairs.

He runs his hand over his short beard again. “Yes. Your bride put on quite a show. Are the women always so eager to marry here in Italy?” He gives a dark chuckle, alluding to my wife’s temper tantrum, the throwing of the crown.

“She didn’t have much say in the matter. Her father owed a debt and she’s repaid it.” I take a seat in one of the wingbacked chairs, sliding against the cool, dark leather.

Rockland follows. His dark eyes find mine. “A revenge bride of sorts?”

A smile curls up on my lips. He has no idea how right his words are. “Exactly.”

Tonight, I have a taste for liquor. When I ordered the fire to be made, I also requested an aged bourbon to be brought up from my cellar. A glass has been prepared and it sits on the side table. I take a sip of the amber liquid. It burns as it goes down. Exquisite.

He raises a brow. “Are you finding her to be agreeable?”

I think of her body bent over the bed, the feeling of her sex clamping around me like a vise as she cried out my name. “Very.”

“Things here in Italy are done much di erently than at home. In the Bachman family, we woo our brides.” He lifts his glass to his mouth.

“Or threaten them into marrying your single bachelors, in order to keep the delicate balance of peace you hold so dear?”

His hand pauses, mid-air. He returns the glass to the coaster on the table, giving away no other sign of surprise that I’m privy to this knowledge, of how his fiery redheaded wife, Tess, enjoys playing matchmaker.

I don’t miss the flash of surprise in his eyes as he says, “What have you heard?”

He thought their arrangements, like many of their practices, were secret.

They are not, not to me. I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.

“I’ve heard that the Bachman men, much like the Russos, like to dominate in all aspects of their lives, including their relationships. That a Bachman man, much like a Russo, will not think twice to take a wayward bride over his knee, instilling discipline when necessary.”

“What else have you heard?” He lifts the glass again, and this time he takes a sip of the clear liquid—sparkling water with a twist of lime—that I’ve never known him to drink.

Leaning in, I divulge his secrets. “I’ve heard that at least two of the recent marriages in your clan were a result of your wife threatening the bride in some way, in order to speed up the process and lock the younger men from your Brotherhood down. To create order and stability in your ranks through commitments.”

He doesn’t even blink. “And?” His cool confidence is second to none.

Except mine.

We’ll make excellent business partners.

I press further. “And, quite shocking to our traditional landscape, a picture was painted to me of the most recent wedding, where the bride was wed to not one, but two of the men from your Brotherhood. A ménage marriage?”

He lifts his hand in the air, waving my words away.

“Hearsay. Gossip. Salaciousness. Why do you bring up these tales to me?”

“I say what I’ve heard, not to judge you. Obviously, I’m not sinless in the ways of love. My bride is probably plotting her escape as we speak.” I think of her trying to leave these walls and find my palm twitching against my thigh. “I only convey them to show you how similar we are. How much our two families have in common. And to let you know I guard your secrets as my own.”

I sit back in my chair, assessing him. Will he accept my proposal?

“You tell me this to earn my trust.” His gaze meets mine, calculating, inquisitive. “Because you have a proposition for me, no doubt.”

I swirl my drink, enjoying the way the ice sounds as it clinks against the glass. “Yes. One that I believe will benefit you greatly.”

“I’m listening.”

I set the glass down on the coaster—Sophia will have my head if I leave a ring on the wood. “I’d like to bring a store of arms here, to the bunker beneath the castle. Something like what you have on your private island—The Parrish—I heard you were the one who started the family branch there.”

He gives a nod. “Yes. Named after the priests I bought our first boats from. Now it’s a thriving community, and a home

base for our arsenal.”

“I’ve heard its quite impressive. Something I’d like to model ours after.”

He sits back in his chair, thought creasing his smooth skin. “And in exchange?”

“Though you may possess immeasurable funds in dollars, I have what you lack. Bars of gold, to be exact.” I snap my fingers.

The door opens and one of my servants appears, a shiny gold bar on a black tray. He crosses the room, presenting it to Rockland.

“My gift to you. Please,” I gesture for him to accept it, “take it. Hold it in your hand and feel its weight.”

Rockland takes the bar from the tray. “That’s heavy. How much is this worth?”

“The brick you hold is approximately twenty-seven pounds of pure gold and its current worth is five hundred thousand dollars. And unlike paper, it cannot blow away in the wind.”

He places the brick back on the tray. “You want to trade gold for secrets?”

“Yes.” I give my servant a nod, dismissing him. He leaves the room, tray in hand, returning to the vault. “I have many bricks to start your collection. In return I want to take a trip with my most trusted men to the Parrish. See your armory.

Learn how to replicate it for ourselves.”

He strokes his beard once, then gives a nod. “I’ll allow it.”

Checkmate. “Excellent.”

A slow smile spreads over his face. “Under one condition.”

I don’t live by others’ terms. I feel my brow raise. “Which is?”

“You bring your pretty wife with you. And during your stay, you both drink and dine and dance beneath the stars,

the ocean air caressing your faces.” He takes a sip from his water, awaiting my response.

“Ah—so you are a hopeless romantic just as I’ve heard.

Are you now matchmaking me and my wife? Though she may be reluctant, I’ve already put my ring around her finger.”

“My wife’s requested it.” He gives a shrug. “Every new marriage deserves a honeymoon. Appease me. Felicity is quite charming and the women of my family will enjoy her company.”

My trips are strictly business. Just me and my most trusted men. Other than my sta , I’m not used to having the company of women.

I think of Felicity’s lithe body. How beautiful she is as she sits beside me, that resting scowl of disapproval on her face.

It makes me hard just thinking about how she despises me until she feels the pressure of the head of my cock against her sweet pussy.

Then, she melts. Her will dissolving.

Losing to me.

As she will, every time.

Why not mix a little pleasure with business? I hold my hand out to him and he takes it, his grip firm. “I accept.”

He gives a chuckle as we shake. “You never know, Vincent. Greece is such a beautiful place; you might just find yourself falling in love.”

“I highly doubt that.” I may be a tad obsessed, but love?

If I was capable of love, I’d have fallen by now.

I don’t fall.

I climb. And I have—to the highest point on the coast. To a magnificent castle with an army of devoted men and riches beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.

I have everything.

Brando, my right hand man, with shoulders like boulders and a mind as cunning as a fox, comes to escort Rockland back to his wing of the castle. We say our goodbyes. I stay behind, sitting in the library, staring at the fire, and drinking my whiskey.

We left the reception before cake. I suddenly have a taste for dessert.

I summon Brando back to me. “Brando. Bring me my wife.”

He answers with a nod, closing the library door behind him.

A few minutes later, she arrives, with flushed cheeks and angry eyes.

Her naked breasts press against the white cotton of the nightgown I chose for her, her deep pink aureoles showing through the thin fabric, the outline of her already peaked nipples showing.

I’ll bet she’s already wet between her thighs, too, just wanting me to take her.

Brando holds her body against his, unsure whether to keep her, or release her to me.

I feel like taking a risk. She may try to run, causing a disturbance in my castle at this late hour. If so, she will pay the price.

Which I’m happy to charge her. With a taste of my belt.

Let’s see which way she wants to play. I do love a game.

Not bothering to rise to greet her I take another long swig of the liquor. Licking my lips, I admire my bride, her long dark hair mussed from sleep, tumbling over her shoulders.

Her hazel eyes are more gold than green, as they flash with anger. She doesn’t speak, her luscious lips a grim line.

“My wife. So lovely to see you. I’ve been sitting here.

Thinking of you. Thinking of your beautiful body.” Starting at her feet, I allow my gaze to devour every inch of her. The

light from the fire is behind her, making the nightdress all the more transparent. I take in her curves, the sight of her dark curls at the apex of her thighs, her heavy breasts, heaving up and down with her breath. “I did well choosing this gown for you.”

She finally speaks. “I didn’t waste one moment thinking of you.”

“Naughty girl. Lying to your husband.” I make a tsk tsk sound, standing and making my way to her. She pulls backward, pressing against Brando, now the lesser of two evils. “We both know all you think of is me.”

I stand, crossing the room to her and bring my mouth to her neck, touching her only with my lips. Finding that sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder—I know exactly how she loves it to be kissed from our time in the butler’s pantry. Pressing my mouth harder to her flesh, I kiss and suck, nibbling with the tips of my teeth.

Despite her resolve, she lets out a sigh, her head lolling to the side.

I slide my hand up her belly, softly cupping her breasts.

My mouth finds her ear, and in it, I whisper, “Brando is going to let you go and leave us now. If you try to run, know this—my belt will stripe your ass before this night is through.”

“Asshole,” she breaths.

I take her breast, squeezing it roughly and pinch her peaked nipple between my finger, until a squeal rises from her pretty lips. “Your choice.”

Her brave eyes lock on mine. “Tell him to go.”

Stepping back, I dismiss him. “Brando, you may go.”

He gives me a nod, though seeming a bit reluctant to leave before the show. He closes the library door behind him.

To my surprise, and slight disappointment—I did so wish to see my belt make long red lines against her beautiful ass

—she makes no move to run; instead leaving me and going to the fire.

Her back to the flames, she faces me. Though a bit shaky, her jaw is clenched, her gaze firm. “If you think for one second I will let you take me against my will, you have another thing coming.”

I cross the room to her in two long strides. “I won’t need to take you against your will. I know you want me. I know you ache between your thighs for my cock.” Winding my hand through the back of her hair, I pull her into me, cutting o her words with a punishing kiss.

Her fists pummel my chest. With my other hand I easily overpower her, locking her wrists with the circle of my fingers. My lips press harder against hers, my tongue fighting for entry.

I give her hair a tug to make her obey. She parts her lips and I swipe my tongue against hers.

She’s pressing her body against mine. And kissing me back.

Still holding her wrists, our mouths locked, I take a few steps back, dragging her with me in our passionate tangle.

Sliding down into my chair, I pull her onto my lap.

I can’t give her time to think, time to question her feelings toward me and how despicable they are.

I only want her to feel her body responding to mine. I want her to know how wet my force makes her. Make her see she likes the fight as much as I do.

Kissing her deeper, I release her wrists, running my hands over her back. Sliding under her ass, I move her legs so they splay over mine. She has to grab around my neck to keep from losing her balance.

Once I’ve got her straddling me, I ruck up her gown, exposing her bare thighs. My cock is hard and it strains against my trousers. My hands slide beneath her ass cheeks,

I lift her, arranging her body until her pussy is pressed against the mound of my cock.

Slipping my hand up her gown, I take her breast in my hand, palming it while I kiss her. Raising my hips, I press the hard bulge of my erection against her sex.

I’m rewarded by her unabashedly grinding against my lap. Her hands find my hair, and her teeth nip at my bottom lip. She lets out a moan. “Fuck you.”

“Please do.” I’m unbuckling my belt. She moves her hips back, giving me room to unzip my pants and free my cock. It stands at attention, glistening with arousal.

There’s a break in our kissing. Her gaze burns down into mine. “Just because I want to come, doesn’t mean I want you.”

“Fine.” I lean forward, catching her lips, and reigniting the fire of our kiss. “But I know you want me.”

I’ve never felt like this with a woman before. I’ve admired their bodies, felt pleasure at their touch, enjoyed the conquest.

But in this kiss, I feel a passion I’ve not known.

When I kiss Felicity, there’s a stirring in my soul.

If I have one.

She’s hungrier now, grabbing my shoulders as she rises onto her knees, one pressed on either side of my thighs, resting on the generous cushion of the chair. As she rises up, she breaks our kiss, locking her gaze on mine once more.

My hands slip to her hips, staring up in wonder as she looks down on me. Her eyes are more green than gold now, her dark hair swirls around her face in waves, tumbling over her shoulder.

The strap of her gown has fallen, leaving one creamy shoulder bare for me to mark. I lean up, kissing and sucking her skin until I know she’ll wear a bruise.

Giving a sigh of pleasure, she brings her hot sex down on the head of my cock. She gives me one hateful gaze, then says, “Fuck you, Vincent,” as she lowers herself.

Her vicious words, the feel of her against me, it stirs something in my chest. Anger? Desire? The two seem to be one, to me. The head of my cock pops inside of her. Grabbing her hips I dig my fingers into her flesh, pulling her down onto me, with one hard thrust.

I’m buried deep inside her.

Her head lolls back and she moans, her fingernails digging into my shoulders. I smell the scent of her arousal; it’s becoming a familiar perfume.

Lifting my hips, I thrust into her again. She cries out and from her cry, I know it won’t be long before her pussy is locked around my shaft, milking it for my come.

I hold her hips, bringing her down onto my lap, my hips thrust upward, pummeling her pussy with the full length of my member, then lower as I bounce her o my lap and upward.

We find our rhythm, our bodies slamming into one another, each time furthering the building tension in our cores. My balls tighten, the glory of an orgasm strengthens in the base of my cock.

Her pussy tightens around me, gushing for me.

I pull her down, hard, and with that final penetration, her pussy clamps down.

“Vincent!” as she comes, she cries my name, and it makes me harder, knowing how much she’ll hate herself for it.

I’ve won. Again.

I thrust again, this time my own climax exploding, my come bursting forth. I fill her with my seed.

Marking her as mine.

My lips brush hers, my hands caressing her body as she trembles through the aftermath of her orgasm.

Something strange comes over me. A disturbing thought.

I want to hold her.

She pulls away from my kiss, climbing from my lap. She smooths her gown over her body. Without a backward glance, she turns, and walks to the door.

I watch her as she leaves the room.

I’m alone again, the only evidence of her the scent in the air, the glistening wetness on my cock.

I find myself wanting more of her.

Wanting to wrap my arms around her gently and hold her, softly kissing her lips.

Leaving me wondering, who here really won?

4

F

elicity

W AS that longing in his eyes as I turned to leave him?

Once again, our bodies came together it that terrible, beautiful tangle of heaven and hell. Our connection a fiery blend of hatred and desire that cannot be ignored. But this time, when I untangled my body from his, I felt his desire to reach out, to hold me against him, and his hesitance to carry through with the gesture.

I left before he could make up his mind.

Despite my humiliation, the complete loss of my pride, the dignity that he has stripped from me—I have some relief in this madness. My physical desires are satiated.

For now.

Leaving the library I walk silently down the hall, followed by his man, Brando.

I’m returned to my room. One that is fit for a queen, not a captive.

Another gift from my adoring husband.

The room is beautiful, decorated in pale pinks and soft golds. A plush white fur rug tickles my feet as I make my way to the bed, a four-poster in a white-washed wood, covered in stacks of thick pillows and piles of warm blankets in a dusty rose. In the same style wood, there’s a desk, a dressing table with creams and lotions, a wardrobe filled with elegant dresses, all tailored to my size, and a dresser, its deep drawers filled with fine lingerie.

He’s thought of everything. My few belongings from home are carefully placed around the room. There’s a bookcase in the corner next to a comfy oversized reading chair, my books carefully lined on the shelves in order of size. My gaze goes to the black lacquered mantel of the stone fireplace, where the mantelpiece clock my father gave me sits; the only family heirloom he didn’t hock to pay for debts.

And the cut crystal vase, the one Vincent had given me the day he came to arrange our marriage, the one I’d saved.

It sits at my bedside table, filled with fresh purple roses. I want to take it, throw it against the wall and watch as it shatters into a million sharp fragments.

I don’t.

My one solace of this evening?

The happiness in the knowledge that my father will have his store, and with it, his restored place in the community.

I rip the gown from my body. I need to shower, to scrub the memory of him from my body. As I stand in the stream of hot water, washing his seed from my thighs, I think of him, his filthy, possessive words, the feel of his mouth on my skin.

Damn him.

I shampoo my hair, and think of his gift to my father instead.

My family moved here from the United States when I was young. My father, a hopeless romantic, wasn’t doing so well

in his business in New York, and thought we’d best go back to our roots, move back to the town his parents immigrated from.

When I was a child, it all sounded so exciting, so charming, to move to Italy and be a part of our heritage.

Looking back, I find myself wondering if my father had been running from money problems then. Maybe even running from the New York mafia to try and get away from unpaid loans for his secret gambling addiction.

When we arrived in the village, he set up a little general store, nicer than the bodega we’d had in New York. I worked the counter. I liked school, loved to read. Always having my nose in a book, the after school job worked for me. I could read all I liked and I didn’t mind helping the customers when they came in.

I quickly picked up the language. Became a favorite of the regular customers, the older ones pinching my cheeks or tugging on my dark curls, saying, Come sei carina, how cute you are.

My mother passed away about seven years ago during my final year of school. As my father grew deeper in debt, I gave up the idea of university, educating myself through books and working more and more hours, keeping the shop open later, opening it on Sundays, hoping my hard work could save us.

I failed.

I’ve heard Vincent too began his life in America. He moved to Italy in his early twenties as a recruit for the mafia here, bringing his family’s Italian-born maid, Sophia, with her as his translator. Sharp and cunning, he quickly moved up the ranks. In his early thirties, he took the place as the head of the family.

Now, he’s lived here over a decade, but his household is a mix of people from all over the world, every sta member

bilingual. This week, he’s making a very powerful connection with a family I must dine with in the morning. They are the Bachmans, and though just as wealthy as the Russos, they prefer to live in secret, valuing their privacy over fame.

Vincent wears his crime like a crown. The king of the mafia. Taking what he wants.

Including me.

After the long, hot shower, I sit, wearing a clean silk nightgown, another one he chose before my arrival.

I loathe him.

And I will never, ever love him, this man I am forced to call my husband.

Exhausted, I flop down on my bed.

He’s a monster.

And yet, I wanted every intimate moment I had with him.

Tears of frustration and exhaustion burn in my eyes.

There’s the lightest knock on my door. Esme. She’s so delicate in all of her approaches, I know it must be her.

I don’t want to see anyone, but if I turn her away, she might be hurt. Wiping at my eyes, I steady my voice. “Come in.”

Sitting up, I face the door. Her small face peeks between the crack, letting a thin sliver of light shine over the center of the room. “Are you alright?”

I nod. “Yes. Just a little overwhelmed by the first day.”

She tiptoes across the room, her long, pale nightdress catching the moonlight coming in from the windows. I never sleep with the curtains closed—I like to see the sun as it rises. She slips into bed beside me, lying on her side, her pretty face cupped in her hand, propped up by her elbow resting on the mattress.

Her eyes are dark, like his.

But her gaze holds a kindness his could never muster.

She gives a soft sigh. “You know, he chose all of this, for you.” Her hand waves around her.

“Yes, I know.” She’s sweet and naive. She has no idea what the comfort of this lifestyle is costing me.

“I just mean, he’s not all bad, you know. He’s been very kind to me. And to the others.”

“He does seem to be generous with his sta .” My stomach roils at having to sing his praises to her.

She gives a smile. “Do you want to know the story of how I came to the castle?”

In her presence, I relax. Nestling further into my pillows, I give a nod.

“I was a baby, wrapped in a blanket, nestled in a basket. I was left on his doorstep. He’d only been in charge here a year when he found me.”

I picture her as a little baby with those dark brown eyes and golden curls and my heart hurts for her. “Oh, Esme. I’m sorry to hear that. Your parents must have been in a very di cult situation—no one would ever want to give you up.”

With a shake of her head, she continues her story. “I guess we’ll never know. Either way, Mr. Vincent took me into his home. Had a nursery made just for me. Hired a nanny. He was very kind.”

“You’re so young. When did you start working here at the castle?”

“It was my choice. He treated me almost like a daughter, spoiling me when I was young, o ering to send me to the best schools as I grew up, but I wanted to go to school in the village, and be here, at the castle. When I got older, he hired me a tutor but I would finish my schooling in the morning and had hours to spare. I just started pitching in in the kitchen whenever I could. Then, this year when I turned fifteen, I began to help Sophia with the guests. I just kind of ended up forcing my way onto the sta .”

I turn up the corners of my mouth to hopefully soften my question. “Isn’t that a lonely life for a young girl?”

She gazes out the window. “Not for me. I love the bustle of the castle. There’s never a dull moment. And all the people I love are here.”

She speaks of him as if he’s a father to her. Is he even capable of love? “Well, it sounds like you were meant to be here. Maybe fate had a hand in landing you on this doorstep.”

“I like to think so.” She stretches, giving a huge yawn that makes her look even younger than she is. Nestling down under the covers, she mumbles something I barely catch.

“And I think fate brought you here, too.”

And she’s asleep.

The sound of her soft, deep breaths calms me and I find myself drifting o , wondering, who is this man I call my husband?

The morning comes with the golden light of the sun shining in the room, the promise of a new day. Esme is already gone from my bed, a little curled impression left behind in the covers where she laid.

When I shift my weight to stretch my limbs, I find myself sore between my thighs. And I remember…

How he beckoned me to his library, had his guard manhandle me. How he kissed my neck as his man watched, Vincent biting and bruising my flesh.

And I find the soreness warming. Melting. Throbbing.

Wanting.

Shaking my head in disgust, I throw the covers back from the bed. If Esme can show up as an abandoned baby at this castle and make a life for herself, then I can show up as a captive bride and do the same.

Until I can escape.

Though now my plans have become more complicated because I want to not only take my father with me, but Esme as well.

I shower again, scrubbing all traces of him from my body.

Two women come to dry and curl my hair, to choose my dress. To apply a natural layer of makeup.

I’m too tired to fight them. I let them pamper and prepare me. As they make me over, I sit in silence, letting my mind plan my exit.

When they’re finished, they look upon me with pleased eyes. They murmur to one another in Italian, not knowing I’ve learned the language over the years.

The taller woman nods. “She’s such a beauty. No wonder he chose her.”

“I heard there was another reason. A family secret. Either way, she’s in no need of the makeup we just put on her.” She smiles, holding her hand out to me and speaking in English.

“Come, lady, let us take you to breakfast.”

Standing, I smile, locking eyes with her. “Grazie mille.”

Thank you very much.

Pink rises in her cheeks.

I follow them down to the hall, wondering what she meant. A family secret? But we reach the hall, and the bustling crowd distracts me.

Breakfast today will not be a quiet occasion; it looks as if all the wedding guests have been invited to dine with us. We make our way past the curious sets of eyes, the hushed whispers, the nervous smiles.

To the head of the table. Where he waits for me. He stands, greeting me with a warm, soft kiss on the cheek.

“Good morning, Bella. I trust you’ve slept well?”

“Like the dead.”

He gives a wry grin. He pulls my chair out for me, the one to the right of his.

I slide down into my seat, taking the linen napkin from the table and smoothing it over my lap. He takes his seat at the head of the table.

Rockland Bachman sits directly across from me, to Vincent’s left. A big man with a stoic face, the outline of a black swirling tattoo just peeking out the top of his crisp, white, button-down shirt.

His red-headed wife, Tess, a beauty with a calculating intelligence in her eyes, slips into her seat beside him. She gives me a cunning smile. “How was your first night as Mrs. Russo?”

Her words make my face go hot, as if she knows what happened. How rough he was with me. How much I gave in to him.

I swallow down a gulp of ice water. “I barely remember it.”

She gives a laugh, the sound of a tinkling bell. “Isn’t that always the way with weddings? The bride is so busy she doesn’t even get a piece of her own cake. Does she?” A smirk appears on her pretty face.

Is she referring to the fact my husband took me away from the reception? Did everyone know exactly what was happening?

Inwardly, I cringe.

Rockland’s hand disappears from the table, slipping beneath its gleaming top. He must be giving her thigh a discreet squeeze or something, because her face instantly turns as red as her hair. “Now Tess, let’s not forget our manners. The poor girl has only been in the family twentyfour hours. I’m sure it’s overwhelming, to say the least.”

She gives a nod of her head. “Forgive me. I’m sure it was a lovely evening for you both.”

I find their interaction strange, yet thrilling. The way he curbed her sharp tongue with a gesture from his hand and a

few words.

Feeling Vincent’s gaze on my face, I pass him a fleeting glance. He’s observing me, watching me, as I watch them.

There’s a calculating look in his dark eyes, as if he’s accessing me.

Forgetting them all, I turn my attention to breakfast.

Like dinner, the food is amazing. Pastries, light and flaky, still warm from the oven. Fresh fruit cut into bite-sized cubes. A variety of meats and cheeses. Hot co ee is served from French presses, the dark liquid swirling to tan with a pour of cream.

The meals, I could get used to. The husband, I’m afraid, I cannot.

I sneak glances at him as I eat. He and Rockland speak in hushed whispers between bites of their food, sips of their co ee. Luckily, Tess is entertained by a dark haired, equally beautiful woman to her left. I’ve no desire to speak to anyone.

As I’m reaching for a second pastry, I feel a timid hand fluttering on my forearm. Turning to my right, I find a nervous woman with brown eyes and dirty blonde hair smiling at me. “Hi. I’m Hannah. Hannah Bachman.”

O ering her a smile, I hold up a danish with silver tongs.

“Would you like one of these?”

She gives a nod.

I place the flaky almond treat on her empty plate. “I like a woman who eats.”

She gives a good natured roll of her eyes. “I know what you mean. Before I met the Beauties, I’d only known women who were counting calories, or priding themselves on how long they could go without eating.” She takes a bite.

“The Beauties?” She says their name as if they are a tribe.

“Who are the Beauties?”

Giving a laugh, she waves her hand over the couples seated beside her. “That’s what us Bachman women call ourselves. Though they are far more beautiful than me, they accepted me like a sister when I married Nicholas. At first, I was intimidated by them. They were all so gorgeous, so well dressed. But they took me into their fold and I found that they were a group of loving, kind women who lift one another up. And eat as much as they cook. That’s the one way I will never fit in with them—I’m a terrible cook.”

I like her. I give her my real smile. “If it makes you feel better, the only dish I’ve mastered is Spaghetti Bolognese.

Oh, and toast. I can make a really nice piece of toast.”

Covering her mouth with her hand, she laughs. “I can also make a pretty mean piece of toast. I lived o it in college.

And oatmeal. So, I guess I can cook!”

I put a second pastry on her plate. “Tell me about the Bachman Village. That’s what you call your town, right?”

She gives a little laugh. “Yes, when we say ‘the Village,’ people assume we mean Greenwich, but it’s actually our very own village, hidden in plain sight behind the walls of our businesses.”

“A secret town? That’s amazing.” It sounds like something from one of my books.

“Oh, it’s beautiful! These neatly ordered, pristine, treelined streets, like you see in the movies. The homes are three stories tall, in long rows along the street. Each one is painted a di erent color to suit the couple inside. There’s a beautiful grassy square in the center of town where there’s little tables. Nick and I like to take our dinner out there with a bottle of wine.”

“I’ve heard your family has other places, too.”

“Yes. There’s the Hamlet. That’s a town in Connecticut where couples go when they have children—there’s no children in the Village, since it’s the hub of our businesses,

it’s not safe—and there’s a private island o the coast of Greece.” She nods her head toward Rockland. “He actually established the Parrish before he became the head of the family and moved back to the Village. Rockland started the whole thing pretty much with two fishing boats he bought o of a local priest.”

“That’s why he calls it the Parrish?”

“Yeah. Funny, huh? But what he built it into—oh, it’s so beautiful. Huge, white stone mansions with verandas on each floor, overlooking the ocean. It’s paradise.” Sitting back in her seat she gives a sigh. “You’ll see it soon. You’re going to love it.”

See it soon? I was under the impression I’d never leave the grounds of the castle unless it was on foot under the dark cover of night. “What do you mean?”

Before she can answer, a man with dark curly hair and deep dimples in his cheeks touches her arm, smiling.

“Hannah, sweetheart. We don’t want to give all our secrets away to our new friends.” He kisses her cheek.

Her face turns pink. “Sorry, Nick, I just got carried away. I chatter when I’m nervous and I’m always nervous in new situations.”

I feel Vincent’s gaze on me. “Bella.”

I look up, meeting his eyes.

“You look tired. Let the ladies take you to your room to rest. I know you’ve had a long night.” He stands, ready to pull out my chair for me.

He wants me gone from this room.

Why, I’m not sure. Is he afraid Hannah will tell me something he doesn’t want me to know? Dotting my mouth with my napkin, I place it on my plate, excusing myself from the table.

Shoving my chair back, hard, I grin with satisfaction as he lets out a groan, the wood making contact with his knee as I

stand. “You know, I am quite tired. I kept having nightmares —it was impossible to sleep.”

Taking my arm roughly, he pulls my body into his. My breath catches in my throat as his mouth finds my ear. “Plan on the very same, tonight.” He releases me with a hard stare, giving me over to my maids.

5

F

elicity

H OLDING MY HEAD HIGH , pretending he hasn’t brought a heat to my face that is clearly visible to everyone in the room, I give Hannah a goodbye wave with the tips of my fingers. I make my way from the hall, my women following behind me.

I send the women away. The heavy door closes and I’m finally in the privacy of my room. In the quiet stillness, a heavy exhaustion comes over me. I crawl in bed, dozing o . I sleep through lunch, waking as the sun is setting over the hills, the oranges and reds stretching across the sky.

Sophia brings me dinner. “You looked so tired at breakfast, I thought you might enjoy a quiet dinner by yourself.” She gives me a worried look, setting a tray of food on the dressing table. “It’s my famous wedding soup with homemade bread. I hope you enjoy.”

I o er her a tight smile. “Thank you. This looks delicious.”

“You look thin, I put a little extra butter on your bread.

Don’t worry. I’ll fatten you up.” She pats her round belly,

leaving me with a laugh. “I’m quite good at it.”

I sit at the dressing table, ignoring the food, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles rim my eyes. My skin is pale beneath my rosy cheeks. His words ring in my mind.

Plan on the very same, tonight. They make a slick aching grow between my thighs.

I must stop this madness. I must leave. Now. Before he can drag me into any more of his dark, sensual games.

Hannah made it sound as if he has plans to take me to this Parrish. I’ve no intention of traveling with him. My escape has to be soon, before we leave for Greece.

I stand so quickly, the chair topples behind me, landing with a crash. I leave it where it lands on the floor. Rushing around the room, I find a large black purse, big enough to carry my necessities, but small enough I’ll not grow tired from carrying it.

I’ve a long walk ahead of me.

In the bag I throw the minimal toiletries necessary for travel, a few changes of undergarments, yoga pants and thin long sleeve shirts, articles of clothing that won’t take up much room.

Glancing around, I search for the smallest items that I may be able to trade for cash: jewelry. Though I’m surrounded in wealth, I’ve no currency of my own. I find pear drop earrings that look to be real diamonds. I slide the hooks into my lobes. Digging through the ebony jewelry box he gifted me, I slide on bracelets, hang sapphire necklaces around my neck, sliding them under the high neckline of my dress. Pile gorgeous gem rings onto my fingers.

I throw the bag over my shoulder to gauge its weight.

Nerves flood me. Why wait? Everyone is still in the great hall, chatting and dining. I could leave now. Going back to the mirror, I stare at my reflection. If I can get past the guards

and back to town to fetch my father, I’ll look like a lady out on the town, nothing more.

I can do this.

There’s a knock at the door. The light fluttering one that means its Esme. “Just a moment!” I slide the purse into the bottom of the closet. Removing the rings from my fingers, I toss them into the jewelry box.

Righting the chair, I sit down. “Come in.”

As always, Esme timidly peers through the door before she enters. Her gaze rests on my earlobes, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, pretty!” She comes rushing into the room, admiring the earrings. “These are the ones he had sent from England.

They were part of the Queen’s collection. I can’t imagine what he had to pay to get them. But he was insistent that you had have them, that they would suit you perfectly, and they do.”

I stare at the earrings in the mirror, how they hang so beautifully along the curve of my face. “He… ordered each of these pieces for me?”

She reaches out, fingering the di erent bracelets on my wrist. “Oh, yes! This one is from Spain. This one, Germany.

And this sapphire one, the prettiest in my opinion, was a gift from the Duchess of York.” She eyes me, curious. “Why are you wearing them all at once? Are you playing dress up?”

“Something like that.” I slide the bracelets from my arm, their weight almost making me feel guilty for planning to hawk them for cash, and put them on the dressing table “Tell me more about before my arrival. How long has he been…preparing for me?”

“Well, ever since your engagement, of course. It was only a month, but Vincent is a man that can get a lot done in a short amount of time. And he was eager to make sure his wife had the best of everything.”

A month? Was it only one month ago the man buying the purple roses came into the shop, running his finger down my cheek and changing the trajectory of my life forever?

It seems like a lifetime.

I feel Esme’s hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to the moment. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I just didn’t know the timeline. I know he came to my father’s store a while ago, but I was only informed of the…marriage…about forty-eight hours ago when his men came to collect me.”

She shakes her head. “No, no. That’s not right. He’s been engaged to you for over a month, via a promise from your father, but he’s been talking about you much longer than that.” Her gaze goes hazy, as if she’s confused by my words.

Why would he have been talking about me? He didn’t even know me? Did he?

He didn’t even know me until that day he came in to buy the flowers. He only knew my father through his borrowed money, his mounting debts.

How long has Vincent been planning this?

I search her gaze, wanting to ask a thousand questions, and yet none form on my tongue. My brain finally catches up with my silence, telling me if I’m to escape today, it’d be best for Esme to know as little as possible.

It’s clear now—there’s no way I can take her with me. She belongs here. Everyone but me does. They all love it here. I can see why—if I wasn’t married to such a cruel man, I might like it myself.

Besides, it’ll be hard enough to get me and my father out of the country.

The thought of leaving Esme tears at my heart. I’ve become so fond of her in such a short time. I’ll tell her goodbye now, secretly, in way she won’t understand until later.

“Esme—you’ve been so sweet to me. Such a help getting through the wedding and everything. I don’t think I’d have made it through without you.” I reach for the sapphire bracelet sliding it on her wrist. “This is for you.”

Her eyes widen as she twists her wrist, watching the jewels sparkle. “I couldn’t, Felicity. I can’t accept this gift.”

I rest my hand over hers. “It would make me happy for you to have it.”

She studies my face. “Really? Do you mean it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“If you really mean it, then I’ll keep it.” She pulls me into a tight hug. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Esme.”

“This feels selfish, to ask something of you when you’ve just given me such a generous gift.” She pulls away, worry filling her pretty brown eyes. “But, I have one favor to ask of you.”

Does she know I’m leaving? Does she want me to take her with me? “What is it?”

“Please, please, please, put in a good word with Sophia for me. If she knows how much you like me, she’ll let me come as your assistant when Vincent travels to Greece.” She does a spin, her hands clutching her heart. “Can you imagine how beautiful the Parrish is? A private island of mansions.

And the Bachman men are so handsome, such gentlemen. I can’t wait to go. I’ve been dreaming of it all day since I first heard Vincent was taking you.”

I break away from her gaze. “I…I’m not sure…”

“We’ll have so much fun!” She rushes back to my side, grabbing my hands in hers. “Please, please, please, Felicity.

Say I can come with you?”

The eagerness in her beautiful face, unblemished by the hurt and disappointment of this cruel world makes me feel

just a touch lighter, more hopeful. I want her to have this trip.

If I run o now, who knows if she’ll get to go.

And, if I’m finally admitting to all of the secret fantasies I’ve been harboring, the truth is I’m dying to travel, to see new places, to meet new people. I’m craving excitement, new experiences. I’m a huge nerd of Greek Mythology. I’ve read three di erent translations of Homer’s Iliad. So why would I pass up an all-expenses paid trip to Greece?

Even if it’s under the controlling gaze of my asshole husband.

I’ll stay. I’ll get my dream vacation, Esme will be happy.

For her joy, and for my own need of travel, my other plans can wait.

“Esme, there’s no way I’m going without you, darling.

Tell Sophia to tell Vincent, I’m lost without you and I won’t go if you don’t.”

“Do you mean it? Oh, Felicity, thank you!” She grabs me in another tight hug, her slight arms surprisingly strong, the gems of the bracelet digging into me.

There’s a hard rap on my door. Vincent. I hold in a dark laugh remembering his whispered words, plan on the very same, tonight.

Let the games begin.

“Why don’t you get to bed? It’s getting late.” I open the door and Esme sees herself out, scuttling past Vincent. As she passes, he grabs her arm, gently, pulling her close and whispering something in her ear. I look away, not wanting to eavesdrop but still hear his words. “Get yourself to bed, young lady. No fraternizing with those Bachman Brothers.”

He bids her goodnight.

The young single men of the Bachman family are handsome and charming. I’ve seen Esme eyeing them.

I almost smile at his fatherlike ways.

Then I remember why Vincent lurks outside my door.

He wants to play games.

You want to play games, husband? Bring your best because I’m going to slay you.

He makes me want him with his rough ways. Let me turn the tables on him. Make him do the begging for once. I slide my hand up the edge of my open door. Curve my lips in a sultry smile. Gaze at him from beneath my lashes.

I run the tip of my tongue over my lip. “You wanted me?”

His brow furrows as he takes me in, confused by my poise. “What are you…doing?”

“Don’t you know what I’m doing? I’m going to make you want me. Then I’m going to make you beg for it.”

His eyes widen but before he can answer I grab the end of his tie, pulling him into me for a harsh kiss. I thrust my tongue in his mouth, grabbing his hardening erection in my palm, rubbing it over his trousers.

Without breaking my kiss, he grabs my wrists, pulling me over the threshold and kicks the door shut with his heel. He moves his mouth to my ear. “You want to play games, little girl? Let me tell you now, I always come out victorious.” His mouth is back on mine, his kisses bruising my lips.

He shoves me against the wall, my shoulder blades hitting with a dull thud. His grasp on my wrists tighten as he pulls my arms above my head, pinning my hands to the wall above my head with one strong hand. His other slides down my face, over my breasts, grabbing and squeezing until my breath catches in my throat.

He’s winning. He always wins. Hasn’t he made that clear?

My body responds with no reservation, a warm throbbing between my thighs, as my mind screams with anguish. Why do I let him do this to me? Why do I want more? I’ve got to score a point; I’ve got to get the upper hand if only for a moment.

He’s got my hands bound, my body pinned against the wall by his chest. I slide his bottom lip between my teeth, and bite. The tang of his blood hits my tongue. I wait, expecting his furious retaliation.

Instead, he punishes me in the worst way possible, by making me want him more.

He pulls back, burning me with his smoldering gaze. His fingertip finds his lips and he draws it across, gathering the blood. Lowering his fingertip to my heart, he glides his finger over my chest. I look down, finding a red V over my heart.

Cocky bastard.

He gives me a dark smile. “Mine,” he says, and his mouth finds my neck, repaying the bite with one of his own on my tender flesh.

My head lolls back, bumping the wall behind me as I let out a low moan. With his hand pinning mine to the wall, his mouth punishes my neck, and his other hand slides down my belly, parting the waistband of my clothing from my flesh.

His hand dives down, his finger slipping into my slick folds. He plays with me, dipping in me, stretching me, then taking his slick finger and teasing my clit with rough circles.

My hips buck, begging for more.

His kisses move up my neck, nipping the lobe of my ear.

“Beg me.”

No. I refuse.

Let him leave—I can take care of my own pleasure when he closes that dark wooden door.

He adds a second finger to the first, stretching me further. As he fucks me with his fingers, he pushes my wrists higher above my head, making me stretch up on the tips of my toes. He licks my neck, his tongue leaving a hot, wet trail as he goes. He returns to that most sensitive spot above my

clavicle, sucking and nipping as he runs the pad of my thumb over my aching clit.

My breath catches. Perspiration dots my hairline. My mouth opens to cry out, and I snap it shut.

Fuck him.

I’m going to come all over his rough, punishing hand.

I move my hips, chasing the climax, taking every ounce of pleasure I can get from his hand.

I’m on the brink, my pussy tightening around his fingers —and he stops.

His hand freezes, his two fingers buried deep inside me, his thumb pressing down on my clit. I moan with frustration, grinding my pelvis against his hand, demanding my release.

He gives a low, dark chuckle. “Bad girls with no manners don’t get to come.”

“Fuck you, Vincent.” My words come out in pants. “Bad girls make themselves come.”

My words are a farce. I want this, I need this, I’m at his mercy. I know if he leaves now, and I’m left to finish myself o …I’ll only be wishing it was his hand pleasuring me.

Shame fills me.

I’m going to beg.

He strokes the pad of his thumb over my clit. “Are you sure you don’t want to apologize and beg for your climax like a good little girl?”

A whimper rises in my throat. I swallow down my pride, every ounce of it. “I…I want you to make me come. Please.”

I’m rewarded with only one thrust of his fingers, one circle over my pulsing nub.

“Tell me you want me. Beg me to put my cock in your wet pussy.”

I give a heady moan. I need more. I’ll die if I don’t get it.

I’m almost crying, my voice breaking as I beg. “Please, put

your cock in me and fuck me, Vincent. Fuck me hard until I come all over your cock.”

“Such a dirty mouth on my pretty wife. I know how to handle dirty girls.” His hand slides from my pussy and I ache for his fingers the moment they leave me.

Where’s his hand going? What’s he going to do to me?

He yanks at my pants and panties, pushing them down to my knees. My arms ache, my wrists are sore where he still holds them against the wall, but that’s all forgotten when he steps to the side and draws his hand back, slapping his hand against my pussy.

The smack leaves a tingling over my skin, making my clit throb. “Oh my God!” “You’ll learn to curb your tongue.” Another stinging slap lands on my pussy, making my clit throb even more. “I’ll teach you.”

I can’t take another spank. I need to come. Now. I tell him what I think he wants to hear. “I’m sorry, sir. Please, put your fingers back inside me and make me come.”

His fingers stroke the slickness at the apex of my thighs.

“Tell me how wet I make you. Tell me you want me even when you hate me.”

“You make me so wet. I hate you. And fuck yes, I want you.”

With a deep growl, he lowers my arms, dragging me over to the bed. I struggle to keep up, my legs tethered by my clothing. He shoves me down onto the bed on my belly, my face buried in the plush covers. I grab the fabric with my fists, biting down to hold in my cries as he enters me from behind with one punishing thrust.

I stretch and burn, my body taking all of him at once. He fucks me, fast and furious and hard. Real, raw, fucking.

Animal fucking. Fucking for the only purpose of release. He

slaps my ass, grabbing my hips hard, pulling me down onto his cock, burying deeper inside of me.

Fuck! I’m coming so hard white stars appear behind my eyelids. I bite down harder on the covers, refusing to give him the satisfaction of crying out as another climax racks my body. He comes, hot seed bursting forth and filling me as he growls.

For just a moment, he lies over me, our bodies pressed together as we recover.

I lie limply on the bed, completely spent as he stands, zipping his trousers and buckling his belt.

“Pack your bags. We leave in the morning.” He closes the door behind him.

Game over.

6

V

incent

M Y WIFE WILL ACCOMPANY us to the Parrish. And with her, Sophia and Esme, along with several of her sta . Not the gentleman’s trip I was planning, but I’ll make do.

Having my wife with me has its benefits—access to her beautiful body, making her sigh that little whispered word, more. Fucking her until she calls my name. Losing myself in her smell, her taste, her touch.

Having her close also has its detriments, distracting me, leaving me thinking of her with every waking hour. After having her, wanting to hold her close and kiss her softly. To treat her gently.

So unlike me.

At the last minute, I almost called the whole thing o .

Remember the unsettling way I felt when she left the library without a second glance to me, how I wanted to hold her close, rock her body against mine and whisper sweet nothings to her all night long.

Disgraceful.

I more than made up for it by the way I fucked her last night, making her beg for the man she hates. But when I left the room, she stayed in the forefront of my mind. By making me think of her constantly, she’s taking away my power over her. And that is one thing I cannot tolerate.

I’m in control.

I win.

Always.

In the end I decided, yes, I will take her to the Parrish, just to prove to myself I am still the one in charge. But then my wife asked me to bring Esme with us, staring up at me with those soft, green-gold eyes, pleading with me, and despite my reservations, I found myself agreeing.

Yet another way she’s won me over.

As she slides into the seat beside me on our private jet, I’m instantly surrounded by her scent. Vanilla and freesia and…Felicity. She wears a sleeveless white silk top, tucked into light colored linen pants and soft leather shoes.

All clothing I’ve picked out to complement her complexion.

I’ve done well.

As she’s bending down to slip o her shoes, a thick strand of her dark hair brushes the back my hand. I want to wrap it around my palm and tug her head back, kiss her neck.

Torture.

Our shoulders touch. She quickly moves as far to her right as she can, creating a space of a few inches between us.

I can breathe again.

Ignoring her as best I can, I pull my laptop from my bag, flipping down the oversized tray from the wall, making a desk. I slip my glasses from the inside of my suit jacket, put them on, and turn on the computer.

I feel her curious gaze resting on me. I look at her, confining my suspicions. She’s staring.

I raise a brow. “Can I help you?”

A tiny smirk dances at the corner of her lips. “It’s nothing. Just that a man so powerful as yourself needs glasses to read the words on a computer screen?”

It’s bothered me over the past two years that my perfect 20/20 vision has let me down. Trust her to point out my flaws. “Astute observation. Have you no chinks in your own armor?”

She sni s, resting her head back on the seat. “Many. But I don’t act as though I have none.”

I push the glasses down the bridge of my nose, looking at her over their silver rims. “When have I ever claimed to be flawless?”

“Just an air you give o .” She gives a bored shrug, pulling a book from her bag and opening it to the center where she’s turned down the corner of a page to mark her place.

She’s no respect for her husband or his property, I see.

Reaching over, I flip up the corner of the page, smoothing the crease she made in the paper. “Well, the air you give o is one of ungratefulness. And carelessness. Has no one taught you how to properly keep your place in a book?”

She snorts. “Grateful to be forced into marriage?”

Opening my bag at my side, I rustle through it, looking for an adequate bookmark. I find a scrap of paper and hand it to her. “Here. Use this instead.”

She takes it from me, smoothing it out and reading the words on it. She’s suddenly very quiet. Too quiet. I look over at what’s she’s reading. I recognize the words.

I’ve made a horrible mistake.

I thought the paper I’d handed her was a scrap from one of my many meeting notes.

It wasn’t.

It’s a poem. One I jotted down the other day when Esme brought my tea into the library. One I’d written for Felicity

but would never dare to show her.

Felicity’s lips barely move as she murmurs the prose to herself.

They call you the black pearl Though precious you are, cold and dark, you are not To me, you are the sun You made your arrival on a dark day And forever changed me Bringing light and warmth into what was a bleak, cold world

S HE SLIDES the paper between the final page of the book and the back cover. She says nothing of the poem, but I feel her sneak glances at me over her shoulder.

My voice is gru when I speak, filled with the emotion of having someone see a glimpse of my bare soul. “What are you reading, anyway?”

Holding her hand to mark her place, she brings the front cover over, showing it to me. It reads, The Young American and Marine Tales.

“I’ve never seen this book before.”

“It’s from the shelves of your library. A collection of fairytales. But I’m only interested in one story. La Belle et la Bête, or, Beauty and the Beast, the version written by written

by French novelist Gabrielle-Suzanne de Villeneuve in 1740. I thought it was suitable for my current life situation.” She stops speaking, her gaze locked on my face, the corners of her lips curling upward as she waits for her words to settle.

She thinks I’m a beast?

She’s the monster, creasing the page of an innocent book.

I think over all the preparations I’ve made for her arrival, the hundreds of thousands of dollars I spent on clothing, jewels, cars. The debts I’ve spared her father. I’ve prepared for her every comfort, thought of any and everything she may need.

“I’ve given you everything.”

“Have you?” The look she gives me makes my stomach turn to ice. Having made her point, she goes back to her book.

Leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I took her from her home, an innocent, in order to repay her father’s debts.

To repay her grandmother’s debts to my grandfather.

I took her because I wanted her. I’ve trapped her in my castle. I’ve taken her body for my pleasure.

A smile sneaks up on my lips.

I am the Beast.

I am the beast, and finally, I have my Beauty. Under lock and key, for life.

The sound of the engine roars through the plane and suddenly there are sharp fingernails gripping my arm. I gaze at her in surprise. Her face is pale.

She looks at me, her hazel eyes wide with fear. “What was that?”

“The pilot turning on the engine, my dear. Have you never been on a plane?”

The tips of her pearly white teeth sink into her full bottom lip, making my cock sti en.

She shakes her head, frantically. “Yes, but only when I moved here from America. I was so young, and my mother gave me something that made me sleep through the flight.

Are there going to be more noises like that?”

I think of the wheels rolling over the tarmac, the sound of them folding into the plane as we take o , that lurch in your

stomach as the plane is first suspended in the air. And heaven forbid we hit a pocket of turbulence.

I give a nod. “Yes. There are many sounds to come. It can be scary, flying for the first time. Would you like me to get Esme? Or perhaps, Sophia?”

She shakes her head again. “No. I’m a big girl, I can handle it.” But then the plane begins to move down the tarmac and she lets out a squeal, practically jumping into my arms.

I slide an arm around her shoulders, bringing her in close to my side. “Shh. I’ve got you. Just try to breathe.” I’m turning soft. She’s turning me soft.

Her body relaxes against mine and I feel her draw in a deep breath. I run my fingers over her arm, bare in her sleeveless shirt. Goosebumps rise on her flesh at my touch.

Leaning down, I allow myself to sneak a whi of her hair.

It’s smells clean and heavenly, like her.

She wriggles away, peering up at me with a sneer. “Are you…smelling me?”

I was…smelling her. Do I have to admit it to her? I’m saved from having to answer because now the nose of the plane is rising as we lift o the tarmac, the machinery of the wheels lifting, grinding beneath us. Another squeal, and she’s buried in my arms, her face against my chest.

How can a woman so bold be so frightened?

I hold her in my arms. Much like I wanted to in the library after she rode my cock, using me for her pleasure. I feel cracks in my hard exterior as I run my hand over her back, shushing her and calming her.

When the plane finally reaches cruising altitude and is smoothly moving through the sky, she untangles herself from my arms, giving me an embarrassed look. “Thanks.”

She sits back into her seat, retrieving her book.

And I find myself hoping for turbulence.

Quickly, she’s lost in her story, curled up in her wide seat, her bare feet tucked beneath her.

I focus on my work. My charts, my spreadsheets, my numbers, making sense of the chaos. Creating order where there is none.

An hour later, I feel the weight of her head on my shoulder. She’s nodded o to sleep, her cheek resting against me. I take the opportunity to bring my nose to her hair and inhale.

Heaven.

She wakes when the landing begins. To my disappointment, she no longer needs me. Instead, her fingers clutch the arms of her chair until her knuckles turn white.

It’s a foolish thought, but I find myself angry at her for not needing me.

When the plane comes to a full and complete stop, she slips her book in her bag, the poem neatly tucked inside, holding her place.

As we disembark, she goes before me. I grab her hand, pulling her back by my side. “Stay close. I trust Rockland, but I don’t know this family well enough yet to have you wandering without me. Do not leave my sight unless I give you permission. Understood?”

“I’ll be fine.” Her brow knits, her face forming into that scowl I love so well. She opens her pretty lips to argue further, but I cut her o . Placing my opened palm over her ass for all the world to see, I give it a tight squeeze.

My mouth finds her ear. “The only acceptable response here is, yes sir.”

She gives a hard gulp, and mumbles the words, “Yes, sir.”

Her face is still angry, but I see the flush as it rises in her cheeks, the outline of her hardened nipples as they peak against her thin, silk shirt.

“Good girl.” I give her ass a public pat that I’m sure has moisture pooling between her thighs. Grabbing her hand, I lead her to the platform at the top of the stairs of the aircraft.

She pauses to take in the view. The breeze blows o the Aegean Sea making her hair flutter behind her. The white sand beaches stretch as far as the eye can see, and huge mansions rise from the ground, standing tall and proud, the wrought iron fencing of their balconies a dark contrast to the white stone.

“It’s so beautiful.” Her gaze dances over the turquoise sea.

“Welcome to the Parrish.” I hold her hand tighter as we descend the stairs, our feet finding the sandy soil.

The rest of our party exits the plane, Esme chattering excitedly behind us. I look around for Rockland, but find no one. Strange, there’s no one here to greet us.

Something is o .

There’s an eerie stillness that penetrates the beauty of the place. No children dotting the beaches, splashing in the waves while their mothers look on. There isn’t a person in sight.

Brando is by my side. I give him a glance, ordering in Italian for him to reboard the plane. I watch until I’m sure Esme and Sophia are back on board.

Double checking my bag is securely on my shoulder, I pull Felicity around the nose of the aircraft. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” She watches the others reboard, fear flashing in her eyes.

“Rockland and his men should be here to greet us.” With the aircraft covering the view of us, we exit the back of the tarmac, ducking behind the family’s small airport. “We wait here till I figure this out.”

“What about the others?” I see the panic in her face and I know she’s thinking of Esme.

“They will be safer without us. If there is danger, I’m the one they would want, so it’s better for me to be apart from the others.”

“And me?”

“I’ll protect you.” I don’t know what’s going on, but I know the type of men we are up against, rivals jealous of the Russo and Bachman families’ success. “They know I will.”

“What do you mean?” She holds her breath.

“They know I would give myself up to them before I ever let them hurt you.”

She seems shocked by this idea, and I may be mistaken, but she seems pleased that I would protect her in this way.

I might be an asshole, but when I said till death do us part, I meant it.

I would lay down my life for her, even before she became my wife.

I’ve wanted her for my own for as long as I can remember.

But this is not the time for reminiscing. “Come. There has to be someone around here who knows what’s going on.”

Taking her hand once more, we make our way down the back wall of the airport.

My hand slips into my bag, retrieving my piece. I slide it under my belt on my hip.

“Is that a…gun?” Her hand covers her mouth as it hangs open in surprise.

“Unfortunately, yes. I’m afraid we may be in danger.”

The sound of a twig breaking underfoot comes from the corner of the building, where I can’t see. I grab Felicity, putting a hand over her mouth and pull her body against mine.

A young man with jade green eyes and broad shoulders steps out from behind the building. He wears a black tee

shirt and I can see the swirl of the tattoo that the members of the Parrish Brotherhood wear. He holds his empty hands up to us. “I’m Alec, I’ve been sent for you. Come with me.

There’s been an…” his eyes cut to Felicity as he chooses his next words carefully, o ering her a soft smile, “an issue. But nothing to worry over.”

I sense I can trust this man, but I need to see his gauge his reaction to be sure. “What are the chances an ‘issue’ arises that coincides with our arrival?”

“Very good. Apparently, Vincenzo Russo leaving his castle spells opportunity to ru ans who may want to see you dead.

They followed you here, thinking our little private island would be the perfect disposal grounds for you. They thought wrong.” His gaze holds mine and the only indication of emotion on his face is the smug turn up of the corners of his mouth. “They only got as far as the neighboring island.”

“And they’ve been taken care of?” I give Alec a hard stare.

He gives a curt nod. “Of course. One hundred percent.”

Our words make Felicity’s eyes go wide, her hand tightening around mine.

Alec continues. “Our apologies we couldn’t greet you the moment you arrived, we were putting our people in lockdown in their homes in case anyone did make it to the Parrish, which is highly unlikely. Rockland operates with extreme caution.”

Felicity’s hand flutters to her throat. “And the others on the plane? Are they safe?”

Alec gives a nod. “That was a smart move on your part to re-board them. They are surrounded, under watch, and perfectly safe where they are until Rockland clears them to go to the guesthouses.”

I look to Felicity. Her skin is a bit pale, but otherwise she seems fine. “Where will you take us?”

“To one of the bachelor houses on the back of the property.” He waves his hand toward the woods. “We have additional security measures in place on those homes.

Rockland would feel safer if we had you both there.”

I give a nod. “Fine. We’ll follow you.”

She keeps her hand in mine.

We walk behind him, following him into the woods. As we emerge from the trees, we see a circle of smaller houses that form a circle. He takes us into the first one. It’s a tastefully decorated home. Dark wood floors, white walls, black leather furniture. Wooden bookshelves line either side of a huge fireplace.

Felicity immediately wanders o toward the shelves, called by the leather-bound books. Coming across her drug of choice, apparently she’s no longer concerned that her life is in danger. She runs her fingers over the spines, transfixed.

Alec looks around. “This was Dante’s old place. He’s since married, leaving it open for situations like this.”

“And the extra security?” My gaze falls on Felicity, the curve of her face, her slim body, and a fierce need to protect her rises in me.

“Let me show you. I think you’ll be impressed.” We walk over to the back door where a black box sits on the wall. He removes the casing, pointing to a switch. “This switch raises the shield.”

“The shield? Rockland hasn’t mentioned a shield.”

“It’s one of our many secrets.” He gives a grin of pride.

“If you flip it, a fireproof, bulletproof shield will rise up from the ground, covering the windows, surrounding the home.

Making it impenetrable.”

I’m already glad I’ve come. This visit will be a great learning opportunity to increase our security at the castle.

“Fascinating. And to lower it?”

Alec shrugs. “That’s the catch. Once the shield is up, it stays up for forty-eight hours. No exceptions. It can be made to stay up longer, but it can’t be lowered before that.”

I never give up control. To be locked here for two days?

“How would that serve you, to not have control over it?”

“Hang on.” Alec’s phone beeps and he grabs it from his pocket, tapping at the screen. “Rockland’s deboarding the plane.”

“Have him bring my people here and we’ll sort everyone out from here.”

‘You got it, boss.” More tapping, then he slides his phone in his pocket. “So, back to the shield. The man who invented it is a firm believer in being aware of falling action—the time you think you’re safe, but then there’s a second attack just as you emerge from your safe house. Programming the mandatory forty-eight hour timeframe was just another one of his precautions.”

“Seems unnecessary, and yet, highly intelligent.” I wonder if we could get a shield of sorts over our own windows at home.

“Rockland wants all of your people in houses, under shields, until we’re certain the threat has passed. He values the unity of our families and will do everything he can to keep yours safe, as he does with ours.”

“Two days?” I think of Esme, of Sophia, the others I’ve brought here. It’s forty-eight hours under lock and key in exchange for their safety. “And you’re sure it’s necessary?”

“Just to be safe. But the fridge is stocked and I’ll be with you. And, he said you can bring whoever you’d like into this house, though there are only three bedrooms in this house. A separate master down here, and two guestrooms up top. I’ll take the smaller of the two rooms. You’ve got to decide quickly so we can get everyone to their homes.”

Felicity appears by my side, her face lined with worry. She must have been listening to our conversation. “I’m not leaving Esme. Or Sophia.”

“Yes. They will come here with us.” Esme is like a daughter to me. I’m relieved when Felicity suggests it. “They can share a room.”

“And the others?” She wrings her hands.

I slide an arm over her shoulders. “They’ll be in safe houses as well. Just until we’re sure the threat has been completely neutralized.”

We wait for the others to arrive. Felicity goes back to her shelves. I ask Alec a few more questions about the shield, intrigued by its design. He’s more than happy to answer them. When he’s finished, I run my hand through my hair thinking of Sophia.

The others will be fine, but she’s going to panic. She hates an upset in the schedule. And Dante’s old kitchen, though up to date with the latest appliances, is half the size of hers at home.

It’s going to be a handful calming her.

And this Alec guy is handsome, and young—I’d peg him at maybe, eighteen? Only a few years older than Esme.

Discomfort grows in my chest at the idea of them being in such close proximity. Keeping them apart will be another challenge I’ll face. I’m glad Felicity is here to assist me.

Maybe it would be a kind gesture of this beast to tell his beauty so. To let her know I’m glad that she’s here.

I look around the room to find her, expecting she’s gone back to her books.

My heart catches in my throat—she’s nowhere in sight.

7

F

elicity

O F ALL THE humiliation I’ve su ered at Vincent’s hands, peeing my pants in front of him is one I refuse to allow.

He and Alec—a big guy with the tattoo—are so engrossed in their conversation about the defense mechanism of the house, I decide against interrupting them to ask where the ladies’ room is. I’ll find it myself. I head down the hall, assuming the master bedroom has a private toilet.

Oh thank God. Here it is. A huge room with a king sized bed and white comforter. And an open door leading to a white tile bathroom. “Not a moment too soon.”

Hurrying across the floor, I don’t even have time to lock the door. I kick it closed with my heel as I busy myself unzipping my linen pants. Finally, I sit on the cold seat and relieve myself. I hold in a groan of satisfaction as my bladder empties.

Just as I find the toilet paper, stacked neatly in a basket by the tub, the door bursts open.

Vincent stands there, staring at me with wild eyes.

“Where’d you go?”

What the hell! “Isn’t it obvious? I had to pee. Now get the hell out of here.”

His dark eyes flash, angry and dangerous. “I told you not to leave my sight.”

I have to hold in an eye roll. “Excuse me for assuming that didn’t include me going to the bathroom. Now, get out! I mean it. If you don’t leave right now, so help me, there is no shield that is going to protect you from me.”

He gives me a second look, as if he’s debating whether to wipe me himself.

I growl, “Go.” “Fine. But next time, you tell me where you’re going or my belt lays stripes across your ass. Capire?” Understand?

I grab a roll of toilet paper, aiming it at him. “Capisco. I get it. Now go!” I let it fly.

He closes the door just before it hits him. It bounces o the door and rolls across the floor, leaving a white paper trail behind it.

I take my time, washing my hands. Muttering under my breath. Stripes on my ass…

Making me wonder…what would it feel like?

To watch him take o his belt, loop by loop, those dark eyes bearing into mine, just knowing he’s removing it to punish me. To have him bare my flesh. Raise the belt, hear it whistle through the air. To be under his power. To have his leather belt biting into my skin.

My eyes catch my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes shine with desire.

This is what he does to me.

Shaking my head, I let out a sigh, neatly hanging the towel on the bar.

When I get to the living room, Esme and Sophia are here.

“Oh, Felicity! It’s so good to see you. We were so worried.” Esme runs over to me with open arms, flinging herself into me.

Holding back a laugh, I stroke her silky golden locks, assuring her I’m fine. “No need to worry. Vincent took care of me. I was safe with him.” My words make a tug in my chest. Over her head, my gaze catches his.

He’s smiling.

It’s a slight grin, but it’s his, and its real.

And it’s meant for me.

He must be pleased by my words. I’m safe with him.

When I’m with Vincent I know no man can hurt me. I fear only for my heart, wanting to keep it from his grasp.

Esme lets out a long exhale. “I’m so glad. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”

“We’re all safe now. We’re in good hands with Alec. He’s going to put the shield up and we’ll be untouchable.”

She releases me, looking over at the panel by the back door where Alec stands. “Ooh. He’s cute.”

Boy crazy. I’ll keep a close eye on her. The last thing we need is her falling for a man she’ll never see again.

There’s a clanking of pots and pans. Sophia calls from the kitchen. “Esme. Come. I can’t find a soup pot.”

“Coming, Sophia!” Esme leaves me, rushing o to assist.

Sophia and I will have our work cut out for us, distracting our girl from Alec.

The girls are busy in the kitchen. Alec and Vincent are engaged with their phones, their technology.

Leaving me free to explore the bookshelves some more. I cross the room, taking in the varying colors and fonts that rest on the polished wood shelves. The tension melts from my shoulders as my fingertip traces over the leather spines.

Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, One Hundred Years of Solitude.

I’ll be just fine during this lockdown. Forty-eight hours may not be long enough.

I’m in the mood for one of my favorites. One I’ve not read in years. Reaching for a blood-red spine, I pull Dracula down from the shelf.

Curling up on the black leather sofa, I lazily turn through the first pages of the book. A fire burns in the fireplace and Sophia’s bringing me a cup of tea. Soon, I’m lost in the story.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when a loud whirring noise rumbles through the house. I look up. The sun disappears as a smoky shield of glass rises from the ground like magic.

They reach the top. There’s a clicking clank, a sound I assume means that the panels have locked into place.

Our forty-eight hours has begun.

I go back to my book. Smells of Sophia’s chicken soup fill the room. Alec throws another log on the fire.

Jonathan reaches the hotel and is handed a letter from Count Dracula, giving directions to his castle. I feel a presence by my side. I know before I look up that it’s Vincent.

He sits beside me on the sofa. Casually rests his arm on the couch behind me. Not touching me, but making my skin tingle, nonetheless. His nearness sends invisible electric pulses through me.

I inch away.

“What are you reading?”

“Dracula.”

“The vampire book?”

“Yes.” “I’ve not read it. I don’t care for reading.”

“This will be my third time. Do you read at all?” Could we have less in common?

“No. I’ve no time for…” his hand waves through the air over the open pages, “frivolity.”

“Well, you must do something for fun. Is there anything you do that isn’t business, or stealing brides?”

“I did not steal you. You were a payment. And yes, I like to play piano.”

I feel my brow furrow. “You? Play piano?” I try to picture it, Vincent bent over the ivory keys of a shiny black grand piano.

I can’t.

His brow knits as if I’ve insulted him. “Why does that surprise you so much?”

I give a shrug, wanting to laugh. “I don’t know. Up till now you don’t seem to have any interests other than conquering things.” And me. “To play the piano…it seems it would take a lot of patience.”

He gives a sni . “I have patience.”

“Do you? Because if so, I’ve not seen that side of you.”

“Well, who needs patience. At least I have class and manners, and would never, ever mark a book by bending the corner of its pages.” He gives a pointed look to the corner I’ve folded of Dracula.

“Manners?” I think of the way he forces me to beg for his touch, for release. “I don’t know about that.”

“I think I’m very classy.” He calls over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Sophia—do you think I’ve got class and manners?”

“Sure, Mr. Russo.” She grunts. “Class and manners. But no romance.”

A secret smile lights on my lips. No romance. Exactly.

He has all the couth and poise money can buy.

But he’s an animal. A monster.

He reaches out, his finger snarling a tendril of my hair. He wraps it around and around his finger until there’s a slight

pull at the skin of my scalp. He pulls my ear to his mouth.

“Romance? What is that?”

I struggle from his grasp, pawing his hand from my hair.

“It’s a form of manners you exude when you’re with a woman you care about. Say, your wife, for example?”

He grunts, taking the book from my hands. “And did this Dracula, did he exhibit any romantic tendencies?”

“No. But I wasn’t married to him.” I toss him a dismissive look, rise from the couch, and follow my nose to the kitchen.

He gives my ass a slap as I brush by him.

Animal.

Sophia’s busy in the kitchen, peering into massive pots as she stirs.

I grab plates from a cabinet. “Sophia. Would you like help setting the table?”

“From you?” She nods. “I would.”

I set the table. Bowls for the soup. Plates for the salad and bread Esme’s prepared. A glass for the wine I most certainly need.

I set a wine glass for Esme, pouring her a little taste. She needs it after the long day she’s had. Maybe I’ll even let her sit next to Alec. The girl is boy crazy—why not give her a little eye candy. After all, someone in this house deserves to have a little romance in their lives. And as Sophia has stated, it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.

Not from Vincent, at least.

But as we sit to dinner, he pulls out my chair. Smooths my cloth napkin over my lap. He holds the dishes for me to serve myself from. Refills my wine.

He’s as attentive as a husband can be.

We talk and laugh over the homey comfort food. As relaxed as five people locked in a tower of bulletproof glass and steel can be.

As I’m buttering my bread, my knife slips from my hand.

Vincent retrieves it, takes it to the sink, bringing me a clean one. After dinner, it’s he who o ers to wash the dishes, while Esme dries. Then, he sends Esme o to bed. Alec retreats into the kitchen to make phone calls.

Sophia collapses on the couch, snoring.

Vincent re-stokes the fire, bringing it back to life and making it roar in the stone fireplace.

I sit on my cozy corner of the black leather sofa, and once again, he joins me. This time, his arm is wrapped around my shoulders, touching me. Warm and protective. I find myself wanting his hands on my body.

His mouth on mine.

I find myself craving his touch.

And why shouldn’t I be granted the favor? I am, after all, his wife.

I tear my gaze from the fire. Focusing on him. He stares at the neckline of my shirt. His fingers go to the ends of my hair, taking a piece and twirling it lazily in his fingers.

He moves in. To kiss me. My eyes close.

His mouth finds mine. As he tastes me, I feel myself melting into his gentle kiss. His tongue slips between my lips.

And I’m lost.

My body melts into his. I want him. Body, mind, and soul.

But I know the most he’ll ever give me is his body. But I’m so turned on and desperate right now, I’ll take it.

Besides, he owes it to me.

“Let’s go.” He takes my hand, pulling me up from the couch. Our eyes brush each other’s briefly and we both know where we are headed.

He leads me down the hall, to the master bedroom on the first floor. The one adjoined to the bathroom of our fight. I

take in the room. White walls. White linens. Black wrought iron bed frame.

One he could tie me to.

I shake the silly thoughts from my mind. What am I thinking? Desiring this man that thinks of me as nothing more than a conquest, a prize he’s won.

But when his mouth finds mine once again, it doesn’t seem as if it’s in conquest. It feels…nice. Caring. Adoring.

The way a woman wants a man to kiss her after a long, emotional day. A kiss that says, I’ll take care of you.

A stark contrast to his conquest fuck from last night.

And take care of me he does. He scoops me up into his arms. Carries me to the bed. Lays me down amongst the soft feather pillows and comforter.

He’s unbuttoning my pants. Removing them from my body. His hands go to the waistband of my panties. He takes those o as well.

Suddenly, he’s crouched between my knees, my bare thighs cupped in his strong hands.

He parts my legs, crawling toward me.

And he’s gone.

I lie back down on the pillows, my breath holding in my lungs. Waiting. His breath is hot against my skin. His tongue, slick, trailing its way up the inside of my thighs. His mouth finds my sex.

And it’s fucking heaven.

My eyes close, my head lolls back with a moan. “Oh my God. What are you doing?”

He answers with the swirl of his tongue, his hot mouth cupping my pulsing sex. He licks, then pulls away, teasing my aching clit. His fingers clutch around the cheeks of my ass, digging into my flesh. He murmurs between licks.

“Don’t you know what I’m doing?”

I bury my hands into his hair, grasping on for something to ground me as I climb higher into the clouds. I’m floating, unaware of my surroundings, other than the presence of this man between my thighs.

I rise up, moaning in pleasure until finally, my body tightens, coiling into itself as I find the pinnacle of my pleasure. I cry out his name, “Vincent!”

The electric waves shoot through my body until I’m trembling. I collapse back on the bed. Vincent crawls his way over me, his mouth kissing my neck, making its way higher until he meets my lips, my taste transferring to my tongue.

His hands disappear to his waist as he unbuckles his belt, unbuttoning his pants and freeing his cock. He slides it into me, my slick heat willing, wanting, ready and soft and supple after the orgasm he’s given me.

His hands press into the bed on either side of my face. His gaze burns into mine as he moves his hip, the head of his cock finding my slick entrance. He pauses, teasing me with the head of his cock, his eyes telling me—he owns me.

And I don’t even fucking care.

I want him to.

I want him to own me, to possess my body.

I beg. “Please.”

With one powerful thrust, he buries himself inside of me.

And I’ve never felt more whole. My hips rise, meeting his, pushing him further into me. I grab his shoulders. My fingernails dig into his flesh. I hope I leave marks.

He breaks eye contact, nuzzling his head into the crook of my neck. Kissing and licking that delicate spot that drives me wild. He thrusts again, slowly, deliberately, o ering pleasure at the pace he’s chosen.

I want more. I want it harder, faster.

I grab his hips, pulling him into me.

He stops.

Those dark eyes slowly raise to meet mine. “You want it rougher, my Bella?”

I want to answer but suddenly my brazenness catches in my throat. I can’t answer him and instead I find my teeth sinking into my lip. He doesn’t need to hear my words to know what I want.

With strong hands, he grabs me, flipping me over. Brings me up onto my knees. My face buries into the pillow.

He takes my hips in his hands, kneeling behind me. The head of his cock pressed against me and then...

With one low growl, he thrusts inside of me. My ass in the air, my face in the pillow, I bury my shame as I beg for more.

“Yes, rougher.”

He delivers.

He’s sliding in and out of me, hard and fast, pummeling me, his thighs pounding against mine until I can think of nothing other than the feeling of him inside me. Another climax begins to grow as my pussy tightens, clenching around his cock.

He slaps my ass as he fucks me. Hard, and it echoes through the room. “You like that? You like it rough?”

“Yes.” I fucking love it.

“You like to be my naughty girl? So bad, wanting to be fucked, to have your ass slapped, to have your hair pulled?”

He gathers my locks, winding them around his hand and yanks my head back.

He leans over me, the heat from his chest pressed against my back. His breath is hot in my ear. “Are you my naughty girl?”

“Yes.” And I am. “Fuck me.”

He pulls my hair. Reaches around my ribcage and cups my breasts. Pinches my nipples. Fucking me harder and faster as he does.

Perspiration dots my brow. My limbs feel weak, my breasts heavy. I pant as I take every thrust he o ers me. My core tightens. The orgasm hits before I’m ready, robbing the breath from my lungs. Stealing his name from my tongue.

His fingers dig into my hips. He gives a growl, reaching his own orgasm. His hot seed fills me. My sex clenches around him, milking him for the last drops of his seed. He collapses over my back, our damp skin pressed together.

He gives me a soft look, a long gaze, pushing my hair back from my face and kissing my earlobe, my cheek. He climbs o me, pulling out. He collapses on the bed beside me.

I lie down, lost in my thoughts.

He kisses me, and falls asleep.

Leaving me an open opportunity to study my husband close up. It’s the first night we’ve shared a bed, a room.

He’s never slept with me, he’s never stayed.

I lie on my side, taking in his face under the moonlight that streams through the darkened window.

He looks like an angel.

That bone structure, those dark, full locks of hair, one strand lying over his arched brow. A nose sculpted by the Gods of Rome.

Or is he a devil?

I’m so confused. One minute I loathe him, the next I want nothing more than to have him inside me. I hate him, then I find myself softening toward him.

What’s wrong with me?

What’s wrong with him?

And why do I find myself curling into his side? I snuggle down beside him. In his sleep, he gives a moan, his arm wrapping around my shoulder. Pulling me into him. Curving his body around me like a crescent moon.

I drift away, dreaming of his face, his dark eyes. The way he looks at Esme with a mix of fear and untainted love, like a father looks at his child. The way his jaw muscles tense when Sophia’s giving him a hard time, but there’s a soft smile in his eyes.

The way he looked as me tonight, just before he pulled out.

Like I am more to him than just a prize he’s won.

I wake in his arms, his body still curved around mine. His breaths come in heavy, even pulls. But he’s not sleeping. I can sense his gaze on my face.

I turn over my shoulder, to find him staring at me.

“Good morning, my Bella.” He leans down, gently kissing my lips.

And something inside me shifts.

I find myself wanting his touch, more of his kisses, but the desire doesn’t come from that dark place of lust and desire. It comes from wanting something simple, something pure.

I long only to be close to him.

To connect with him.

I find the thought unsettling.

He is a monster, right? A beast.

But now his fingertips are stroking the back of my arm.

He’s kissing me so tenderly.

Do we have a chance at happiness?

8

V

incent

W E SPEND our forty-eight hour prison sentence playing board games. Eating soup Sophia made and bread Esme baked for us. We drink wine by the fire.

And we laugh.

When Felicity laughs, her whole face lights up, enhancing her beauty.

She’s as lovely a bride as my grandfather said she would be.

Only my feelings for my wife have grown so large, they loom over me, almost making me feel guilty of how I came to be her husband.

Ricardo Russo, my grandfather, was a powerful man. He was raised in the village my castle overlooks, his father a prominent government o cial in Rome. When he was in his twenties, he was betrothed to a dark haired beauty of his own: Esmeralda Bianchi.

The marriage was arranged, the two set to wed. When he met her for the first time, he knew he was in love, falling for

her before the ceremony even took place.

Days before the wedding, Esmerelda broke it o , running away to America and eloping with her lover. Her family was disgraced. My grandfather, humiliated.

The village got wrapped up in the drama of the story, leading to the creation of a song, a ballad about his broken heart that children sang in the play yards of the schoolhouse.

He married a widow, and together they had a few children, but it was more a marriage of convenience. Though the two respected one another, there was no deep love there.

And in his eighty years of life, he never lived down Esmerelda’s rejection.

My grandfather, like me, did not like to lose.

Felicity is Esmerelda’s granddaughter.

And so, he proclaimed her the perfect bride for me. And through his grandson’s marriage, he would avenge his own broken heart.

Days before my grandfather died, he asked me to go to Felicity’s father’s store to arrange the marriage. He told me our union would let his aching body rest comfortably in the ground, knowing I’d avenged his broken heart. The day after I made the arrangements, he passed in his sleep, a soft smile on his lips.

Should I tell her of my grandfather? Does she have a right to know she’s a revenge bride, meant to pay a debt deeper than money, to the Russo family?

I feel lighter, the muscles in my shoulders less tense, spending this time with her. The second evening, Felicity and I once again share a bed. She nuzzles into my side and I find I can’t keep my hands o her body.

I kiss her lips. She winds her arms around my neck.

Spreading her legs. Welcoming me. Afterward, I hold her as she sleeps, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. As I

drift o , I find myself pulling her in tighter to me, as if I’m afraid she will disappear into the night.

When the shield comes down, the work begins.

As eager as I am to view the Bachman’s arms storage, I find I don’t want to leave Felicity. But she’ll be safer here in Alec’s protection.

My gaze flits to Esme. She’s supposed to be clearing up the breakfast dishes, but she’s been wiping the same plate for ten minutes, making eyes at Alec as he programs the black box on the wall.

Rockland’s men are due to pick me up any moment. I pull Alec aside.

My fingers grip into his bicep as I lower my voice. “Keep an eye on Esme, but touch her and you’re a dead man. I know she enjoys flirting, but she’s not for you and if you so much as lay a finger on her, there will be a war between our families. Is that understood?”

“Understood.” He gives me a wide-eyed gaze and a nod.

“But know that I take my job as a Bachman bodyguard seriously. I would never touch a guest of Rockland’s. You have my word.”

I hold his gaze, judging his sincerity. Satisfied, I release him.

Felicity is at the table, playing cards and drinking tea with Sophia. She tosses her head back, laughing at something Sophia’s said and the sound of her laughter strikes my heart.

I don’t want to miss even a moment with her.

I call her to me before I leave. “Felicity. Come here.”

Hearing my cool tone, she looks over, slightly wary of me.

But she obeys.

I take her in my arms, sliding a hand into her hair, bringing her ear to my mouth. “Do not take one step outside of this house unless you want my belt striping your ass.”

A little shiver runs through her and it makes my cock twitch in my trousers as I hold her closer to me.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.” She speaks with sass as if to hold some shred of control.

I won’t have it. She’s too important to me. I have to know she will obey. I slide my hand down to her neck, cupping it with gentle pressure. “Do not leave this house. Do you understand? Yes, sir?”

She gives a little gasp. “Yes, sir.”

I pull her to me, kissing her lips, hard and punishing, thrusting my tongue between her lips, claiming her as mine.

I release her, enjoying the flush in her cheeks. The shine in her eyes. She turns to leave me without a goodbye.

At the last moment, she changes her mind, turning back to me. She comes, placing a hand on my shoulder and stretching up on the tips of her toes to brush her lips against my cheek. “Be safe.” She returns to her card game.

Leaving my heart expanding in my chest.

Rockland and I investigate their armory. True to his word, he shares his secrets. I push just a bit more and extend our tour into a shopping spree. He’s more than generous and before we finish our day, we have made a half million dollar purchase from him, with crates packed and ready to ship to Italy. Within a few weeks, the Russo family will have a store of arms below our castle. I’m grateful for the partnership.

I show my gratitude, in gold.

When the sun sets and my workday is done, I’m eager to return to Felicity. I reach the house to find the women safe and happy, doing one another’s hair and makeup as they prepare for the evening. I greet Felicity with a kiss, then leave them so I can shower and dress in the black tux I brought for the occasion. The Bachmans share the Russo’s deep love of entertaining and tonight, they’re hosting a black

tie event, dinner and dancing, to welcome us and to return the hospitality from when we hosted them at our castle.

We enter the white stone mansion, greeted by flocks of women, surrounding us in a cloud of perfume: The Beauties.

They’re aptly named, a dizzying array of flawlessly polished women, dressed in couture that’s been tailored to fit their curves perfectly.

And yet…

It this sea of elegant faces, only one catches my eye.

My wife’s.

Felicity’s beautiful golden green eyes sparkle, her cheeks pink from the excitement of the evening. She wears a deep blue gown, cut low across her chest. The silky material hugs her sublime curves. The color is stunning on her, enhanced by her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders. My chest wells with pride as I link my arm around hers.

The women tear her away too soon, to whisper and gossip, wanting to get to know the queen of the Russo family. I join Rockland and our men on the veranda for cigars and bourbon.

Even I must admit the Bachmans ability to throw a memorable soiree rivals our own. Waitsta dressed in black carry trays of cut crystal flutes of Cristal. Others serve delightful morsels of seasoned seafood from paper napkins, the flavors bursting in your mouth. The breeze o the ocean caressing your skin.

An orchestra has been flown in for the evening, providing classical music for dancing.

Handsome couples twirl across the floor.

I want to dance with my bride.

Scanning the room for her, I find her in a quiet corner, whispering with Esme. They cover their mouths with their hands, giggling at their conversation. I cross the room to them.

I interrupt their conversation with the clearing of my throat. “Good evening, ladies. Are you having a nice time?”

“Oh, yes! I was just telling Felicity it was everything I dreamed it would be.” Esme looks up to me with an evertrusting gaze, smiling openly at me.

My wife gazes at me with her perpetually suspicious look.

As if she hasn’t quite figured out where she stands with me, or how I feel about her. “Hello, Vincent.”

“May I have this dance?” I hold my hand out to her. An o ering of my a ection.

Esme covers her mouth, letting out a giggle. A look crosses Felicities face, one I can’t quite read, a flash somewhere between uncertainty and desire.

“Of course, husband.” She places her hand in mine. It’s warm. As she rises from her seat, a hint of her perfume reaches me. It’s not one I’ve purchased for her, but one I am familiar with.

She wore it that afternoon I went to her father’s shop to make the arrangements for her hand.

It makes me feel…nostalgic.

It makes me remember the very first time I laid eyes on her. I push the memory from my mind.

I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her body close to mine.

Twine my fingers into hers.

As we glide across the floor, I don’t miss the flush in her cheeks, the peak of her nipple beneath the thin silk of her dress.

She wants me as I want her.

I must have her. Now. I still our bodies, my hand slipping from her lower back.

“Come.” I take her hand, leading her from the hall.

“Where?” She glances over her shoulder as we leave the room to see if anyone watches us as we leave. “Where are we

going?”

“To the ocean.” We step out into the star filled night, the salty breeze caressing our faces. She kicks o her heels. I slip o my shoes. Hand in hand, we walk barefoot across the white, moonlit sand.

The music floats into the night, through the opened doors of the balconies.

Our own private dance floor.

I take her in my arms, the moonlight glinting o the waves of the ocean as our backdrop. And we dance.

I study the curves of her face, the light in her eyes. Her full lips call to me, tempting me. I lean down to kiss her.

Her eyes close and she accepts my intrusion. Kissing me back.

There’s an unfamiliar energy that passes between us.

Lust, desire, those are always there when we touch. But now, in this kiss, there’s something more.

Something that feels like trust.

Almost like…love.

It’s too much. I pull away. Her gaze rises to meet mine.

She wants more.

Dare I dive into this moment, further giving her my heart, my soul? Risk losing this battle?

One that suddenly feels like I’m only fighting against myself.

I want her in a way I’ve never wanted another woman before. I want my soul twined to hers, I want to be the first thing on her mind in the morning, my name the last word on her lips at night. Am I foolish, to think like this?

Am I growing soft?

Or am I simply a man who’s realized he’s been blessed with the most extraordinary woman for his wife? I decide it doesn’t matter. We are here in this moment and I’m going to give into it. I slide my hand behind her head, pulling her

close. I kiss her again, this time with urgency, my tongue tasting her. Wanting all of her.

Our bodies tangled, we move to the cover of fallen tree, an enormous trunk of driftwood separating us from the mansion full of people, lying in the sand in our fine clothing.

“I need you. Now.” I kiss her neck, the tops of her breasts.

I grab at the material of her dress, tugging it upward over her smooth thighs.

Her hands are in my hair, fingernails running down my back. Her gaze catches mine. “I need you, too.”

I cover her mouth with mine, kissing our words away. I find the waistband of her silk thong, tug it down and out of the way. She lifts her legs, ridding herself of them.

Gliding beneath her dress. I slide my hand over the soft smooth skin of her belly. She trembles beneath my touch. I inch lower, lower. She lets out a sigh as I slip my fingers into her.

Her sex is slick with arousal. I pleasure her, slowly trailing circles around her swollen bud with my lubricated fingertip. My tongue makes the same motion in her mouth.

Connecting me to her in both places.

But now, now I need to be inside of her. I break our kiss only just long enough to free my cock from my trousers. I slide my hands beneath her bare buttocks. Her legs spread for me.

When I enter her, it’s with more than desire for climax.

For more than just release.

It’s with the intention of connecting myself to her. Of entwining our souls along with our bodies.

Of becoming one.

I hold her gaze as I enter her. Moving slowly, filling her with me. Letting her feel every inch as our bodies meld.

“I…I didn’t know I could feel this way…” Her words trail o as tears form in the corners of her eyes. She goes to wipe

them away, to hide them from me.

“Neither did I.” I want all of her. Pushing her hand away, I lean down, collecting her tears with my kisses. Those tears were for me, they are mine.

I move to her mouth, sharing the salty taste between us.

Our bodies rock together, grains of sand covering our clothes, clinging to our damp skin.

We come together, holding tight to one another.

Leaving me feeling more grounded than ever, yet shaken to my core.

Leaving me with the desperate knowledge that I’m falling, hard, for this woman.

My wife.

The rest of the week is a whirlwind. I rise early, joining Rockland and making arrangement for the shipments of arms to be sent to Italy. The evenings are spent dining and drinking and dancing, then Felicity and I tangled in our bed, her falling asleep in my arms.

I take our last day to relax with my bride, joining Felicity on the Bachman’s yacht, the Aphrodite, for a day of yachting and swimming.

I’m getting ready to change into my trunks, but first I want to kiss my bride good morning.

I run into Sophia, ask her where I can find my wife. She gives me a look over the top of her glasses. “She’s on the sundeck. You’re not going to like it.” She scurries away before I can question her.

Uneasiness settles in my gut. Sophia knows me well, better than anyone. What am I not going to like? I reach the top of the stairs. And spot Felicity.

All of Felicity.

Her tanned body lays out over the chaise.

She’s wearing a tiny black string bikini. Her curves exposed. For every man here to see.

Some of the younger, single Bachman brothers who haven’t yet learned the danger of staring at another man’s wife are leaning against the railing. Their casual gazes dance over her toned legs. The swell of her proud breasts.

Fury rises in my chest.

“Get the hell out of here.” I brush roughly past them, dismissing them. “Don’t you have work to do?” They scatter.

I’m over to her in two strides.

Grabbing her hand, I tug her from the chaise where she lounges. “Come with me. Wife.”

“Oomph! What are you doing?” She’s taken o her sunglasses, swatting at me with them as I pull her through the main salon of the boat. “Vincent, what has gotten into you?”

I’ve got her halfway to our room before I respond.

Tugging her into a private cove in the hall, I grab her chin, bringing her face inches from mine. My words are venom.

“What’s gotten into me?”

“What the fuck, Vincent? What’s got you acting like more of an asshole than usual?” She holds my gaze. She doesn’t back down.

Not yet.

But I’ll make sure she does.

She gives me a little swat on my shoulder. “Yes. That’s what I said.”

I slip the tip of my finger beneath the thin, barely-there strap that holds her top on. “This is what’s gotten into me.

What do you call this—thing—you wear?”

“It’s called a bikini, Vincent. It was a gift. Hannah brought it for me from their store in New York. Daughtry’s Clothing.”

“I call it a silly scrap of fabric.” I snap the string. Take my finger and follow it down to the small triangle that barely covers her full breast. Run my fingertip over the silky fabric.

Feel the hard nub of her rousing nipple under my flesh. “And my opinion is the only one that matters.”

“How dare you—” I cut her words o , taking her sensitive bud between my forefinger and thumb, giving it a hard squeeze. She gives a gasp, shock and a hint of desire flash in her eyes.

The desire is quickly overcome with anger. “You’re an asshole, Vincent Russo.”

She tries to leave. I grab her shoulder, pinning her to the wall. “Call me another name and you’ll find yourself over my lap, getting a taste of my belt.”

“You are— “ “Careful, my Bella.” My hand slides down her belly. Over her silky bikini bottoms. Cupping her mound in my palm.

“Or my leather will be striping your ass.”

“You are,” she fights me with every breath, finishing her foolish declaration, “An. Ass.” “You were warned.” I grab her hand, tug her down the hall, into our room, slamming the door behind her. I’m over to our bed in two long strides. She fights me, clawing and shrieking, but I easily overpower her. “Time for you to feel your husband’s belt across your ass.”

I sit down on the bed, pulling my conquest over my lap.

Her legs kick. I spread my thighs, locking her legs against me with one of my own. Her hands swat at me. I take them, circling her wrists and clamping them in the cu of one of my hands.

I pin them to her lower back. Just above the waistline of that ridiculous suit. It’s cut high in the back to show o the glorious curves of her ass.

It’s cut to draw the eye to her body. “What you’ve put on display today is for my eyes only.” With one tug, I’ve undone the strings that meet at the center of her back and neck.

Her chest pushed into the bed, she struggles to turn to face me. “I’ll wear what I want. You don’t own me.”

“Contrary to your modern feminist beliefs, I am your husband. Your body is for my eyes only. Did you not vow to obey me?” I bring my hand down on her ass, hard and true, giving it a perfect stinging smack.

“Ow! That is not what being a husband means, telling your wife what she can wear. Not at all!”

“To me it does and in this marriage, that’s the only interpretation we need.” I give her ass another smack. Her hips wriggle to get away. I’ve got her locked tight, though— she’s got no chance.

She gives a squeak of protest. “Didn’t you promise to care for me? I hardly call this caring for your woman.”

“This is how I care for my woman. Punishing her when she chooses to disobey me.” I give her ass another smack.

She howls in pain and anger. “You never said I couldn’t wear a bikini!”

“I shouldn’t have to. Look at this thing. I can see everything in it. The outline of your nipples. The cleft of your ass.” I run a finger down the crease of her buttocks, sliding over the silky material.

She lets out a low moan.

I give her ass several more hard spanks. Right, then left, leaving a red handprint on the curves of skin that’s exposed.

Curves that will not make another public reappearance. I tug the suit down, moving my vise-like leg only long enough to pull them down to her knees, exposing her bare bottom.

“Vincent! Don’t!”

I run a hand over her smooth skin. It’s warm to the touch where I’ve left my mark. I raise my hand, pause in the air, hovering just over her bottom. “Tell me you won’t wear such a thing again, unless its intended for my pleasure, and mine alone.”

Her voice is a whimper. “I just thought it was cute. I wanted a tan—” “Wrong answer.” I bring my hand down, spanking her ass.

She lets out another moan. I spank her again. And again.

She wriggles and fights against me.

She’s not yet convinced of who’s in charge here.

Time for my belt.

“I’m going to release your wrists. Unpin your leg. And you’re going to lay your beautiful, naked body over the edge of this bed and take my belt.”

“Like hell I will!” She tugs her arms.

Leaning down, I bring my mouth by her ear. “You will. Or I’ll take you back out to the sundeck, and do it there.”

She freezes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

“But…that’s making the opposite of your point. You don’t want others to see my ass but you’re willing to publicly spank me on the bare?”

“If you insist on showing o what’s only mine, I’ll allow it. But on my terms. With your curves over my lap on the sundeck, being striped by my belt. All eyes on you. The choice is yours.”

Her limbs freeze. She quiet, thinking. Deciding if she’s going to obey, or try me.

She chooses obedience. “Fine.”

“Good girl. But lose the sass.” I splay my hand on her pink ass, letting it rest there while I wait for my answer.

“Fine.”

I give her ass a pat. “You mean, yes sir, please punish me in the privacy of our room?”

She heaves a little sigh of surrender. “Please. Punish me here.”

I let her go.

She stands. As she does, the top I’ve untied flutters to the floor. She brings her hands to her bare breasts, trying to hide them from my sight.

I grab her hand to stop her. “No. Let me see.”

She stands, her face as pink as her ass, hand at her sides, shame in her eyes, as she watches me take her in.

Her breasts have a faint line of tan around them, making white triangles on her creamy skin. Her pink nipples stand proud. Wanting.

The bikini bottoms slide to the floor. She steps out of them, leaving them on the carpet. Holding my gaze, she crawls over the bed. Bends at the waist, her ass rising in the air over the edge. Slowly lays her upper body down on the bed next to me. Giving me a show.

Saucy little minx.

Leaving the bed, I stand behind her. Enjoy the tension in her muscles at the sound of my unbuckling belt. The timid glance over her shoulder at the swoosh of the leather as it leaves the loops of my trousers.

I fold the belt in half, raise it in the air, and bring it down across the lower curve of her ass. She gives a cry that makes my cock harden in my trousers. A red line rises on her skin.

Marking what’s mine.

I raise the belt, bringing it down again, this stripe just above the last. Then one more, just below it.

She’s shrieking like a cat when I slide the belt over her ass. “I’m sorry, okay! I get it! No more bikinis.”

She’s had enough. She’s learned her lesson.

I grab her hand, tugging her body from the bed. She trips behind me as I pull her across the room. Holding her shoulders, I face her toward me. “No more anything that shows the places I’ve marked. Look over your shoulder.”

She turns, seeing her reflection in the full length mirror I’ve brought her to. My handprint, lines from my belt, have

reddened the lower parts of her curves, skin not covered by her skimpy suit.

She sni s. “Thanks for the visual.”

“Still sassy? Need another taste of my belt?” I grab her upper arm, ready to take her back to the bed for more.

She shakes her head, bites her lip. “No. Sir.” Her soft words have my cock straining uncomfortably against the restriction of my pants. I have to have her.

Now.

9

F I

elicity

SHOULD SLAP HIM .

Scream at him. Tell him to go to hell.

Instead, I find the warmth from my ass creeping between my thighs, my pussy damp with arousal.

I love how jealous he is, how possessive he is of my body.

The way he doesn’t want another man to lay eyes on me.

It fucking turns me on.

And I fucking loved the leather of his belt biting into my flesh.

I stare in the mirror and I love his marks on my skin.

He grabs me, pulling me into him. One hand smooths down my naked back, sliding over the hot flesh of my ass where he’s punished me.

The other slips between my thighs. “My Bella. So wet for me.”

And his mouth is on mine. Kissing me, hard, as his fingers clutch my ass, adding to the burn that’s already there.

His tongue invades my mouth as he sinks a finger inside of me.

He gives my ass a hard slap.

Tugs me over to an upholstered, armless chair. He slides into it, eyeing me hungrily as he undoes his pants, freeing his cock.

It stands, hard and ready, the head glistening eagerly. He flashes me a wicked grin. “Have a seat, my princess.”

I hover for a moment, my soul as bare as my body. He grabs my hand, gives me a tug.

He’s in no mood to wait.

Grabbing the back of the chair, one hand on either side above his shoulders, I straddle his lap. His hands go to my ass, pulling me closer.

They move to my hips, digging into my flesh. Guiding my slick, ready entrance over his cock.

He brings me down with one, hard pull.

“Ah!” My head lolls back, my eyes closing as I sit on his cock. It fills me, stretching me to accommodate its full length and girth.

He cups my breasts, kissing the tops of them. In between kisses, he murmurs, “My Bella. The beautiful breasts of my Bella. For my eyes only.”

When he pulls away, and meets my eyes, there’s a flash of wickedness in his pupils. I look down to find purple marks, bruises made by his lips, along the top swell of my breasts.

“Vincent!” I swat at his shoulder. I want to chastise him further, but my words are lost as he raises his hips, burying his cock further inside of me. “Oh, my. God.” I’m on top. I’m the one in control.

Right?

Wrong.

He grabs my hips, bucking against me. In and out, up and down, harder and faster until all I can do is sit there like a

limp ragdoll, all my attentions focused on the brutal pounding inside my core.

I lean my head down, resting my forehead on his shoulder, biting the collar of his shirt to hold in my screams.

My fingers wrap tighter around the wood frame of the top of the chair, my palms beginning to sweat as I hold on for dear life. My breasts are sore where he’s marked my flesh.

My ass stings from the spanking as it slaps against his thighs.

“Take me, Bella. Take all of me.”

My pussy clenches around his cock, taking the friction, the pounding. My core tightens, a powerful orgasm building at his command.

“Now, come.”

His growl is an order. One I will obey.

My head flies back. A deep moan escapes me. I clamp down on his member and come, hard, a burst of light flashing behind my shut tight lids.

But he doesn’t relent.

He keeps fucking me.

I come again, my body tightening around his, then releasing.

His hands go to my shoulders, pressing my body down, harder onto his cock. He gives his own moan of victory and I feel his body tense, I feel his hot seed burst into me.

I collapse against him, shuddering. He smooths his hands over my back. “Bella, my Bella.”

I kiss him, his fingers combing my damp hair back from my face. When I pull away, he cups my face in his hands.

“Now, go find something more appropriate to wear.”

After cleaning up, I dig through the suitcase Sophia and Esme packed for me back at the castle. I toss suit after suit to the side.

Nothing will completely cover the red marks that are surely still angry and red across my ass.

In the very bottom of the case, I find a modest, vintage style one-piece. It has a high neckline and a ru ed skirt attached to it.

Definitely Sophia’s doing. She’s old fashioned and a firm believer in modest clothing. I’ve heard her muttering all over this island about how indecently the Beauties dress.

Vincent bought all my clothing, but Sophia did all my packing. I’ve no doubt she picked this little number from my closet.

It’s my only choice. Hastily, I try it on. Do a little twirl in the mirror. Huh. Not bad.

A little shy, I step out of the bathroom. Vincent sits, waiting for me on the chair we just fucked on, the smooth tanned muscles of his chest bare beneath his unbuttoned linen shirt.

“Ah. The red one. I had fun picking that out for you.”

“How did you know my size, before I came? How did you manage to buy all these clothes for me—" “You know I have armies of people. Now, let’s go enjoy the sun. You look lovely.”

He stands. I walk over to join him, linking my arm with his. Just as we walk over the threshold of our room, he reaches over, flipping up the skirt of the suit.

Taking a peek at my red ass.

“Beautiful.” He gives me a wink that makes my chest warm. “And all mine.”

We spend the day jumping o the side of the yacht.

Swimming in the turquoise waters. Sipping champagne and dining on fresh seafoods and salads.

My only worry is keeping my skirt in place, so no one gets a look at the stripes on my punished ass.

The day is perfection. I fall into bed that night, my skin sun-kissed, my belly full, my limbs tired. As Vincent sleeps beside me, I think of how full my life has become. Travel to exciting places, elaborate dinners and parties, meeting interesting people.

And I’m never alone.

Vincent, Sophia, and Esme feel like family.

Until now, I didn’t realize how bored and lonely I’d become, spending every waking moment working the store, my only company my father and his old man friends who’d play checkers with him in the back storeroom. How I longed for travel, for new experiences.

Tomorrow, back to the castle.

Back home.

My home.

I’m eager to be back to the place I belong. Still, the following morning, I find it di cult to say goodbye to the Parrish, especially to Hannah. She’s down to earth and kind, with a dry sense of humor.

I promise the Beauties I’ll be back.

I don’t miss the goodbye kiss Esme plants on Alec’s cheek. Or the rage I see in Vincent at the gesture. I’ll have a chat with Esme about discretion, and kissing boys.

After an easy flight, we arrive in Italy. Our car takes us back to the castle. We drive right through the village, past my father’s store.

I say nothing, but watch with happy eyes. The red and white awning has been changed out with a fresh one. The hanging letters of the store name have been replaced with shiny new black ones.

There’s a line clear out to the sidewalk.

Vincent’s doing?

He’s seated beside me and I give him a glance, but he’s busy reading something on his phone. I go to look away and

just catch the smallest of smiles on his face from the side of my gaze.

Of course it was him.

I blow my father a kiss as we pass by. Then, I lean over and kiss Vincent’s cheek. “Thank you.”

When we reach our drive and the castle comes into view, my breath catches in my chest.

It’s beautiful, and every time I see it, I will remember just how lucky I am to live here.

Coming back here, now, is nothing like when I’d first arrived, being whisked from my father’s store in a storm cloud of rage and tears. With Esme and Sophia by my side, and Vincent leading me toward the big wooden doors, I know I’m where I’m supposed to be.

Something changed on this trip. A monumental shift occurred between us. An awakening of who he truly is, who I am.

And now, I only feel complete when I am with him.

It makes my mind spin, my heart dizzy, if I dwell on the suddenness of the change too long.

So I don’t.

Servants open the doors for us as we climb the wide stone staircase. Vincent pauses as we reach the top. I look up at him, curious as to why he stands there, staring at me. An almost smile plays on his lips.

He reaches out and swoops me up into his arms. “I guess that was our honeymoon, so I must properly carry my bride over the threshold of our home on our return.”

A surprised laugh bubbles up in my chest at his lightness, his happiness. I wind my arms around his neck as he carries me over the threshold into the castle.

He sets me down gently on my feet, leaving me with a soft, parting kiss. “I’ve got to go to work and check in with

my men. I hate being away and out of control even for a moment.”

I give a laugh. “You? Not liking being out of control?

Never.”

He gives my ass a playful swat. “You have work of your own to do, wife.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to decorate this castle. It needs a woman’s touch. And now that you are the queen of the house, it falls to you. It should be in your style.”

“Style?” I think of my father’s sparse home. No money for frivolities. The most beautiful thing we owned was the vase Vincent gave me. “I’m afraid I don’t have the first idea how to decorate.”

“You’ll learn. And if you don’t, then Esme will finally have her way.” He gives a nod gesturing over my shoulder.

Behind me, Esme stands with her hands clasped, her dark eyes wide and shining. “Oh please, Felicity. Let me help you!

I’ve been telling him for years we need some pretty things around here. Soft pink walls and flowers and gold gilded mirrors.”

I give a laugh at Esme’s eagerness. “You can help. But no pink. I can’t picture Vincent in a pink house.”

“Come with me.” Esme grabs my hand pulling me in the direction of the hall. “I have so many ideas for the Great Hall.”

We leave Vincent. A smile playing at his lips. A wistful look in his eyes.

The next few days pass like hours, they’re so full of festivities, decorating. Esme has me redoing every room, ordering plush carpets from Portugal, floral patterned china from England. Soft landscape paintings from local artists.

Vincent is busy during the day with his work, leaving me to familiarize myself with the running of the home. We have

servants, gardeners, drivers. All of whom Sophia keeps a steady eye on.

But I sense her fatigue. I send her to nap in her floral armchair in a sunny corner of the library in the afternoons.

Take her tea when she wakes.

I can remove the burden from her shoulders. I just need time to learn it all. And I have a happy helper in Esme.

No matter how much business Vincent has to attend to, he makes time to dine with me every evening. We sit across from one another, candles lit between us. He listens when I speak of my day. Thanks me for what I’ve done.

There’s a happy peace between us. One that turns to a deep well of desire as the moon rises in the sky.

We’ve yet to fall asleep together in the same bed since our trip.

But every night I find him crawling into my bed after midnight. Or, if he doesn’t, I enter his room at the break of day. We hold onto one another, rocking our bodies together until we are calling each other’s names. Then, we fall asleep, satiated.

Though we’ve found this new peace, this way of being, he’s still the one in charge.

He shows me, every day, in little ways.

What I wear, what I say, how I respond to him—these are all things up for his correction. His hand, his belt, they find my ass. His grasp cups my chin. His harsh words tell me of his displeasure.

And every time, every single time, I submit to him.

I tell him, Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I understand, sir.

My pussy getting slicker with each exchange.

He’s mastered my body, owns my pleasure, has earned my submission.

And now, I am fully his.

When he passes me in the hall, patting my ass, I warm.

When he calls my full name, raising his brow, Felicity Russo, I find myself relenting, behaving, and trembling with desire.

When he takes me, hard and fast until pain melds with pleasure and I can no longer decipher the di erence between the two, I become who I was born to be.

Felicity. Russo.

The queen of the castle. The wife of the king.

Willingly, his plaything.

When I walk through the halls, commanding the sta (gently), I feel I’ve finally come into my own. When I ride the waves of pleasure beneath his body, I feel I’ve found myself.

Everything is almost perfect.

Only one thing is missing.

My father.

I choose this evening, when the sta are serving his favorite, filet mignon, to broach the subject of me going to the village for a visit.

I pour him a generous glass of his beloved Merlot.

“Vincent, I’ve been thinking. I’d like to go to the village. To visit the people. My father.”

He holds his glass in the air, pausing mid-sip. He puts the glass down. Dabs his mouth with his napkin. Focuses his dark eyes on mine. “Absolutely not.”

His voice is cold. Commanding.

My spine sti ens. “Why not?”

“It’s not safe.”

“Send your men with me.”

“No.” “Then…let my father come here.”

“Fine. But he comes alone.” My husband’s raised brows end the conversation.

And I understand. This is love, to him, a battle. And as long as he wins, I win. So, I accept his answer, and I smile.

“Thank you.”

My father arrives the very next day. Plump and happy, with pink cheeks and a wide grin. He’s healthy and well—all thanks to Vincent.

“Felicity! My darling. How good it is to see you.” He takes my face in his hands, kissing both my cheeks as is his family’s custom.

“Dad. I’m happy to see you so well. How’s the store?”

“We’re selling more than ever. I guess you becoming the queen of the land brought an ounce of fame to our little store you used to work in. Everyone wants a piece of your story.”

I find myself wondering if I miss those days, or the store.

I do not.

I want to be here. To be the mistress of the castle. To have Esme and Sophia by my side by day. Vincent in my bed at night.

But, I do miss my father.

The servants pour wine, slide seconds onto his plate. He laughs and jokes, even managing to pull a smile from my husband’s lips.

I watch my father, from my seat across from him. He is fun, and funny. Gregarious even. So why am I sitting here wondering, why did he put our family through the hell he did by squandering our money away gambling?

But I forgive him, I let it go. I’m learning—if you truly want to be happy—some things are best left in the past.

Instead, I focus on how handsome Vincent looks tonight.

How hard he’s trying to be a polite host to my silly father.

How he keeps glancing over at me.

To see if I’m happy.

And, I am.

When the evening ends, and the driver pulls up to the stone carriage house to collect my father, there are no tears in my eyes.

I love my father, but I belong here. I belong to Vincent.

I hug my dad. Hold him. Whisper in his ear how much I love him.

And then, I let him go.

As we watch the car leave, Vincent wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me into him and kissing my cheek.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Bella.”

“Me too.” I couldn’t be happier, more at peace.

Later that night, as Sophia is helping me out of my gown, she does something that turns my world on edge.

She’s tired. I’ve told her I can manage, that she should go to bed. But she insisted. Told me that this gown will be ruined if it’s not hung up just so.

As she helps unfasten the row of buttons that runs down my back, she sings softly to herself. Interjecting whimsical remarks I think have nothing to do with me.

Then, she sings a name. One with which I’m vaguely familiar. Esmerelda Bianchi.

The same name as my grandmother.

As she unfastens, I pull the many pins from my updo.

Listening.

She tells of a beauty named Esmerelda. Of a scorned lover named Ricardo.

One whose last name happens to be Russo.

Watching her in the mirror, I grab her hand, stopping her.

“Sophia, what is that song you sing?”

She waves a strong but veined hand in the air, dismissing me. “Nothing, my love. Just nonsense.”

“But I know the woman you speak of. Esmerelda Bianchi.

That is my mother’s mother. My grandmother.”

She freezes, a look of horror lighting her eyes as she stares back at me through the mirror. “A common name. It’s nothing, my love.”

“No, Sophia. It’s not. You said in your song that she scorned a lover. That she broke the heart of a Russo.”

She pulls her hand away from mine. “No. No. You’ve mistaken me.” She shakes her head like a dog after a bath, trying to rid herself of her words like droplets of water.

“I heard you…I…” I sense her sudden fatigue, her worry.

And I drop the subject. “It’s nothing. Just a silly song. Right, Sophia?”

She rewards me with a bright smile of relief. A pat of my hand. Bidding me goodnight, she scurries away.

She leaves me. But her words don’t.

Why would she know the name of my grandmother?

And how is Esmerelda connected to the Russos?

10

V

incent

T HE BREAKFAST S OPHIA is serving this morning is my favorite.

She flutters about me, serving fresh melon, English mu ns stroked with orange marmalade. Peppered eggs over easy.

She’s more attentive than usual, calling me ‘sir’ every chance she gets.

What’s she gotten herself into?

The co ee never stops flowing.

She’s done something terrible.

When she comes round, o ering to fill my already brimming co ee cup for a third time, I grab her arm, pull her toward me and whisper into her ear. “What is it, Sophia?”

She whispers back two words. “She knows.”

Then scurries from the dining room.

I let her go and take a longer look at my wife, who sits beside me. She’s not eating much, pushing her food around her plate with the prongs of her fork. Her gaze goes from the painting above my head, back down to her plate.

She’s avoiding me.

Sophia has slipped somehow. Maybe singing that silly song the village made up about my grandfather? The one detailing the story of the broken marriage arrangement.

It was never part of my plan to share that information with her. Especially now that I think…that I might be…falling for her.

I lay my fork and knife down, blade turned in across my plate. Sip from my co ee. Dab my lips with the cloth napkin in my lap. “Wife. You’re not eating. What troubles you?”

She startles, as if she’s forgotten she’s not alone. She gives an unconvincing shake of her head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Brando shows up at the door. His face is set in stone. Not a good sign. But one that tells me I need to excuse myself and tend to business matters immediately.

I push back my chair. Stand. Lean down and kiss the top of my wife’s head. “Be good. I’ll see you at dinner.”

She o ers me a tight smile.

It troubles me, this idea that Felicity knows why I’ve chosen her. But the glint in Brando’s eyes distracts me and I push my worries to the back of my mind. I’ve got more pressing matters to deal with. And no matter how she got here, no matter if she likes it or not, she’s mine.

But my gru self-speak is convincing me of my power over her less and less.

I find myself waking in the middle of the night, fearing she’s gone.

I’m weak. She’s making me weak.

Brando and I walk side by side out to the veranda behind the castle. When we’re sure we’re out of earshot from the sta , he fills me in. “We’ve got trouble, boss. The arms shipment from the Bachmans hasn’t arrived. There’s a delay.”

“Where?”

“In the middle of the ocean.”

Damn. Not good. “Trouble from our end, or theirs?”

“Ours. Turns out John Romano is suspicious of the ship.

He heard rumors of what’s on it.” He gives his head a frustrated shake.

The Romano family, our rivals, have grown wary of me.

As they should. I’ve amassed great power and wealth in a short time. “John’s always meddling in my a airs.”

“He’s keeping an eye on us, for sure.”

“So what’s the hold up?”

“Someone tipped o the government. Told them there’s a barge headed this way with possible military grade explosives and weapons.”

“And?” “We’re taking care of it.”

“Good.”

“Hawk has his inside men working with the International Trade Administration.”

I run a hand through my hair. “Let me get on a call with the Bachmans and see if there’s anything they can do on their end. In the meantime, I want the walls walked. Any sign of trespassing I want reported back to me.”

“Yes, sir.” Brando leaves me.

I enter my library. The dark wood, the smell of books, they calm my mood. I pour myself a co ee from the French press. Take a seat in a wing-back chair. And call Rockland.

He picks up on the first ring. “Vincent. Trouble in paradise?”

I give a laugh. “After visiting the Parrish, I believe it is you who lives in paradise, my friend.”

“Ah—my time is mostly spent at our Village in New York, but I enjoyed the excuse to go back. I’m sorry to hear you’ve run into problems with the shipment. Rivals?”

I heave a sigh. “Yes. Another family in the village getting involved, wanting to find out what we have coming to us. I don’t blame them; if the situation were reversed, I’d have my men all over their asses, and yet, I’ll kill them over it if I get the chance.”

“I hear that. I’ll see what I can do on our end to speed things up.”

“Thank you.”

“And take care of that lovely wife of yours. My Beauties were obsessed with her.”

“I don’t think they were the only ones with an obsession.” I think of my wife’s tan body lying over the reclining chair on the sundeck of the Aphrodite and her admirers. “I think she found admirers in some of your single Brothers.”

He gives a full laugh. “I heard you chased them away.

Good for you.”

We say our goodbyes and I sit, sipping black co ee, waiting for an update.

Minutes later, Brando appears in the doorway. One glance at his face and my stomach sinks into my leather boots.

“Sir. We’ve walked the walls. There’s an issue.”

“What have you found?”

“Tracks. Outside of the wall on the far side of the property. The soles of military grade boots.”

“Probably whoever’s holding up the arms shipment is spying on the property.” Fury rises in my chest. “How many men?”

“Ten? Maybe twelve.”

“They want to know what we’re preparing for.” Not enough to worry over yet, but worth checking into. “Signs of scouting?”

“Looks like it. Broken branches. Footprints stopping at the wall, then retreating. Seems like someone wanted to get

a good look at our night guard.”

“Did you scour?”

He gives a curt nod. “Yes. Not a camera or piece of surveillance equipment left behind that we can find.”

The last thing we need is the Romanos knowing what we’ve got coming. What we’re going to be storing here. No need to fuel our enemy’s distrust and jealousies any further.

“Come, let’s take a look.”

We walk over the clean, grassy meadow. Walk the perimeter of the wall where the tracks were found. Brando hands me a set of scanning lenses. I hold them over my eyes, gazing over our lands.

I see nothing suspicious. Whoever was here has left nothing behind but footprints. I find the idea almost more troublesome. “Show me where you found the prints.”

We exit the rear gate. Walk along the edge of the forest to where the first boot marks were found. As Brando told me, there looks to be about ten sets of prints. All going up to the wall. Then turning back to the forest.

What the hell do they want? Why were they here? I walk back and forth over the tracks. “Bring me a ladder and a set of binoculars.”

Brando brings his phone to his ear. Murmurs my commands. Moments later, several of my men come running toward me, a tall ladder in hand.

I stand in the largest set of boot prints. Ice forms in the pit of my stomach when I realize what’s in the direction I’m facing. “Put the ladder here.”

They brace it against the wall. I grab the binoculars, sling them around my neck. Climb to the top of the ladder. Hold the lenses against my eyes and confirm what I’ve already suspected.

I’m staring straight into the window of Felicity’s bedroom.

The Romanos are watching my wife.

Blood rises in my chest. Whooshes by my ear. Hot and thumping.

But why?

I climb down. Hand the binoculars to Brando. Dismiss the men.

Fuck. What would they want with her? With only Brando at my side, I begin thinking out loud. “It doesn’t make sense.

Why are they watching Felicity? She has no wealth, no connections. No power.”

“Hai torto.” Brando shakes his head. “You’re wrong.”

The first he’s ever challenged me. I take note. Find his gaze and hold it firm. “What do you mean?”

“That’s the way it is with women.” He gives a shrug.

“You care for her. Deeply. Therefore, she holds all the power.”

Am I that obvious? Have I become so smitten, to let a woman hold power over me?

He continues. “It’s not just that.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “What else?”

“When you care for someone, it creates a chink in your armor. Makes you vulnerable to your enemies.”

“How so?”

His eyes hold mine. “Because they know that you’ll do anything to keep her safe.”

They will hurt her to get to me.

I know this to be true. I knew it at the Parrish, which is why I kept her by my side. White heat flashes over my face.

My insides burn and turn to dust. I raise my hand to stroke my jaw and as I do, there’s a slight tremor in my fingers.

More signs of weakness brought on by her. Get it together, Vincent.

Give my head a shake. “We will never let that happen.”

“We’ll keep her safe.” Brando gives me a long, hard look.

Then, a tight nod. “As long as she’s in our walls, she’s safe.”

“Damn right she is. As a precaution, since someone has been here, double the night guards until we figure this thing out. And put two on her bedroom door. And a couple below her window tonight.”

“Yes, sir.” He gives a nod, leaving to do my bidding.

I leave the situation in Brando’s capable hands. I want to check on my wife.

Before Felicity, nothing distracted me from my work.

Does this…infatuation…make me weak? Always thinking of her. Worrying over her.

Yet, when she looks up at me with desire in her eyes, I feel like the strongest man in the world. Invincible.

I reach the hall, but she’s already gone. Breakfast has been cleaned up and they’re setting the table for lunch. I go to the kitchens, the second time I’ve ever been in them, looking for Sophia. She’s drinking a cup of tea at a small table in the corner, by a window.

She looks up and sees me, horror flashing in her eyes.

“Vincent! You cannot be in here. This is where the servants work. If you come here, when will I get a minute of peace?”

Flying up from her chair with more speed than I’ve seen her use in a decade, she shoos me out of the kitchen.

When we are back in the hall, she stares at me, interrogating me between gasping breaths from her exertion. “Why were you in the kitchens? Were you looking for me?”

“I want to speak with Felicity. Instead of traipsing all over the castle, I thought I’d start with you.”

She pushes her glass up further on the bridge of her nose.

“I haven’t seen her since breakfast.”

Breakfast. Esmerelda.

Sophia saying, she knows.

“Sophia. Tell me. What did you say to Felicity that had her so quiet at breakfast. What does she know?”

Pink rises in her cheeks. She smooths a flustered hand over her graying locks. “I may have been singing that silly song the village children used to sing about your grandfather.”

“The one about his lover scorning him?”

She nods. “I’m sorry. It’s so…catchy.”

“And Felicity heard you say her grandmother’s name?”

“I was tired. I wasn’t thinking.” She nods again.

“It must have upset her. To hear those things, but not be able to put the pieces together.”

Fear injects into my heart.

I am becoming weak.

I care too much for her and it’s clouding my judgement.

Creating a chink in my armor. I swallow back my fears.

“Fine. If she knows, she knows. She’s still my wife. Till death do us part.”

It’s time I tell her the truth. The whole of it. And tell her she will learn to live with it. Happily, or unhappily ever after.

I leave Sophia, heading to Felicity’s room.

I find it empty. An eerie feeling comes over me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Are my knees weak, my hands shaking? Or is that my imagination. Surely I’m not sliding into a state of panic over this. She’s probably walking the gardens.

She knows never to leave these walls without me.

Where is she?

I put out a call to my men, to the sta . I want every eye looking for her.

But I won’t wait to hear if they find her. If she’s in the walls, she’s safe.

If she’s left these walls…

I can’t bear the thought of her unprotected.

And in this terrible moment, I am faced with my true self.

I can no longer live a lie. She has made me madly, utterly, and completely weak.

Because now that she’s missing, I’ve lost my heart. The breath in my lungs. My mind, my cool, my confidence all begin to slip away.

How foolish of me to put that crown on her head. To humiliate her. To push her from me.

I’ve fallen for her, my precious wife, and now she’s in danger.

I’m going after her.

11

F

elicity

I PULL the cloak further over my hair, shielding my face. I’m elbow to elbow with the night cleaning crew. They live in the village, and come to the castle to scrub and polish while we sleep. They leave after breakfast.

They’re chatting happily, tired, well fed, and eager to be home to their beds. No one pays me any mind. I’m just one of them.

We pass by the guards at the wall. Luckily for me, the guards seem distracted this morning, harsh whispers passing between them. A few stop to listen to their watches, then disappear into the turrets.

It must have something to do with the reason why Brando came to the dining room and Vincent left breakfast so quickly. It works in my favor. I’ll be to the village and back before anyone has time to miss me.

I have to see my father. Only for a few minutes, then I’ll head right back home. I have to ask him about my grandmother. I have to know what the words in Sophia’s

song meant. And I know I’ll get no straight answers at the castle.

Our little group makes it through the gates. The soft leather soles of my boots crunch over the dry gravel road.

Boots Vincent chose for me before I arrived. Guilt edges its way into my heart, but I’ll be so fast, he won’t have time to miss me.

We disperse down di erent lanes, headed to our homes.

In my case, my father’s home. I walk quickly, but not so fast I draw attention to myself.

No one can know I’ve left the castle. If Vincent found out I’d disobeyed him, that I’d left the walls without him…a shiver runs down my spine at the thought of his anger.

Of what he might do to me.

Hiding my face is more di cult than I’d anticipated. It’s a small village and I know almost everyone by name. I keep my head down, scurrying along the lane.

Finally, I reach Main Street. Shops come into view. The crowd thickens, helping me achieve my goal of reaching my father’s store undetected.

I hurry down the back alley. Up the back stairs to our apartment over the shop. When I open the door, the familiar scent of home reaches me. Basil and lemon. I’m hit by a wave of nostalgia.

Not much has changed. I’m pleased to see he’s kept the place tidy. I check the fridge and see that he’s eating well—it looks like some of the local widows have been dropping o pastas dishes.

I’m running out of time.

There’s no way I can speak to him in the busy store. I’ve got to get him to come up here.

What would give him cause to come home? Mice. My father’s arch nemeses. We once had an infestation that

threatened to shut us down. For good reason, no one wants to buy food from a store that has a rodent problem.

Since that time, my father has become a vigilante against the furry little creatures. Going crazy at the first sign of one.

I grab the broom by the fridge. Go to the corner of the apartment where the dining table is, the space that sits directly above the cash register. Using the end of the broom, I make scritch scratching sounds against the floor.

It works.

I hear a shout. Heavy footsteps on the stairs. I have to put a hand over my mouth to hide my laughter.

“Where are you, you little pest!” My father bursts through the door, a hammer in one hand. His crazed words are cut o when he lays eyes on me. “Felicity! My love! What are you doing here?”

He tosses the hammer on the counter, rushing over to me.

He takes me into a bear hug of an embrace. It feels so good to be in his arms. He always smells the same. Of figs and cigars.

I pull back, gazing at his face. “Dad. I can’t stay long. I just wanted to check on you.”

He holds me at arm’s length. Looking me over. “You look good. Healthy. Happy. How is it that you’ve managed to leave the castle without an escort? I understand Vincent runs a tight household.”

I wave my hand through the air dismissing his concerns.

“I get out every now and again. Let’s sit.” I pull out a chair, but before I can slide in, he grabs my hand.

His blue eyes are wrought with pain. “Felicity. I’m so glad you’re here. The guilt has been weighing on me ever since you were taken to the castle. And I couldn’t tell you this when I visited, as Vincent was with you every moment, but I need to tell you now how sorry I am. I can’t believe how foolish I was, how selfish. I let my addictions lead to you having to be forced to marry a stranger. I’m so, so sorry and

I will never forgive myself, but…” Unshed tears fill his eyes, pain etching the lines of his face. “Can you ever forgive me?”

How do you forgive your father for his sins, sins that led to insurmountable debt, debt that could only be paid with your freedom?

As I gaze into his aging eyes, my only thought is how can I not forgive him? I don’t know what it means to struggle with addiction. Other than my addiction to the pleasure Vincent gives me.

Vincent…

Does it matter how I came to be with him? Or only that I am with him?

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Everything has worked itself out somehow. I give my father’s hand a squeeze. “I’m happy.”

“You’re…happy?” He looks to me with hope, as if it couldn’t be true.

But it is true. And I am happy. “I really am, Dad.” A visible weight is lifted from his shoulders as we sit at the little table in the kitchen. Two chairs as always, one for me and one for him. Now, I hope sometimes he has the company of a lady friend in my open chair. The casserole dishes in the fridge give me hope he’s not spending his nights alone.

I catch his eye. “I just wanted to see you for a second. And ask you something.”

He gives me a curious stare. “What worries you, my darling?”

“It’s just that I heard this strange song. About Esmerelda Bianchi, my grandmother. And a scorned lover. A Russo. Do you know anything about it?”

He waves his hand in the air. “Just a nursery rhyme. A silly love song.”

Why isn’t his gaze meeting mine?

“But Esmerelda Bianchi, that’s my grandmother’s name.

Surely, the song is about her.”

“A coincidence. Do you know how many Bianchis there are in Italy?” He gives a laugh. It sounds forced. “And Russo?

Such a common name. It’s just a silly song. Nothing to worry yourself over.”

His words are meant to reassure. But his gaze still refuses to meet mine. He’s hiding something. Whatever it is that Sophia didn’t want me to know, my father doesn’t either.

“But Dad. That doesn’t make sense.” I go to say more, but he’s standing up from his chair.

He holds his arms out to me. “You’re happy! You’ve said it yourself. Leave the past in the past and enjoy your future.”

Unsatisfied with his answer, I force myself to let it go.

He’s clearly uncomfortable with the topic and I’m not going to press him. I rise, going to his arms. “You’re right, Dad. What does it really matter?”

He o ers me a big smile. “Come, my love. I must go back down to the store, or those shoppers might rob me blind.

And you, my dear, you must get back to the castle before your strict husband finds you missing.”

I don’t want my dad to worry over me. “Vincent will be busy with work all day. He won’t look for me till dinner. I’ll be fine.” I kiss my father’s soft cheek.

He gives me a long stare. Then another tight hug.

Together, we leave the apartment. I hurry down the lane, avoiding the busy storefront.

I reach the road that leads to the castle. It’s noon now and everyone’s in town, or home having their midday meal. I’m alone, the only sound the gravel crunching beneath my boots.

The noise is soothing. Soon, I’m lost in thought. Trying to piece the morning together. Sophia’s song. My father’s

strange reaction to my questions. The idea that none of it matters.

Not really.

I’m pulled from my mind by the sound of more footsteps.

Many more. Not soft and careful like my own. Harsh. Heavy.

Determined. A chill runs down the back of my neck.

Who do they belong to? Vincent’s men, come to collect me? Dare I turn around?

My decision is made for me. I’m suddenly surrounded.

Four broad-shouldered men with dangerous faces circle me like wolves. Snarling.

A massive man with a shaved head and scarred face steps toward me. “She is as pretty as they’ve said.”

Ice crawls through my veins.

Another with pale skin and piercing blue eyes runs his tongue over his lips. “You should see her in her nightgown.”

Who are these men and…have they been…watching me in my bedroom? Somehow the idea is more terrifying then having them cage me on the road like this.

What can I do? What can I say?

I think of my only line of defense. My husband’s anger.

“Vincent won’t be happy that you’ve delayed me. He’s expecting me.”

The blue eyed man gives a gru laugh. “Is that so? We’ve been told you never leave the castle without his guard.

Never.”

The giant of a man steps forward. Venom seeps through his thick accent. “Seeing you out here now, alone, with this dark cloak covering your head,” he reaches out, flipping the hood over my shoulders, “leads us to believe he doesn’t even know you’re gone.”

“Out of his sight.”

“Far from his men.”

“Alone.”

Panic and bile twist together rising thick in my throat. I can’t run. I can’t overpower them.

The Giant speaks again, his voice chilling me to the bone.

“You husband is up to something. Ships are headed this way, full of crates, coming from Greece. Would you know anything about that?”

He takes a step toward me, wrapping a huge hand around my upper arm.

The crates—the arms from the Bachmans—these men must be from the Romano family, Vincent’s rivals. I know what is in those crates. And I’ll never tell.

If I go down, I will go down fighting.

“I know everything.” I widen my eyes. Look up at the giant through my lashes. “My husband sent me here.

Knowing you’d follow me. He wanted me to pass on a message. To the strongest of the men, he said. That must be you.”

“He sent you to lure us?”

“Yes. To lure you and then to tell you, only you, what is in those crates.”

“I am the strongest man here.” A flicker of pride sparks in his eyes, he straightens his shoulders. “What message does he have for me?”

My hands shake uncontrollably, but I keep my voice steady. “Come closer. It’s for you alone. I must whisper it in your ear.”

His gaze clouds. His brow knits. I’ve lost him. But now, he steps toward me. “Go on, then.”

Willing my fingers to stop shaking, I reach up. Placing one hand on each of his shoulders. I move my mouth to his ear. He smells of sweat and violence.

I steady my voice. “He wanted me to tell you this—" Pressing my hands down on his shoulders, I bring my knee up with all the force I can muster, right between his

thighs.

He hisses, doubling over. I take the opportunity to push past him and run.

Adrenaline surges through my body as though it’s been injected with a needle. Leaving the road, I fly over the grassy hill, toward the castle. Air fills my lungs, burning.

I stare at the gates of the wall of the castle, focusing only on my goal.

Strong arms circle me, pulling me to the ground.

Knocking the wind from my body. Pinning me to the earth.

“Stupid girl.” The giant’s furious face glares down at me.

Fear settles into the very marrow of my bones. My stomach ties in painful knots. An invasive, prickly heat covers my skin.

The terror is so real, a sound like horse hooves beating against the ground pulsates through my ear. I’m shaking so hard it feels as if the earth below me vibrates with me.

His sick smile is a sneer. Victorious. Wretched. Deadly. And yet…

His smile fades. His brow furrows. His huge head slowly turns over his shoulder.

A loud crack rips through the air. The giant’s head flies back, his body hits the ground with a massive thunk.

I blink hard, dazed by the vision before me. Vincent is before me, on top of a majestic black horse. A great wood club in his hand.

A sick laugh rises in my throat. Can this be real? Am I saved?

Vincent flies o his horse, tossing the club to the ground.

He kneels down beside me and when his strong, warm hands cup my face, I know for certain.

This is real.

He is real.

He has come for me.

His army of men quickly overtake the other three wolves.

Binding their wrists. Dragging them away.

“Vincent, I...” My words trail o .

His eyes stare into mine, the connection between us hitting me deep in my soul, stopping time, stopping my heart from beating in my chest.

Everything I need, everything I want, is in his gaze.

He strokes my hair back from my face. “Bella. Are you alright?”

Words won’t come.

Worry etches the lines around his eyes.

I manage a nod. “I’m fine, now that you’re here.”

Leaning down, his presses his lips against mine. I close my eyes to feel the fullness of his kiss. As our lips touch, I feel our souls touch, too.

He pulls away, searching my gaze with fervor. “I’m so glad we found you…when we did.”

The words he leaves unsaid reform the knots in my stomach. What could have happened if he hadn’t gotten here so quickly—it knots my stomach so hard, I can’t even think about it.

“How did you know? How did you find me?”

“There was trouble at the castle. I went to find you.” He gives his head a shake. “I always check on you throughout the day. At least every few hours. It’s just something that I do. Something I’ve always done since you came. I can’t explain it.”

He checks on me? The knowledge brings a warmth and a calm to my chest. “And you didn’t find me?”

“No. You were so quiet at breakfast. Then the men, they found bootprints around the wall.” He stops, swallowing hard. He looks away as if he’s afraid he’ll let me down with his next words. “They…were looking into your bedroom.”

The pain that shoots through his face takes my breath away.

“Yes. The big one there.” I nod to the giant as Vincent’s men drag his massive body away. “He said he was watching me.” My hand slides up the side of his face. “But you came for me. You found me. And that’s enough.”

“Where did you go, Bella?” The pain moves through his gaze.

“I wanted to know what the song meant. I wanted to know why my grandmother’s name was connected to the Russos. Will you tell me, now?”

“Of course. I should have told you sooner.” He gives a shake of his head. “Not only was your father in debt, but my marriage to you was also my grandfather’s dying wish. He was once betrothed to your grandmother, Esmerelda. He was crushed when she married another and left, breaking o their engagement. When he’d discovered that your family had moved back to the village, your grandmother’s home, he made me vow to avenge him, to take her granddaughter for my wife.”

He studies my face, anxious, waiting for me to respond.

My grandmother scorned his grandfather, and he took me as revenge.

I should be angry, livid, the Injustice of it all burning hot as a fire in me, making me lash out at him.

But I don’t.

Whatever dark thing is inside of him, inside his family that brought us together, though I may not understand it, I accept it.

Because without our torrid past, we’d never have come together.

And I want to be with him.

I love him.

He reaches out, running his finger down the curve of my face like he did that day at the store. “Bella, speak to me.”

I give a shake of my head, smiling. “I don’t care about the past. I don’t care how we came together.”

Relief floods his face. “I’m so happy to hear you say those words. And I’m so sorry that these men found you, that I wasn’t here sooner to save you before they could even lay one finger on you.”

“No.” I give my head a shake. “This will sound strange, but I’m glad they came.”

His brow knits, confused. “What do you mean?”

“It opened my eyes.” I’m suddenly so grateful the terrible experience has led me to this moment.

Because it let me see.

“What do you mean?”

“Having you save me. Seeing the pain in your eyes. It makes me know how much you care for me. What you would do for me. It makes me not give a damn about Sophia’s song, or the spurned lover, or the fact that you brought me here as a payment.”

He strokes a lock of hair back from my face, giving me an astonished smile. “You are an amazing woman. Strong, and beautiful, and brave.”

His words wash over me, filling me with joy. “Vincent, I want to tell you…”

He cuts o my words with a kiss. And when our lips meet, the bond that forms between us is stronger than any wedding vow we’ve made to one another.

He pulls away too soon, urgency in his tone. A tortured look creeps back into his face. “There’s more.”

“What, more?” I sit up on my elbows, haunted by the look in his eyes. What has he done?

“The time you first met me in your father’s store, that day I left you the roses?”

“I remember.”

“It wasn’t the first time I saw you.”

What is he speaking of? Had he seen me about in the village? But knowing his habits, I don’t think so—he rarely leaves the castle. “I don’t understand.”

“We met once. In America.”

America? I lived there so long ago. “We did? How is that possible?”

“It was in New York. My father brought me to your father’s store there. They were doing business with one another. I think your father was taking bets on horse races at the time.”

I think of our little bodega, on the corner of Queens Street. I’d pull a stool up to the counter. Do my homework there. Count out the customers’ change for my father. “I remember the store.”

“I saw you. Sitting there on the stool. I remember, my father was angry. He thought your father had cheated him out of some of his earnings. My father grabbed him by the collar, threatened him.”

I vaguely remember the day he speaks of. My heart, beating in my chest. The fear I felt.

“You came running out from around that counter. You stood there with your fists on your hips. You looked my father square in the eye. Told him to let your dad go. Then, you kicked him right in the shin.”

I remember, with a rueful smirk. Thinking this big man was threatening my father, and that I had to do something to protect him, foolishly thinking that I could. “I remember.”

“Just about the same way you handled the Romano’s giant just now. So brave. You never gave a second thought when it came down to protecting someone you loved.”

“And you remembered me?”

“Yes. I moved back to Italy in my late teens, just a few years after your family came back. There was a murmur around the town about a pretty shop girl. And when I found out it was you, the little Felicity from the store in New York, I became intrigued. I began to keep tabs on you.”

His eyes raise to mine. “And my grandfather found that Esmerelda’s granddaughter had come to the village. I discovered you were one and the same, the little Felicity. So, when your father looked for funds, I made sure to be the one to provide them.”

Wait—he approached my father to enable the gambling? I don’t mind that he kept tabs on me, but to come after my father? To take my father’s addiction and prey upon it?

“You…orchestrated this? You sought him?”

He gives a shake of his head. Denying. “He was asking around. I came to him first and made the o er.”

“You knew about his gambling problem. You knew he was going to get further and further into debt…you wanted him to be in debt to you…you let him build those debts…so you could have me?” Anger, disgust, shock, they come in strong waves, clouding my vision. I go to stand.

“No. That’s not what happened.” He reaches out for me.

“Bella. Wait.”

It seems silly to forgive him everything else, to accept the rest of the sordid story, yet be hung up on the fact that it was him, not my father, who initiated the loans, but I find it’s my breaking point.

I don’t care that he married me as promise to his grandfather, or even to wash away my father’s debts. But to orchestrate this from the moment of my arrival? To seek my father out? Intentionally providing him what he needed to keep his addiction going? Just to up the price until it was so high, only a wife was enough to pay back the debt.

It’s too much.

“No, Vincent.” I push him away. “I need to be alone.”

I need to be away from him. To breathe the air. The think in solace. I take o toward the castle, my cloak flying behind me.

My lungs burn with e ort. My eyes burn with tears.

12

V

incent

T HERE WAS no stopping her father. Gambling had such a strong hold on him. He was going to bury himself in debt either way.

I wanted to keep him safe. For her sake. Had he gone to the Romano family, here in Italy, or gone back to the Bachmans when he was in New York and couldn’t pay, he’d be wearing concrete boots, standing at the bottom of a river.

I couldn’t let that happen. It would have broken her heart.

With his debts owed to me, he would be safe. She would be cared for. Her father would live.

I gave him the money. Waited until he was maxed out.

Then told him how he could pay.

By giving me his daughter’s hand in marriage.

I didn’t want anyone else to have her.

I couldn’t bear the thought of her in another man’s arms.

When I heard that Esmerelda’s granddaughter—the girl who dared to kick my father to defend her own blood—was

living right here in our village, I almost choked on my bourbon.

The next day I had my men scout her father’s place and confirm it was her. My heart soared at the news, but I was climbing the mafia ladder, busy building my empire and my army.

I left her alone, my men’s eyes always watching her.

Keeping her and her father safe. And I continued to lend her father the money.

Waiting. Working. Biding my time.

When I claimed my rightful place as the head of the Russo family, I was ready to take her for my wife. But something deep inside me wouldn’t let me march in that shop and demand her hand. Not yet. I let her live her life. Finally, it took my grandfather being on his deathbed and insisting that the only way he could die peacefully was if I took Felicity for my wife, for me to act.

I’d been enamored by her since childhood. But that had nothing to do with my lending her father funds. That was meant to protect her. And now, I don’t know how to tell her.

Or if she will even listen.

We round up the men. Throw them over the saddles of our horses Wild West style. Brando will take them back to Romano. With their heads still attached. Save one.

As a warning.

Again, I’d have done similar surveillance on their land had I gotten a whisper of their intent to store arms.

But to lay hands on my wife?

There is no excuse, no way I will spare the man his life.

The Giant will pay for his sins. The image of him pinning Felicity to the ground flashes in my mind. My blood boils.

He’s mine.

He’s at the edge of the woods, tied to a tree. Waiting.

“You touched my wife, she will be the last thing you touch.”

“Forgive me—I,” He goes to speak, to argue, to plead.

I cut o his words with a kiss of my knife, my blade sliding across his throat. I toss the knife to the ground, leaving it for my men to clean up.

Returning to the castle, I shower before I find my wife. I dress in her favorite blue button-down shirt and charcoal gray trousers, slicking my hair back in the way she finds so handsome.

It’s dinner time. Felicity is not at the table. After the traumatic afternoon she’s had I just need to lay eyes on her, to have her here with me, dining and laughing as we always do.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I rush to her room. I twist the knob of the door. Locked. “Felicity. Open the door.”

No answer. I bang on the door with the side of my closed fist. Still no answer. I bang harder.

There’s a thump from the other side of the door. She’s thrown something at it. At me. “Go away! I’m not coming down.”

“Yes, you are.” I pause and think. She’s had a stressful, scary day. Maybe a little…softness? “Open this door or so help me God, your ass is going to be as red as this carpet.”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t exactly soft.

Silence.

Angry footsteps.

The turn of the lock.

She’s come to her senses. Battle won.

The door opens.

I’m hit square in the middle of the chest with a hardcover book. “What the hell—” The door flies shut, the lock turning before I can react.

She’s thrown a book. At me. Bending over, I retrieve the book from the floor. It’s the one she was reading on the plane. The French version of Beauty and the Beast.

A message?

“I’m well aware you think of me as a beast right now. But that’s no excuse for your behavior. Open. This. Door.”

“Never!”

“Fine.”

Three steps to the left and I’m pulling open the small drawer of a hall table. Taking a brass key from its depths.

Returning to the door.

There’s no sound as I slide the key into the lock. One twist and…I’m in. I close the door behind me.

She sits on the bed, wide eyed with surprise and fear. Her expression quickly turns to anger.

She takes a pillow from the bed. Throwing it at me. “Get out!”

“We need to talk, to unpack this day. It’s a lot, I know, but throwing books—” My words are cut o as I’m struck in the face with a slipper. Game over.

I’m over to her in three strides.

We need to talk. And there’s only one way to get through to her. I grab her arm, pulling her body over my lap. She struggles and fights, swatting at me with her balled up fists.

“You are going to listen to me, and listen good.” I pull up her skirt, exposing her bare legs, her silk panties.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Oh, I dare. You need to hear this and spanking your ass is the only way to get you to listen.” I bring my hand down, hard on the center of her ass. “When I say open that door, you open it, young lady.”

“After what you did, lending my father money? I don’t have to do anything you say!”

My palm smacks against her ass. “Your father was a gambler.”

“Don’t you think I know that now!” She wriggles against me, kicking her legs.

I swing my leg over hers, pinning her in place. I bring my hand down again, striking the center of her ass again, this time hard enough to get a little whimper out of her. “He would have gambled away his money no matter who loaned it to him.”

She tries to push me away. “You don’t know that. You aided and abetted.”

I pin her wrist to her lower back. I lean down, my voice smooth and steady. “Think, Felicity. What would have happened had your father gone to someone else and borrowed money he couldn’t repay?”

She stills for a moment. I take her silence for agreement.

Then, her tongue lashes out. “You, you, you’re an ass!

That’s what you are.”

“That’s enough.” I tug down her panties, bringing them to the middle of her thighs. I make good on my promise. I spank her hard and fast, my hand coming down on her ass, right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, until her skin is as red as our Persian rugs.

She cries out, wriggling her hips.

I stop, my hand resting on her hot, punished flesh. “I lent him the money, knowing if he owed it to me, I could keep him safe. I took you for the debt, but I also took you to keep you safe. If your father ever secretly went to someone else for his loans, who knows what would have happened to you.”

Her voice quivers. “You…you wanted to keep me safe?”

“Yes. Of course. After we were married, I gave him money to get his store back up and running. Then I forced him to get help for his problem.” I think of the support group I

made him to go to the day following our wedding, the oneon-one daily sponsor I pay for daily phone calls from.

She gives a sni e, shooting a pitiful look over her shoulder. “You—did all that…for me?”

“You mean everything to me. And I know what your father means to you. I check in with him weekly, making sure he’s staying on the path. He’s been doing excellent, keeping his demons at bay and his business successful.” I give her ass another hard spank, wanting to drive my point home, to make her think clearly. “How else do you think he’s been running the store without you? Without going into debt again?”

“I can’t believe…” her brow furrows as she processes my words, “you did all of that. For me?”

“Yes. For you.”

Everything I do, I do for you.

She gives sni . “I’m still…mad.”

Anger returns as I think of her sneaking beyond my walls, putting herself in danger. “So am I.” She tilts her head back, finding my gaze. “Why are you mad?”

“You broke my biggest rule. You left the castle without me, without an escort.”

She gives a gulp. Looks away. I grab her chin, turning her head back toward me. “Didn’t you, little girl?”

“Yes. I broke your rule. And you’ve punished me for it. So let me up.”

“I punished you for refusing to come to dinner when you were called. Not for leaving the castle.”

She gives a little shiver. “Oh…uh…Vincent…I’m sorry.”

I smooth my hand over her ass. “And how shall I punish you for breaking my biggest rule?”

Her shoulders give a little shrug.

I want to tie her to the bed. Whip her with my belt. Punish her until she’s promising she’ll never, ever leave my sight.

But then, I think of her on the ground this afternoon.

Pinned beneath the giant. The look of adoration in her eyes the moment she saw me come to her rescue.

As long as I live, I’ll never forget that look. The way it made pride and longing well in my chest.

I lift her up from my thighs. Sit her on my lap. Wrap my arms around her. She snuggles her face into the crook of my shoulder, sighing sweetly.

“They’re never, ever going to hurt you again, baby. No one will.” My voice is strange in my ears, so thick with emotion. “I’ve taken care of it. You’re safe now.”

“I gave that guy a good kick before he pinned me.” She gives a little sni .

I hold in a chuckle. “I know you did, baby. You were so brave. I’m so proud of you.”

“You are?” She gazes up at me with those beautiful eyes.

“Of course I am. You’re brave, and kind, and you’ve brought so much joy to this place.” I whisper in her ear.

“Felicity, let me show you how much I care for you.”

“Kiss me.” Her gaze is soft and warm. Forgiving. Wanting.

Loving.

I kiss her. Long and hard and full.

Her chest rises. Her arms twine around my neck. Her return kiss tells me I’m forgiven.

She still wants me.

I lie her on the bed. Kiss her soft lips, tasting her, kiss her neck, licking and biting that tender flesh she so loves caressed, run my hands over her breasts, palming them and running my thumb over her peaks.

I peel her dress and her underclothes from her body. Take in the beauty of her naked body. Kiss her shoulders, her soft exhale of breath like music to my soul. I kiss her soft belly.

Her hands run through my hair as I find my way to the apex between her thighs. I cover her with my mouth and lap up her sweet juices.

Her nails scratch at my shoulders. She glides them into my hair, tugging and twisting it as she moans my name.

Vincent. Vincent. Vincent.

Kissing and licking her sweet sex, I lose myself in the rhythm of her hips, the moan of my name, the scratch of her fingers. She comes, coiling tightly around me, her hands clutching me. She releases her ecstasy with a soft shudder, lying back down on the bed.

I kiss my way from her thighs, back over her soft belly, taking each of her perfect nipples in my mouth in turn. Suck and tease until another deep moan rises from her throat.

My mouth finds hers and when I kiss her, it’s with the tenderness of my love.

I love her. I love my wife.

The words threaten to spill from my lips and so I kiss her deeper as I remove the clothing from the lower half of my body. I break our kiss only to find her eyes, staring into them as I enter her. Her arms twine around my neck, her legs wrap around my waist and she clings to me as if she’s clinging to life.

I love her with the force of the Earth. Deep and hard and true. She breaks away from my kiss to cry out in her throes of passion and again, it’s my name on her lips.

Vincent. Vincent. Vincent.

My own climax is a heady release, euphoria washing over me in waves, and with it, that creeping feeling that is rising in the center of my being.

I have fallen madly in love with Felicity Russo.

Will I ever be able to find the words to tell her?

13

F

elicity

S OPHIA and I are putting in an order for the upcoming holidays—here at the castle we plan such great festivities, our menu must be solidified three months ahead of Christmas. I want the coriander spiced ham, Sophia, the rosemary turkey. We settle on having both.

We’re debating over light lemon or heavy chocolate cakes for dessert. Sophia says chocolate and she’s not budging. I concede and make a note to call into the bakery for three hundred mini chocolate rum cakes when Esme bursts into the room. Her hair is tangled, her eyes wide. “Felicity! I’ve just gotten back from town. Your father—” I rise from my seat, panic in my heart. “Yes? What is it?”

She comes over to me, grabbing my hands in hers. “I was at the store and it was closed. When I asked around, the locals said it’s been closed for days. No one has seen your father.”

It’s been a few days since I’ve spoken with my dad. Come to think of it, I called him yesterday and the call went

unanswered. “Let me try to call him. Esme, you go and get Vincent, please.” I grab my phone, dialing my father’s number.

“Hello? Felicity?” His voice is thin and weak, his greeting followed by a deep, hacking cough.”

The words flow from me in a stream of worry. “Dad? Are you okay? Why is the store closed and how long have you had that cough?”

Another burst of hard, hacking coughs come over the line.

“It’s just a cold. One I can’t seem to shake. I just need a few more days of rest.”

It sounds like more than a cough. It sounds like pneumonia. Alarm shoots through me. “Dad, I’m coming there, right now. I’m on my way.”

“No, sweetheart. You don’t need to—” but his protests are cut short with more coughs. I assure him I’ll be there within the hour. I hang up, run to my room, and start packing a bag.

Vincent appears, hovering by the doorway. “Everything alright? There was mention around the castle of your father’s store being closed, then Esme came for me.”

“I just spoke with him. He’s been sick for a few days. I’m worried he has pneumonia.”

Vincent’s brow furrows as he pulls out his phone. “I’ll have Dr. Lombardi sent right over.”

My father sounded terrible, but Dr. Lombardi is known in the village for being the best. Still, I find myself wringing my hands. “Thank you.”

“Consider it done.” His fingertips fly over the screen. He slides the phone back into his pocket. His gaze travels to the open bag on the bed before me. “Why are you packing?”

I grab a sweater from the drawer, adding it to my pile.

“My dad is sick. I must go to him.”

“We can send you for the day. I can prepare the men to escort you. But I want you back here by dark.” His heavy gaze catches mine. “I want you here, with me. After what happened with the Romano men, I don’t want you out of my sight.”

“Vincent, I can’t come back until he’s well.” I know when night comes, I won’t want to leave my father’s side. “If you don’t want me there, then bring him here.”

“I can’t…allow it.” Pride flashes through his dark eyes.

He fears it will make him look weak to his rivals, to have my father, a man who’s owed him debt, staying in the walls of his precious castle. He’s said as much to me before.

I toss a pair of yoga pants in the bag. “Then I have to go stay with him. Surely you understand this?”

He comes to me, taking my hands in his. “You belong here. You can take a group of my men, visit during the day. I can pay for nurses overnight, doctors, whatever he needs.”

His touch is soft but there’s a challenge rising in his voice, his need to assert his authority.

Exasperation threatens to overtake me. I take my hands from his and steady my tone. “I need to be with him. In his home. And run the store for him.”

“We can pay people for that.” He gives a cool shrug.

A rise and fall of his shoulders, as if dismissing the topic, as if closing the subject.

The small gesture infuriates me. “Vincent, you can’t always use your wealth to get what you want. Some things can’t be bought.”

Like me.

My words are ice. They hang between us, my unsaid proclamation that he cannot choose for me. Not this time.

His gaze goes from storm clouds to rage. “Just go.” He turns his back on me, walking away with fury in his steps.

Sophia hovers by my side, her hand resting on my shoulder.

I put my hand over hers as I watch the door close. “He’s angry with me for choosing my father over him. He wants me out of his sight.”

Sophia’s gaze turns up to meet mine. “No, Felicity. You have it wrong. He’s letting you go because he loves you. He was just hoping you would choose him, your husband.”

Bitter tears burn in the backs of my eyes. “Why must I choose? My father is sick. How can I not go to him?”

“You can. And with Vincent’s generosity you can take all the burdens from your father’s shoulders. Visit him whenever you like. And still be here for this family, your new family, and give your husband the peace of mind that you’re safe. Vincent will pay someone to run the store. Pay nurses to care for him.”

I shake my head, abandoning my packing and flop down onto the bed. “It’s not the same.”

She gives a heavy sigh. “He fears for your life. He hates to let you out of his sight.”

“I know.”

Sophia sits on the bed beside me. “Sweet one, have you ever considered the fact that he’s scared to let you go because he’s afraid you won’t come back?”

I think of the times I planned my escape, of how I wanted nothing more than to leave this castle. If I had a choice, would I choose to stay with Vincent? Or have I been in denial, lost in a dark fairytale, never having made a conscious decision to choose to be with Vincent?

Is my father’s illness the thing that finally forces me to look at my circumstances with truth and honesty?

I’m a revenge bride.

A payment for a debt.

Nothing more than a win to Vincent Russo’s ego.

He doesn’t care about me. Not really.

He’s not even told me he loves me.

But then I think of the feel of his hands on my body, the heat in his gaze when I catch him looking at me, the things he’s done to ensure my comfort, my father’s care and safety.

I’m confused, distraught, drained. There’s only one thing I know for certain—I must go to my father, now.

Vincent send armed guards, more than necessary in my opinion, and they flank me like a small army as I make my way into town. He told Sophia he’d send my things on later. I think he’s hoping I change my mind.

I won’t.

When I leave the castle, he takes me in his arms, kissing me with that harsh, possessive energy I’ve come to crave. He releases me. “Come back safe, Bella.”

I reach my father and know I’ve made the right decision.

His face is pale and damp with sweat. There’s a team of nurses here, employed by my husband, and they o er him tender care.

But when he sees my face, a light shines in his eyes. “My Felicity.”

I sit at his bedside, holding his hand. I let the medical sta heal his body while I take over the job of healing his soul. I tell him funny stories from my childhood, beautiful memories of my mother, I remind him of how I used to work the bodega counter in New York with him.

The bodega, where Vincent first saw me. Thinking of it reminds me how he never forgot me after that day. How he wanted me for so long.

I’m not just his revenge. I’m not just a payment for my father’s debts. But being here with my father reminds me of who I was. A woman with freedom. A woman free to choose, or deny a marriage proposal. I hold tight to his hand, pushing Vincent from my mind.

Dr. Lombardi arrives. I find myself exhaling a breath of relief I didn’t realize I was holding. I hover at his side as he listens to my father’s lungs. He speaks quickly, a flow of Italian, and after living in the castle speaking mostly English, I find my ears straining to keep up.

He hears crackling in my father’s lungs, a sure sign of pneumonia. He says my father’s oxygen levels seem good, for now. He prescribes an antibiotic and a steroid. He’ll be back in the morning.

I give my father the first doses of his medication and he falls asleep. I dismiss the nurses till morning—I can handle the night. I make myself a light meal of tea and toast. Eating at the small kitchen table, I gaze over the city, watching the deep red of the sunset turn to an inky blue.

Several men stand guard before the door to the shop.

Without gazing out the back, I know there are men there, too. It makes me feel safe.

It makes me miss him.

The apartment is quiet, save for my father’s soft snores. I miss the hubbub of the castle, the clanking of dishes as dinner is prepared. Sitting by Vincent’s side, candlelight flickering on his face as he asks about my day.

I wonder what he’s eating tonight.

I wonder if he misses me.

My father stirs, a rumbling cough rising from his chest. I rush to his side, helping him sit up. “Dad, you okay?”

His cough deepens and I reach for the steroid inhaler the doctor has left me. One hand supporting my father’s back, I hold the other to his mouth, pu ng a cloud of medicine into his lungs.

He coughs and sputters, and finally, calms. “Felicity, what are you doing here? You should be home. Where are the nurses?”

“I’ve sent them home.”

He pats my hand. “It’s kind of you to stay with me, but you should be home, with Vincent.”

“I’ll go home once you’re better. Just rest.”

Soon, his soft snores fill the room once more. I lie down on the couch and try to sleep but I find myself staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, listening for each one of his breaths. Should I have sent the nurses away? What if I’m not capable of caring for my father? My cell phone bing bongs an alert. I have a text.

It’s from Vincent.

Why have the nurses been sent home?

I tap back a reply.

Hello to you too He sends back his response.

Hello Now where the hell are the nurses I can practically hear the furrow in his brow.

Me: I’m here Him: You’re not a nurse He needs professional medical care I want to type back, and you’re not the boss of me, but I can’t risk him busting up in this apartment, belt in hand.

Me: Thank you for your concern sir Him: Don’t step foot out of that building without alerting me His concern warms my heart. And pisses me o . Bossy man. I type back my final reply, leaving so many words unsaid.

I won’t Goodnight It’s a long night of keeping my father comfortable. I have to give him several more pu s from the inhaler. Several times he chokes so hard, I fear I’ll lose him. When the nurses arrive at first light, I’m relieved. Vincent was right, I’m not a

medical professional, and last night, that’s what my father needed.

I go to call Vincent, to tell him so, then I remember that look of pride in his eyes, denying me having my father move to the castle, and I silence my phone, returning it to my pocket. I snooze on the couch, dozing in and out of sleep as my father is fed, bathed, his vital signs under constant surveil.

Dr. Lombardi returns. He feels my father is doing well but will need to remain under full-time physician’s care until he turns a corner. He suggests transporting my father to the hospital, or bringing more equipment here.

Since my mother’s death, my father has been terrified of hospitals.

Because of Vincent, the necessary equipment can be bought and brought here, the nurses’ shifts can increase.

Because of Vincent, my father will be able to rest comfortably in his home as he recovers.

I should thank him.

I pull out my phone.

Five unanswered texts stare back at me. They must have come in while I was sleeping.

How are you?

Felicity, answer me Text me back Don’t make me come there I know you’re there my men can see you I give a snort. He can’t handle not being in control, even for a moment. I’ll call him. He picks up on the first ring.

“Why weren’t you returning my texts?”

I give a yawn. “I was sleeping. It was a long night.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you.” His voice is gru .

“I slept through the notifications.”

His voice is sti . “Hmm…well…how’s your father?”

“Better. Thank you.”

There’s a long pause. One that says more than words can.

In the silence I feel he can hear my fears, my worries. Do you love me, as I love you? Do you miss me? Why is there always this tension between us? Will it always be this way?

He’s the first to break the silence. His voice breaks as he speaks. “Come home.”

“I can’t. Not yet. Not without my father.”

His voice is tight. “You know I won’t allow it. I can’t have men outside my circle in the castle.”

“I have to stay with him.”

He clears his throat. “Is there…is there anything you need?”

I smile, shaking my head. “We’re fine. We have everything we need, thanks to you. Thank you…for everything.”

We say our goodbyes.

I hear a soft chuckle. I look over to where my father lays in the hospital bed they’ve brought him. I smile at his smile.

“What are you laughing at?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to be here.”

“Yes, I do. You’re sick and you need me—” He holds his hand up, cutting me o . “Hear me out. You don’t need to be here night and day. I mean, look around…

I’ve got a full time nursing sta , and you’re sleeping on a couch. You could be spending your nights in the luxury of your castle. If I know my girl, you’re here because you’re playing your hand in some way with that powerful husband of yours.”

I feel my cheeks flush. Is my father right? Have I used this opportunity to play some game of control with Vincent, without even realizing it?

That doesn’t sound like me….and yet. When he told me my father couldn’t come to the castle, an ire rose in me, a

desire to be in control for once.

As my father dozes o , he whispers one more thing. “You love him.”

The words strike my heart.

Because, they’re true.

My husband is stubborn, controlling, possessive, but… he’s mine.

The way he is makes my blood run hot, my body feel as if it’s found home in his hands.

Maybe I am playing my hand.

I’ve fallen hard and fast for a man who’s orchestrated my life by his hand, his will. Maybe I just need a moment to catch my breath.

Maybe, I’ll choose to stay.

14

V

incent

F ELICITY IS LIKE NO OTHER . In a sea of stars, she burns bright enough to light my path.

She is brave and kind. Soft spoken, but with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. She speaks her mind but never wastes words. When threatened, she hardens with fire in her eyes. When safe, she’s soft and gentle, still with a warmth in her gaze. She speaks to the servants with a humble grace.

They’ve quickly fallen for her, happy to call her their queen.

They miss her.

She opens herself slowly, in her time. Her quiet, soft, and steady beauty reaches to my core. I lose my breath when she enters a room. I’ve memorized the curves of her face, the way the dark tendrils of her hair move against her shoulder as she looks o into the distance, her hazel eyes focused on a point far away. I wonder what she thinks of as she stares; is her mind lost in one of her stories she loves so much?

It makes my chest ache just to look at her.

My chest aches now, knowing she’s not here.

I miss her.

She’s not replied to my first five texts.

I’ll send more. I’ll send a thousand if I have to.

I type more furious texts, then erase them, one after the other.

Come home now Come home or I’ll come there and stripe your ass with my belt Get your ass home where you belong I type one more, one that tells her how I really feel.

Please, come home I miss you I erase that one as well.

What is she playing at? Her father is stable. I’ve bought him the best care available.

So why isn’t she coming home?

Fear strikes my heart, making dampness creep over my palms. What if she doesn’t want to come home? What if she doesn’t want to come back to me?

I’m driving myself crazy. I need a distraction. I go to my o ce, locking the door behind me. I sit at my desk, overlooking the latest numbers for the arms deals with the Bachmans. I check my phone.

No texts.

I make a few calls. Reach out the John Romano to see if he’s gotten my Christmas gift—a whole suckling pig, freshly butchered—he doesn’t answer. I check my texts. Nothing.

Finally, I’m able to lose myself in my accounts, double checking each sta payment for the month. The numbers soothe me and I pour myself a bourbon, the amber liquor further relaxing me.

My phone rings—it’s her—and I answer it before the ringing even stops. I can’t hide the harshness in my voice.

“Why weren’t you returning my texts?”

She gives a yawn. “I was sleeping. It was a long night.”

Fuck, it’s good to hear her voice.

She sounds tired. Have I woken her during her only time to rest with my relentless texts? “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

She yawns, dismissing my concerns. “I slept through the notifications.”

I sti en. Was her phone even on? We can talk about that later. “Hmm…well…how’s your father?”

“Better. Thank you.” It’s a curt answer, a formal answer.

And it fucking breaks my heart.

Does she not love me, as I love her? Does she even miss me?

Why won’t she come home to me?

My throat is tight. I clear it but my voice still breaks as I speak. “Come home.”

She speaks softly. “I can’t. Not yet. Not without my father.”

She knows that I can’t give her that. I can’t have my enemies thinking me weak, letting a gambler, a man who owed massive debts I forgave into my household. “You know I won’t allow it. I can’t have men outside my circle in the castle.”

“I have to stay with him.”

She’s not coming back. She won’t be here where I can protect her myself, provide for her every need from our home.

“Is there…is there anything you need?” The o er comes out more gru than I’d hoped.

There’s a small smile of gratitude in her voice. She thanks me, for everything.

We say our goodbyes.

I leave the o ce, going back to the living room where Sophia is polishing the wood with a lemony scented balm. I pace the floors, making Sophia more anxious by the minute.

She follows behind me with a cloth in her hand, dusting pieces of furniture as we pass by them.

I run a hand through my hair. “I’m her husband. I want her back here. At least for the nights.”

Sophia rubs the cloth over the wooden frame of a painting of the castle at night. It’s one of my favorites. She catches my eye. “Nights are important for marriages. I know you miss her.”

I quickly correct Sophia. “It’s not that I miss her. It’s the principle of the thing. I’m her husband and if tell her to come home, she will come home.”

What I say makes perfect sense to me, but it makes Sophia snort. “Yes, that’s the way to win over a fiery wife.

Demand her obedience.”

Sophia is the only one allowed to speak her mind to me, but she’s walking a thin line.

I stop my pacing, eyeing her. “What do you suggest then?”

She stops dusting, putting a hand on her hip. She pushes her wire-rimmed glasses higher on her nose. “Il mele catta più mosche, che non fà l'aceto. Flies are attracted to honey.”

She gives me a pointed look.

Honey.

The word makes me think of the sweet taste of Felicity’s arousal. The things we do at night, wrapped in one another’s arms. I miss her taste, I miss the feel of her body against mine.

Okay, so I fucking miss her. Like crazy. Nothing’s the same, here without her.

Sophia’s still staring at me, awaiting a response.

I give her a growl. “You think I’ve been an ass?”

“Il lupo perde il pelo ma non il vizio.” She raises a brow, her hands moving further up on her hips. “Old habits die hard.”

Old habits die hard…and my oldest habit is the one that drove Felicity away…my stubbornness. I heave a sigh of surrender. “I’ve been an ass?”

“Have you?” She gives me a shrug. “I hadn’t noticed.”

I shake my head, holding in a laugh.

I’ve taken Felicity from her home. Tortured her for the first of her stay. Now, I’ve refused her only request, having her father here, not wanting to swallow my pride and have a man outside my circle in my home.

I have been an ass.

But you don’t get to be in a position of power like I am by being soft. My hardness has served me, brought me wealth, built me an army. Why would I change now?

But she’s not here. She’s not at my side. And suddenly, that seems to matter more than all the wealth in the world.

I need help. God, it pains me to admit that. My throat feels tight and I swallow back my pride. “Sophia, how does a man like me…become honey?”

Esme chooses this moment to pop up from a nearby doorway. I’ve no doubt she’s been listening in on this entire conversation. Her eyes twinkle. “You needed some honey?”

Sophia tilts her chin at me. “Mr. Russo has decided it would be best to bring Felicity and her father back to the castle.”

“How do I go to her? Knowing me, I’ll end up storming over there, demanding she return, and make a mess of things.” I run an agitated hand through my hair.

Sophia gives a decisive nod. “Yes. That’s exactly what will happen.”

I shoot her a look.

She gives an exasperated sigh. “It’s simple, Vincent. You apologize.”

I give a gru growl in response. I never, ever apologize.

As the driver makes our way toward Main Street, I recite my carefully formulated speech in my mind. Felicity, it would be better for the family and the castle if you returned home.

Felicity, would you do me the honor of coming back. Felicity.

Felicity. Felicity.

I arrive at the shop. The new awning looks cheerful.

There’s a young male store clerk behind the counter with a straight nose and a crooked smile. A little too good looking to be working in the shop right beneath my wife. I make a mental note to have him replaced with a young woman.

Then, he gives me a helpful smile, reminding me why I’m here.

To not be an ass.

I guess he can stay.

He stands to greet me. “Can I help you, Mr. Russo?”

I nod to the bouquet of flowers. “I’ll take a dozen of the purple roses.”

He gathers them, carefully wrapping them in brown paper. He o ers no easy chatter and for that I’m grateful.

When he’s done, he o ers the bundle of roses to me.

“Thank you.” I go to take them, but my hand pulls back.

What if she says no?

I’ll have to endure not only the humiliation of her rejection, but also the embarrassment of being turned away with an armful of roses. “Keep them here. I’ll get them on the way out.”

He gives me a nod, tucking them to the side of the counter.

I take the stairs up to her apartment—her father’s apartment—two by two. Just knowing I’m near her makes my heart pick up a beat. I rap on the door with three loud knocks, before I remember her father is resting.

The door opens.

Felicity. My dear, dear, Felicity.

Her beautiful face shines like a beacon of hope. She sees me, her gaze taking in the suit, my face, and her features

soften. “It’s you. I was expecting the man from the pharmacy.”

Are you glad that it’s me? Do you miss me? Do you want to come home?

Or has being with your father made you think of everything that was taken from you.

Everything I took from you.

I forget my carefully prepared speech. I gaze into her warm eyes, and I say the only two words that matter. “Come home.”

She looks down. Her hand hangs on the door. “I’m…not ready.”

I throw my hands up in surrender. “Bring your father.

Bring anyone you want. The castle is your home just as much as it is mine. I never should have told you no.” It’s as close to an apology as a man like me can get.

She gives me a soft smile. Her gaze holds mine, but I can tell, I’ve haven’t quite reached her. She gives a shake of her head. “I’m sorry. But I’ll be home, soon.”

Home. It’s no longer a home when she’s not there. From the beginning I saw this marriage as a game, I saw her as something to conquer, something to win against.

I’ve lost.

I give her a nod. I lean over, kissing her cheek, inhaling the fragrance of her hair, making me remember her words on the airplane when I sni ed at her hair.

Are you smelling me?

I pull away, holding in a manic laugh at the memory.

I want to say, “See you at home,” but I can’t make myself form the words. I know she won’t be back. And this time, I won’t force her to come.

I give her one last look. “Goodbye. My Bella.”

“Goodbye, Vincent. And really, from the bottom of my heart, thank you, for everything.” She gives me a wave of her

hand. Closes the door.

I return to the store to retrieve my flowers.

I’ll take them home. I’ll give them to Esme and Sophia to thank them for their help.

Even though they couldn’t change me from the beast.

Nothing can.

F ELICITY

A S I CLOSE THE DOOR , pain rips through my heart. I’m not entirely sure why I couldn’t accept his o er. Perhaps because it came with no apology.

I try to imagine Vincent Russo saying I’m sorry. I can’t. It almost makes me laugh out loud to picture him trying to form the words.

Yet, I miss him. Terribly.

But something is holding me here. Something just won’t let me go home. Not yet.

I walk to the window, standing with my arms crossed over my chest. His sleek, black SUV is parked on the curb before the store. I always prefer to walk into town, he prefers to be driven.

The new shopkeeper my father hired is out front, sweeping the walkway. He’s so responsible, taking care of every aspect of my father’s store. He even dusts the cans on the back of the shelves, the ones you can’t see. He’s kind, warm, polite.

The type of man I’d always thought I’d marry. Every day when I go downstairs to gather fresh vegetables to cook soups for my father, he greets me with a friendly smile and a “Good morning.” I return the smile.

And I find myself missing Vincent.

Where is he?

I can just make out the sound of the bell tinkling as the front door of the store opens beneath where I stand. I peek over the awning as his dark head of hair appears. He strides to the car, his arms full of something.

What’s that he’s carrying?

It looks like a dozen purple roses. Like the ones he bought me, the first time he came to the store.

He glances up at the window. Is he looking for me? I’m not sure if he can see me through the filmy glass. But I can see him, and in his eyes, I see a world of apologies.

He is sorry, and he came here to make amends and apologize the only way he could.

With flowers. With two, gently spoken words. Come home.

Gazing upon him, I realize, as stubborn and pigheaded and controlling as the man is…he’s the man I always truly wanted, deep down in the very center of my being. Dominant and powerful and possessive, tempered by honor and integrity. A love as deep as it is fierce.

He’s mine.

And I want to be with him.

No matter how it is that the two of us first came together.

My torn heart mends.

I tear open the window, sticking my head out, and I call down to the street. “Vincent! Don’t go!”

His hand hovers on the handle of the car door. “Felicity?”

He looks up at me, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun.

“Wait!”

I rush down the stairs, through the store, and into the street.

He stands, flowers in hand, a look of hope twisted with despair etched on his face.

I nod to the flowers. “Are those for me?”

His brow knits. “Pardon?”

“I said, are those for me?” I point at the dozen roses in his arms.

“Yes.” He reaches out, handing them to me. “Ah, yes they are.”

I take the flowers, bringing them to my face and inhaling their sweet scent. “I remember these. You bought them from me, then later left them for me in a beautiful vase.”

His eyes soften, his shoulders relax. “Yes. You kept the vase. You brought it to the castle with you.”

My words come out so quiet, they’re almost a whisper. “I must have known somehow.”

“Known what?”

“Known that you were going to make a wonderful husband. Eventually.”

He gives a laugh of relief. “I hope you think so. I know I’ve been closer to a beast than a man at times.”

I stretch up on my tiptoes, planting a kiss on his lips. “I love them.”

He takes me in his arms, careful not to squish my bouquet as he does. He leans down, his breath tickling my ear. “And I, love you, Felicity Russo.”

The only words I needed to hear.

Joy dances through my body as I let his words swirl around me. “I love you, too.”

He kisses me, and in his kiss, I can feel his love.

Strong and true and possessive.

Just the way I like it.

15

V

incent

C HRISTMAS COMES with all the love and joy a family could have.

At least, I think. My own life before Felicity was work, ambition, conquest. Now, I find myself lingering by the fire.

Drinking co ee with Sophia in her kitchen, when she lets me. Discussing boys with Esme—so many boys. A new one every day, the girl can’t keep her mind o them.

And I spend every waking—and sleeping—moment I can with my wife. She’s moved into my room, giving her large, beautiful bedroom to Esme.

I still have my cold, hard, killer edge, the respect of my men, and a blade strapped to the inside of my boot that can slice through a man’s throat. But now, I also have love.

Felicity has made me…sentimental. I still find the emotion…uncomfortable, but at my wife’s prompting, I’ve invited my younger brother, Giovanni, to stay with us.

For a few precious hours this Christmas Eve, I choose to let my guard down. I sit back in my leather chair, sipping bourbon with my brother as I watch the women of this house

decorate a tree with gold, glittering ornaments, a gift from John Romano.

They are so beautiful as they sparkle beneath the white lights, I almost feel bad for my own gift to him. He is truly trying to make amends. I take a deep breath, another sip of bourbon.

The moment is so peaceful, it makes me think of what Alec said when we were in the Parrish and he was explaining the Bachman’s shield. The inventor of the shield calls it the falling action—the time you think you’re safe, but then there’s a second attack just as you emerge from your safe house.

Will there be falling action? Will the Russo feud with the Romano family ever be ended, our bonds healed? Or will our war end in a bloody battle.

These are not thoughts for tonight. Tonight is for celebration.

As I refill my brother’s glass, I take in how much he’s grown. No longer a gangly teen, Giovanni is now a man. His hair is dark and thick and wavy like mine, but seven years my junior, he doesn’t have the silver at his temples. He wears a close cropped beard, a shadow along his stone cut jaw. Gone are his round cheeks, replaced by high, angled cheekbones. “Tell me, Gio. Do you like this Bourbon?”

He swirls his glass, crossing his long leg, propping the ankle of his black leather boot on the knee of his close-cut gray suit trousers. He holds the glass up to his eye, then after careful inspection, takes a long exhale, then another sip. He lets the liquor settle on his tongue, then brow furrowed, takes in the flavor. After a beat, he gives me a long look.

“Tastes like shit.”

We break out into laughter, making me realize how much I’ve missed having him around. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it on end. “You know I have no idea what I’m drinking. No matter how much money this family has, I’ll

always prefer an ice cold bottle of beer to this cleaning fluid you drink.”

“Brando, bring my brother a beer.” I take his glass from him, setting it on the coaster between us. “You always did have simple tastes.”

He flashes me a grin. “And you always had to have the best, didn’t you. I think you’ve outdone even your own self with your lovely wife though.” His gaze travels to Felicity, as she hangs another ornament, a bright smile lighting her face.

“You should stick around. Settle down yourself. It’s probably about time.” My brother lives in America, enjoying a Wall Street job and faced-paced lifestyle. Probably a di erent girl every night. “Don’t you think it’s time you came back down to Earth?”

“By ‘Earth’ I take it you mean follow in your footsteps, come back to Italy, and return to the village we were born in?” He gives his head a shake. “I don’t know, brother. I’ve seen what it’s done to your hair.”

I give a chuckle. “You mean these lines of silver? Just wait, brother, stay around the Russo castle long enough and you’ll have your own.”

“I do miss you.” He gives me a smile. “And I see what a fine family you have for yourself. I’d like to spend time getting to know my new sister-in-law, your father-in-law, and Esme. She’s like a daughter to you, isn’t she?”

“She is.” I watch Esme as she climbs the ladder to put the angel on top of the tree. She’s always insisted on being the one to do so. When she was a little girl, I would lift her onto my shoulders so she could reach.

Now, she’s almost 18. Nearly a full grown woman.

Esme is the closest thing I have to an heir. My new wife and I have a special Christmas gift for her, one I’m looking

forward to giving to her; the signed papers signaling our legal adoption of her.

She’s always been like a daughter to me, but now, the feeling will become truth in the eyes of the law, a statement to the village that though my blood doesn’t run through her veins, my name will be attached to hers.

She worries me sometimes, my sweet Esme. She’s sweet and shy, but often impulsive. As her father, it’s now my job to teach her, to rein her in. Felicity will help her blossom into womanhood and for that, I’m eternally grateful.

Brando brings my brother his beer. He sits, drinking it happily, catching Sophia up on every moment of his life since she moved back to Italy with me. She peppers him with questions, and he answers them all.

My wife joins her father, sitting by his side. She takes his hand in hers. “I’m so glad you’re here with us now, Dad.” He pats her hand. “Me too, Felicity. I would have gotten pneumonia sooner if I knew it would bring me to Sophia’s cooking.”

Sophia shoots him a look. “Just stay out of the fridge tonight. If I find even one scoop taken from my overnight bread casserole, there’ll be hell to pay!” She shakes her fist at Felicity’s father, who’s known around the castle for his midnight snacking.

Felicity tilts back as she laughs, that beautiful noise bubbling from her throat.

My God, this woman is beautiful.

I want her. Now. I sit my glass on the open coaster that rests on the tabletop beside me.

Rising from my chair, I cross the room. Giving her father a nod, I take Felicity’s hand in mine. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment. We’ve got a gift to see to.”

Felicity catches my gaze, a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

She turns to her father. “We’ll be right back.”

As we exit the room, I catch the tinkling sound of Esme’s giggle. Are we that obvious? As Felicity goes up the stairs before me, I reach out, giving her ass a smack.

She lets out a squeal, swatting me away and running up the stairs in her heels. I chase her through the bedroom doorway, grabbing her around the waist and pinning her onto her back on the bed. “Haven’t you learned by now never to run from me? I’ll always get my way.”

“Not always, husband,” she teases back.

I grab the waist of her skirt, shimmying it down over her slip hips, exposing her pussy. “No panties? Naughty girl.

You’ll have to be spanked for that.”

“No!” She attempts to struggle from my grasp. “Not happening.”

But her body tells a di erent story than her mouth. Her eyes widen, her cheeks flush, her breath comes faster. My darling girl does so love to be overtaken. I grab her waist, turning her hips, exposing the curve of her ass to my hand. I give her a few stinging swats and she squeals with delight.

“Say thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, sir.” Her voice turns sultry. “Now take me.”

Undoing my belt, unzipping my pants, I free my cock, climbing over her. I give her ass another smack. “Say please.”

“Please, take me now, sir.” She grabs my collar in her hands, pulling me in to a kiss.

I devour her mouth, tangling my tongue with hers. I slip my fingers inside her. She’s wet and ready. She lets out a moan as I move my slick fingers up to her tender bud, swirling and pressing it until she whimpers. “Such a good, bad girl.”

She shifts her hips, wanting more.

I take my fingers from her, brushing them against her red lips, leaving a trace of her arousal. I kiss her, tasting her, all of her, as I enter her with my cock. She’s so tight, so ready, and she wraps her arms around my neck as her pussy tightens around my cock.

She breaks our kiss only long enough to whisper a warning in my ear. “We have to be quick. They’ll be waiting for us.”

“Let them wait.” I grab her ass in my hands, pulling her up tighter to my body, entering her deeper. We find our sweet rhythm and with every movement I make, I milk her luscious body, chasing down her pleasure. When I hit that perfect, magical peak, I wait for it—the sound that makes my life worth living—my wife calling my name.

Vincent. Vincent. Vincent.

Her cries throw me over the edge, igniting my own climax. I give a growl, holding her hips tighter in my hands, holding her to me, as long as she will let me.

She gives a laugh, kissing my cheek. I don’t want to leave this bed, I want to stay here forever, but now she’s swatting my shoulder, shifting her weight and wriggling out from under me. She hops up from the bed, cleaning my seed from her and straightening her clothing.

Excitement dances in her gaze. “Let’s go. We have to give Esme her gift before midnight. I want her to know she’s our daughter before it’s Christmas.”

She so kind, so thoughtful, so beautiful.

“Just a moment.” I straighten my own clothing. I go to the top drawer of my dresser, pulling out a little red box, the swirling words on top read Bachman’s Jewelers. “First, I have a gift for you.”

Her eyes widen with surprise. “You do? But you’ve already given me everything.”

“Not this.” I cross the room to her, holding up the box. I watch her face as I flip open the lid. Inside the box rests a small, bright gold ring, in the shape of a crown. I lift it from the box, reading the inscription. “For the queen of my heart.”

She gazes at the little ring and no words come to her lips.

I take a knee. Holding the ring up to her, I say the words I should have said long ago. “Felicity, I’m sorry I was cruel to you. You are the light that leads my way and without you, I’m lost. Can you forgive me?”

“That’s…beautiful.” A hand flutters to her throat. “Of course.”

The final question hangs in my mind. I want to ask it of her, but am I brave enough to face her response, whatever it may be?

I need to know…I need to know if she would choose me.

I take a deep breath, and on my exhale, I release the words to her. “And Felicity, will you choose me to be your husband?”

The second of silence before her answer has my breath frozen in my chest.

Please.

She laughs, tears shining in her eyes. “Yes. Of course, I do. I love you.”

Happiness surrounds me, overwhelming me. “And I love you.” I slip the ring on her finger, stand before her, and kiss my wife.

My queen.

EPILOGUE

E I

sme

FINALLY HAVE A FATHER .

Felicity has brought so much to our lives, but the one thing that meant the most to me was when she brought the papers to Vincent to file for my adoption. He just needed a nudge, and Felicity provided it.

Now, I’m legally his daughter. Esme Russo. The princess of the mafia.

That gives me power? Right?

I hope so because there’s one person I want to wield it on.

Luca Romano. The beautiful blue-eyed bully that pulled my braids in the schoolyard. He tormented me relentlessly, and last week, he took his torture to new levels. I blush thinking of his rough hands on me when he found me trespassing on his family’s property, the way he punished me like a naughty little girl.

I push away the shameful memory, focused on my revenge.

I’m going to go after him. Pay him back for the humiliation he imposed on me. See how he likes having the tables turned. But first, I’m going to demand more responsibility at home.

I’m finally be old enough to make my own decisions.

Mature enough to take over the kitchen from Sophia.

I love her like a grandmother, a mother even, as she was the one who raised me. I see how tired she grows as the days go on. I’m young, I have boundless energy, and she’s the one who’s taught me everything I know.

Vincent—should I be calling him Dad?—wants me to be a proper princess. To keep my hands clean. To get a higher education. But I’d be riddled with anxiety if anyone claims their stake on that kitchen other than me.

And if I’m being honest, I can’t leave this castle.

It’s my home.

And nothing can tear me from these walls.

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BOOK 2 IN RUSSO ROYALS

E

sme

A S A BABY I was abandoned in front of the Russo family castle.

Wrapped in a blanket and laid in a basket, my fate was set that day when Vincent Russo, king of the mafia, found me on his doorstep.

They say I never cried. They say I reached up, wrapping my tiny fingers around his thumb. As if I knew this was meant to be. As if I knew, in my infant mind, this man would one day be my father.

Last year, on Christmas Eve, he made our relationship legal, permanent, by o cially adopting me. Making me the princess of our mafia. And nothing could have made me happier.

But, today, on my eighteenth birthday, I find myself feeling a bit restless, unsettled. I’m pacing the stone floors of the castle, wearing lines on the red rugs with my boots.

I need to get out of here—just for an hour. I grab my cloak, the dark one with the wide hood.

I’m now an adult, but still under lock and key. Ever since I became his legal daughter, taking the Russo last name, Vincent’s feared for my safety. He won’t let me go anywhere alone.

Today, for just a few hours, I want to escape the eyes of my father’s army, to leave the castle unencumbered by his guards.

I do this from time to time…sneak out and wander the streets of the village like I used to. We live in a seaside town in the countryside, our cobblestone Main Street could be straight out of a fairytale with its charming little shops, their doors painted in cheery yellows, blue and reds. A constant, soft breeze blows in from the ocean, the salt air refreshing on your skin.

Pulling on the cloak, I tug the hood over my hair, pulling it around my face. I head out through the kitchen. Sophia is napping in an armchair in the corner, her chin resting in her hands, her wire-rimmed glasses sitting on the top of her steel gray hair. I slide past her and sneak out the back door.

Keeping my head down, I make my way to the gates.

There’s a group of workers leaving for the day, and I join their ranks. I hear a shout, wait up, and I startle, turning to see who calls out. It’s one of the cooks, catching up with a friend. I breathe a sigh of relief. The shout was not for me.

As I walk through the gates, a little ripple of excitement runs through me.

I’m free.

If only for a few hours.

I love the castle, in fact, it was my choice to begin university online, after graduating school, not wanting to leave home for a strange place, but still, when you turn eighteen, o cially a woman, you need to take a few hours to yourself.

Right?

I think of Vincent. His stern brow and dark eyes, that gaze of disapproval he sometimes gives me. Oh, the trouble I will be in if he finds out. I shake my head.

There’s no way he’ll find out.

Every so often I slip past our walls, undetected, just for the fun of it, just for the thrill.

I’ve never, ever been caught.

Why should today be any di erent?

We reach the dusty road that leads to Main Street. I break o from the group as they head down the narrower paths to their homes. I’ll go to town, maybe grab an espresso and one of those flaky chocolate croissants the bakery is known for.

I’m licking my lips, dreaming of a delicious pastry when I feel a tug on the hood of my cloak. The cloth falls back, my blonde hair spilling out.

“Hey! What are you doing?” I turn my head over my shoulder to see who’s tugged my hood.

My stomach drops into my boots as I look right into the ice blue eyes of Luca Romano—my arch nemesis since childhood. He loved to yank the end of my braids and call me Goldilocks and basket baby, among other names.

He’s an asshole.

And was a schoolyard bully. Now, he stands tall with broad, rounded shoulders, a full grown man. Four years my senior, I guess he is one.

He roves those blue eyes over my body like he’s undressing me beneath my cloak. Heat rises in my cheeks. A lock of his tawny hair falls in front of his face. He tilts his chiseled chin ever so slightly to the side, bringing his eyes up to meet mine.

“What’s Goldilocks doing out of her castle without her guards?” He reaches out, brushing his finger down my cheek. “Doesn’t her daddy know there are big hungry bears out here who would love to eat her?”

The heat in my cheeks turns to flames as I pull away from his touch. “My father knows the bears out here are stupid and easy to outwit.”

I go to step past him.

He moves before me, crossing his broad chest with his arms and blocking my path. “If I had to guess, I’d say your daddy doesn’t know you’re here. I’d also say, he’d be pretty angry to find out you’re out here all alone. I think…” he takes step toward me, looming over me, “you’d be in a lot of trouble with daddy if he found out.”

Tonight is my eighteenth birthday ball, a party I’ve been looking forward to all year. Vincent is a strict disciplinarian; he wouldn’t think twice to cancel it if he knew I’d snuck out.

I can’t let that happen.

I look up at Luca through my dark lashes, attempting to on the charm. His eyes are so cold, I don’t know if I even have a chance at melting that ice. I give a coy smile. “Well, he doesn’t need to know, now does he?”

He moves closer. I force myself to stand my ground and not shrink under his stature. He slips a hand around the back of my neck, his touch making my skin tingle. He pulls my ear to his mouth, his breath tickling my skin. “I guess we could make a deal.”

Having him so close to me, touching me, my heart races in my chest. I hold my tone as even as I can though my heart threatens to beat of my chest. “What deal?”

He pulls back from my ear finding my gaze. His hand stays wrapped around my neck. His eyes burn into mine.

“One kiss. One kiss will seal my lips and I’ll not tell your daddy what I saw here today.”

A…kiss?

A tremble runs through me. A kiss? With Luca? I despise him.

I loathe him.

And he hates me. Why on Earth would he want to…kiss me?

And yet…

The fate of my birthday ball hangs in the air.

He pulls away, sliding his hand over my neck as he does, leaving a tingling trail behind on my skin. He cocks his head to the side, studying my further flushing face. “What do you say, Goldie?”

Anger wells in my chest. Stupid nickname. Why did I have to run into Luca of all people?

I think of my light green silk dress with full skirts hanging on the closet door of my bedroom, waiting for tonight. The cake Sophia is baking me. The caters readying the meal right this moment.

I hate myself for it, but fine. One kiss with my arch nemesis to secure my party.

I hiss my answer between clenched teeth. “One kiss.

Though I don’t know why you’d want to kiss me anyway.”

He gives a sneer. “Isn’t it obvious? I like making you squirm. Always have.”

My eyes focus on his mouth. His lips are full, his teeth white and straight, his tongue a wicked tool as he runs it over his lips.

My body betrays me—a traitor—a melty feeling overtaking my core. I’m suddenly wondering what it will feel like to kiss him.

I find out soon enough.

He takes my face in his hands, rough and possessive, his skin cool against my flushed face. He holds my gaze as he moves closer, the glint of a predator in his blue eyes. He presses his lips against mine, hard and punishing. His tongue pushes past my lips, swiping at me, tasting me.

I stand there, arms at my sides, as he abuses me.

And it feels…so…good.

Why does it have to feel good?

His kiss is terror and harshness, yet in it I feel exhilaration, a haunting desire building within me.

It ends. Slowly, he releases me, his hands falling from my face.

I stand, dumbstruck by his kiss.

“See you, Goldie.” He gives me a devilish l wink. He turns and leaves, sauntering away with the swagger only a man as good looking as him can pull o .

I murmur to his back. “See you. Asshole.”

My hands are shaking as I start toward the bakery. As I walk, my anger grows.

How dare he do that to me?

Force me to kiss him so he wouldn’t snitch on me for sneaking out? Isn’t there some code with mafia men about keeping secrets, not ratting people out? We are rival families, the Russos and the Romanos, but still.

What. An. Ass. I have to pay him back. There has to be something I can do to him in retaliation.

My mind wanders, looking for a solution.

With every step I become more obsessed with the idea.

Could I put sugar in the gas tank of his precious little Alpha Romeo? Slip blue hair dye into his shampoo bottle?

I find myself wanting revenge more than a croissant. The idea of getting him back gives me more of a buzz than the ca eine I was looking forward to from the foamy cappuccino I’ve been dreaming of.

Change of plans.

Leaving Main Street, I walk along the back alley that leads to the Romano estate. I’ll scout out the property, see if there’s somewhere I even can get in. Then, I’ll make my plan.

When it comes into view, I’m reminded of how lovely it is —a beautiful place for a family with ugly souls. The

sprawling stone compound has views of the sea as well as the mountains. Lush gardens dot the property, as well as several orchards. Built as a thirteenth century convent, its current use couldn’t be further from its original.

It’s full of Romano thugs.

Luca, the worst of them all with his mean ways and his sharp tongue…I think of how it caressed mine and my mind suddenly goes cloudy.

“Snap out of it, Esme. It’s time for revenge.” I slip up the hill, pressing my body against the sand colored walls. They have fewer guards than us, and why wouldn’t they? Their family is nowhere near as powerful as ours.

At least not in wealth.

But they are the oldest family name in the village, the original settlers of our seaside town were Romanos. The people have not forgotten, and many are loyal to John Romano and his sons. They own a massive stretch of fertile land, farms and fields and orchards.

Luca loves to work the land, his shirt o , the sun shining on his bare back.

Damn him.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do to repay him yet; my first step is just getting onto the property. I find an arched doorway further down the wall. The gate is small and creaks as I tug on the round, metal handle. It’s unlocked. I inch it open, taking in the stone, center courtyard that it leads to.

Perfect.

My target is in sight. Luca lies lounging in the sun, an apple in one hand, an open book in the other. His face is relaxed, a half-smile curling on his lips as he reads.

He looks almost…human.

He takes another bite of the apple, running his tongue along his lips, making me shamefully press my thighs together.

What’s he reading?

I peer further forward, trying to make out the gold lettering on the red leather spine. Romeo and Juliet.

There’s no way a brute like him is reading a romance. My eyes must be deceiving me. I lean in further and—oh shit!— fall through the gate and onto the ground. My hands and knees press into the stones.

Horror seizes me as I realize the danger I’ve put myself in. Slowly, I look up, to meet his furious gaze.

“Goldie? What the hell are you doing here?” Fury radiates from him. “Spying for your daddy?”

“No, not spying!” I stand, brushing my hands o . “I uh...I guess I got turned around. I’ll just be going now.”

“I don’t think so.” He rises from his seat, crossing the ground to me. “Not until you tell me what you’re doing on Romano property.”

Ack. It’s so embarrassing to admit my childish plan. A plan that I didn’t even have, not really. Shame fills me as I murmur my confession. “I—I was going to pull a prank on you.”

His brow furrows. “A prank?”

“Yes, it was stupid and —” “Damn right, it was stupid. Do you know how lucky you are that it was me who found you and not my brothers.” He runs a hand through his hair, agitated, looking around the courtyard, his muscles tensing. “I don’t even want to think what they would do to you.”

Is that…concern in his voice? And what would they do to me?

A tremor runs down my spine. “Your brothers are worse than you?”

He grabs my arm, pulling me toward him. His eyes lock on mine, blazing with warning. “Don’t come here again. Do you understand me?”

He’s scaring me, but I won’t let him show it. I won’t let him win. Not again. I tilt my chin in defiance. “You, Luca Romano, do not tell me what to do. I’m a Russo. Do you understand me?”

Stormy clouds gather in his blue irises. He moves closer, his face only a bit away from mine. “Let me tell you something, little girl, Russo or not, you’ll do what I say.”

My hands shake, but I steady my tone. “You aren’t the boss of me.”

“Tell your ass that.” He tugs me over to the short wall that lines in the inner garden. He sits down on the wall. His hand tight around my arm, he drags me over his lap.

“Hey! Wait! What are you doing! Let me go!” I kick my legs, trying to fight him o .

He wraps one of his long, strong legs around mine, locking me into place. “I’m spanking some sense into you.”

Spanking! This. Can. Not. Happen. A spanking is twice— scratch that—a hundred times more humiliating than the kiss. “My father will kill you when he hears about this!” My hands fly back, trying to push him away.

“I have a feeling your daddy won’t hear about this, because you won’t want to tell him what you were doing.”

Ugh—he’s right.

He grabs my wrists pinning them to my back. “I’m only doing what your daddy should have done years ago. Maybe then you wouldn’t be putting your life at risk, snooping around where you don’t belong.”

“Don’t you dare! I’ll scream, I’ll—” “No one is here in this courtyard but you and me.

Everyone is down at the shore, right now, helping load a shipment for export, my guards included, which is the only way you happened to get by that gate in the first place.”

“Let me go, Luca.” I struggle to free myself from his hold.

“Scream your little heart out, Goldie. No one will hear you. In fact, I’ll make you scream myself.” He brings his hand down hard and fast, smacking it against my ass.

I howl in pain and anger. “You ass!”

“So feisty for a girl who’s been overpowered.” His hands move to the hem of my skirt. “Let’s pull this skirt up and see how feisty you can get.”

No, oh my God, no. “Don’t! Luca, I swear, I’ll go home and never come back.” I can’t bear the humiliation of Luca Romano seeing my panties. My God, which ones am I even wearing? Inwardly I groan as I remember grabbing the babyish little heart covered ones from my drawer. Why couldn’t I have gone with something sexy, like black, and why the fuck do I even care…

He flips my skirt up, cool air rushing over my skin. He gives a low moan and I feel the stirring of his cock beneath my belly. “Heart panties. You are a naughty little girl, aren’t you?” He smooths his hand over my panty-covered ass.

His words, his hand, make a moan rise from my own chest.

How is this happening to me? And how is the gusset of my panties so wet, my pussy aching to be touched. Will he be able to see that little wet patch, will he catch the scent of my arousal?

My thoughts disappear as his hand comes down again and again. Right cheek, then left cheek, making the stinging warmth spread over my goose bumped flesh.

My voice is thick, losing protest with every word. “Let me go, Luca.”

“I can’t. Not until I teach you a lesson. Then, I’ll send you home with a sore ass. I’ll be happy just knowing you’re wearing my handprint under your dress tonight while you celebrate your birthday ball.”

“Wait—how did you know it’s my birthday?” He’d better not have some plan to ruin it, Romanos are not invited.

“Doesn’t everyone?” He brings his hand down in another sharp smack, making me suck air between my teeth. “You are, after all,” he punctuates each of his next words with a hearty spank, alternating from cheek to cheek, “the princess of the Russos.”

“I’m no princess I work as hard as anyone.” My hips wriggle and I moan. The stinging increases and with it, a heavy aching in my core. I’m so wet and as I wriggle, my slick pussy moves against him in my panties, creating delicious friction.

“Bad girl—trying to get away. Not taking your punishment. These little heart panties will have to come down.”

My blood goes icy in my veins, his words making me freeze. Absolutely not—Luca cannot see my bare ass.

I’ll beg if I have to. “No! Please don’t, Luca. There’s barely any fabric there, it won’t make a di erence, I’ll still feel your…” it’s so hard to say the word, but I force it from my mouth, “spanking.”

He leans down, his chest wrapping around my back, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath hot against my skin.

“It’s not your pain I’m after. It’s your humiliation.”

His cruel words make me gasp as he grabs the waistband of my panties, ripping them down. Just knowing he can see my naked skin makes shame rise in my chest. To be pinned here, helpless over his lap, bared and spanked like a naughty little girl.

It’s too much.

The lines of pain and pleasure, humiliation and desire, they blur until it’s impossible to know what I’m feeling. Is that hi…erection I feel hardening under my belly? Between my thighs moisture pools.

He brings his hand down on my bare skin. It stings more without the protection of my thin panties. It comes down, again and again, his palm making contact with my bare flesh. Each time, the stinging spreads.

Each time, my pussy aches more, my clit throbs, my breasts are heavy.

I want him.

And I want to kill him.

“You’re such a bad girl. I’ll bet getting your ass spanked makes you all wet, doesn’t it?” His hand smooths my curves.

His fingers creep down my thigh. “Should I check and see how wet you are for me?”

“No! Don’t you dare touch me.” Touch me, touch me, slide your thick fingers inside me and end this torture. “Don’t you dare.”

Again, my body betrays me, my hips wriggling, begging for his touches, some kind of friction, relief.

I get none.

His hand hovers over my bottom, his fingers pausing just at the apex between my thighs, and stops. Hooking his fingers under the waistband of my panties he pulls them up, snapping them into place.

Disappointment floods me as he smooths my skirt over my bottom giving my ass a pat.

He helps me up and I can’t meet his eyes. “Come, I’ll walk you to the road. We wouldn’t want you to su er from any bear attacks.”

I refuse to walk beside him, following him to the road, pulling my hood up over my head to hide my face. I can’t believe he spanked me. And I can’t believe I was one touch away from begging him to fuck me with his fingers.

The shame rushes upward, fresh and raw, heating my face. I pull my hood up to hid my face.

When he reaches the road, he turns to wait for me. The set of his jaw is tight, his flashing blue eyes are harsh and unkind as he tugs my hood back down. “Don’t ever let me catch you on our property again. Next time, I won’t let you o so easy.”

I want to slap his face, to claw his eyes from his head. To my dismay I find my gaze lowering, my lips mumbling my humiliating response. “Yes, sir.”

“Happy Birthday.” He brushes past me.

Leaving me standing alone with a stinging ass, a dull ache throbbing between my thighs.

I hate him.

I hate myself for wanting him.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shanna Handel is an Internationally Bestselling author of romance. She is living her dream as a full time writer married to the love of her life.

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