Chapter 8
Every man in this club is watching you, principessa. They want what’s mine.
The words burn in my ear as I guide Valentina through Noir's VIP entrance, my hand possessively placed on the small of her back.
The red gown clings to her curves like liquid fire, the same dress that tested my control in that boutique.
She chose it tonight without prompting, and we both know why.
She wanted to see that hunger in my eyes again, wanted to feel the power of bringing Marco Rosetti to the edge with just silk and skin.
The club pulses with bass heavy enough to feel in your chest, darkness broken by strategic lighting that turns everything intimate and dangerous. My territory. My rules. My beautiful captive on display for every associate and enemy to see exactly who she belongs to now.
Tonight's appearance isn't random. The Torrelli family is here, along with representatives from Detroit.
After twelve days of speculation about the Bernardi princess's fate, they need to see her with me, willing or not.
They need to understand that the alliance they feared is dead, replaced by something far more permanent.
"Smile," I murmur against her ear as we pass the Torrelli table. "You're representing the Rosetti name tonight."
Her spine stiffens under my touch, but she lifts her chin in that defiant way that makes my cock ache.
Twelve days since I stole her from that altar, and she still fights me with every breath.
Except when her body betrays her. Except when she presses her thighs together, trying to ease the ache my proximity causes.
The VIP booth overlooks the entire dance floor, positioned so everyone can see us while maintaining our privacy. I slide in first, then pull her against me, her thigh pressed to mine, my arm draped across her shoulders. She fits against me perfectly, like she was carved from my missing pieces.
"This is humiliating," she hisses, but her nipples are hard against the silk, visible to anyone who looks.
"This is business." I signal the waitress for our usual: whiskey for me, champagne for her. "Every family needs to see you're mine now. No confusion. No questions."
The waitress, a blonde who usually flirts, takes one look at how I'm holding Valentina and keeps her eyes down. Smart girl.
"I'm not your trophy," Valentina says, but she doesn't pull away when my fingers trace her bare shoulder.
"No," I agree, watching her shiver at my touch. "You're so much more than that."
Twelve days of her fighting me, and I'm starting to crave the battle as much as the victory. She's changing something in me I didn't know could change. The way she stands up to my family, the way she refuses to break is intoxicating.
The champagne arrives, and I watch her take a sip, her throat working as she swallows. Everything she does is elegant, even her fury. Especially her fury. Around us, conversations pause as people notice the Bernardi princess in my booth, wearing my fortune in diamonds, branded by my presence.
At the next table, I see Torrelli's wife, perfectly coiffed, dead-eyed, moving only when her husband permits. She's what mafia wives become after years of captivity. The comparison must occur to Valentina too because she tenses.
"Dance with me," I say, standing and extending my hand.
"I'd rather drink bleach."
"Liar." I lean down, my mouth close to her ear. "Your body knows the truth even if your mind denies it."
Her face flushes, but she takes my hand, letting me lead her to the dance floor. The crowd parts for us, everyone recognizing the Don and his stolen bride. The music shifts to something slower, sultrier, and I pull her against me until no space exists between us.
"Everyone's staring," she says, her hands on my shoulders.
"Good." I press my palm to her lower back, feeling the heat of her skin through the silk. "Let them see how perfectly you fit against me."
We move together, and despite her resistance, she follows my lead flawlessly. Her body knows mine, responds to it, even as her mind rebels. I can feel her heart racing where her chest presses to mine, feel the slight tremor in her hands.
"You chose this dress," I say against her temple, breathing in her perfume.
"It was the only option that wasn't completely hideous," she lies, but her breath catches when I spin her, then pull her back tighter.
"You chose it because you wanted me to look at you exactly like this." My hand spans her waist, thumb stroking just under her breast. "Because you remember how I reacted in that boutique, seeing you in red."
"You're delusional."
But she doesn't deny it. Can't, when her body is practically melting into mine, when every movement makes her breath hitch. The song ends, but I hold her for a moment longer, letting every man in this club see that Valentina Rosetti is completely, irrevocably mine.
We return to the booth, and I position her even closer than before, my thigh pressed to hers, my arm around her shoulders.
She doesn't fight it this time, accepts the intimacy like she's learning her place.
My fingers play with her hair, twirling the dark strands while I nod to various associates who approach to pay respects.
Each one looks at her with want they try to hide. Each one knows better than to let that want show too clearly.
I take a sip of my whiskey, studying her profile in the club's dim lighting. "I noticed some books missing from my library. Military strategy texts—Clausewitz, Sun Tzu, Caesar's Commentaries."
Her fingers tighten on her champagne glass, but she doesn't look at me. "How fascinating."
"They're the editions with my personal notes. Years of analysis." I watch her throat work as she swallows. "You wouldn't happen to know where they went?"
"Maybe you misplaced them." She lifts her chin in that defiant way that tells me she's lying. "You've been distracted lately. Kidnapping brides takes focus."
“I do not misplace things,” I say, tightening my grip on her shoulder.
"Well, maybe you have mice." She takes another sip, still avoiding my gaze. "Very educated mice."
"Mice," I repeat, amused despite myself. The slight flush creeping up her neck tells me everything. My little principessa has been studying my strategies, reading my thoughts in the margins.
"Or maybe someone borrowed them," she suggests, finally meeting my eyes with practiced innocence. “Sofia, perhaps?”
"Sofia doesn't read military history." I let my fingers play with a strand of her hair. "But someone in my penthouse apparently does."
She lifts her chin in that defiant way that makes my blood heat. "Then I hope you find them."
The challenge in her voice is unmistakable. She's baiting me, and we both know it.
Antonio Salvatore approaches our booth without invitation, and I feel Valentina tense beside me.
The Salvatore lieutenant moves with the arrogance of a man who thinks his family name means something in my territory. His eyes lock on Valentina, traveling her body with an appreciation that makes my jaw clench. Behind him, two of his soldiers hover, trying to look casual.
"Don Rosetti," he says, but his attention stays on my wife. "And the beautiful Mrs. Rosetti. Though I hear the marriage was… unconventional."
"All the best things are," I reply, my voice even while rage builds in my chest.
Antonio slides into the booth without permission, positioning himself on Valentina's other side. Too close. The disrespect is deliberate, calculated. A test of my claim in front of the entire club.
"I heard the Irish are planning retaliation," Antonio says, still eyeing Valentina. "Perhaps the principessa would be safer under Salvatore protection."
The threat is subtle but clear. Question my ability to protect what's mine. Suggest she needs someone else.
"The Irish know better," I say, my voice dropping to a warning. "And so should you."
"You look exquisite," he tells her, ignoring my warning, and then does something that signs his death warrant.
He touches her arm.
His fingers trail down her bare skin, possessive and presumptuous, while he speaks. "Beautiful women shouldn't be kept caged, Rosetti. Maybe she'd prefer some… freedom."
I go deadly still. The kind of stillness that makes smart men run.
The entire VIP section seems to hold its breath. Conversations stop. The music continues but feels distant, muffled under the roar of blood in my ears. This piece of shit is touching my wife. Testing my authority. Challenging my claim.
Valentina doesn't pull away, frozen between us, but I feel her pulse racing where my fingers rest against her throat. She recognizes the danger, feels my rage like electricity crackling through the air.
"Take your hand off my wife," I say, each word precise and lethal, "before I remove it permanently."
Antonio smiles, the stupid fuck actually smiles, his hand still on her skin. "Perhaps you should ask what she wants."
"I want," Valentina says, and we both turn to her. "I want you to stop touching me."
But Antonio doesn't move his hand. Instead, he squeezes her arm, proprietary and insulting. "Come now, bella. Surely you'd prefer a man who won you properly, not one who stole you like a thief."
The disrespect echoes through the VIP section. People are openly staring now, waiting to see how Chicago's Don handles this challenge. How I protect what's mine.
"Last chance," I say softly.
He laughs.
My hand shoots out, grabbing Antonio's wrist before he can react.
The first bone breaks with a subtle pop, his eyes widening in shock. Then I twist, applying pressure methodically, and the sound of breaking bones echoes over the music. His radius snaps. Then his ulna. Each break deliberate, designed for maximum damage.
Antonio's scream cuts through the club as I continue breaking his hand one bone at a time. Blood pools on the marble floor beneath our booth as compound fractures tear through skin. The precision of it, the control, makes it worse than random violence. This is artistry.
"She's mine," I growl, still crushing what remains of his hand. "My wife. Under my protection."
His soldiers step forward but freeze when my men materialize from the crowd, weapons visible. The smart patrons are already backing away, giving us space. The stupid ones pull out phones until my security makes them reconsider.
Antonio writhes at our feet, cradling his destroyed hand against his chest. White bone fragments protrude through torn skin. He'll never use that hand properly again. Every time he tries to hold something, he'll remember the price of touching what belongs to Marco Rosetti.
I stand, pulling Valentina up with me.
Blood spreads across the white marble, dark in the club lighting. Antonio whimpers, trying to crawl away, leaving a red trail. The sight should disgust my wife. Horrify her. Should make her pull away from the monster she married.
Instead, she presses closer.
The heat of Valentina's body against mine tells me everything.
She's aroused. By the violence. By watching me destroy a man for daring to touch her.
I can smell it on her, that sweet scent stronger now, mixing with perfume and champagne.
Her nipples are hard against my chest where she presses close, and when she shifts, I feel her legs squeeze together, her hips dancing.
But there's something else too, the rapid pulse at her throat that speaks of fear, not just arousal. The way her fingers twine together.
Security arrives to remove Antonio, dragging him out while he bleeds and moans. The other patrons give us a wide berth, conversations resuming but quieter, everyone hyperaware of what just happened.
Across the club, movement catches my eye.
Christopher O'Brien sits at the bar, watching us with calculated interest, his pale hair brushed back to expose every inch of his ferret face.
He raises his whiskey in a mock toast, his smile sharp as glass.
The younger O'Brien brother, smarter than Liam, more dangerous because of it. He's been too quiet since the wedding.
"Problem?" Valentina asks, following my gaze.
"Not yet," I say, but we both know that's temporary. "You're shaking," I observe, my hand on her waist.
"Yes," she admits, but doesn't pull away. If anything, she moves closer, seeking my heat, my presence, even as I feel her internal struggle.
"You liked it," I say against her ear, not a question.
Her breath hitches. "That's sick."
"That's honest." My thumb strokes her waist through the silk.
She turns her face into my chest, hiding her expression, but I feel her body's response. The way she melts against me, how her hands clutch my jacket, the slight roll of her hips seeking friction.
"Shut up," she whispers, but there's no heat in it.
The club continues around us, but we exist in our own sphere. Her arousal perfumes the air between us, making my cock twitch.
"Let's go," I say, starting to guide her toward the exit.
"No." She stops, looking up at me with dilated pupils, flushed cheeks. "Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because if we leave now, I might…" She stops, biting her lip.
"Might what, principessa?"
She laughs, bitter and beautiful, but doesn't answer.
I trace her jaw with my fingers, feeling her lean into the touch despite herself.
"I hate you," she says, but her hands are still clutching my jacket, keeping me close.
"I know." I kiss her forehead, gentle despite the violence still singing in my blood. "But you're starting to need me anyway."