Chapter 10 - Valentina
Three weeks since he stole me from the altar.
Three weeks of pretending nothing has changed while everything has.
Now I stand before the full-length mirror in Marco’s penthouse, watching him fasten diamonds around my throat.
Each stone is another chain, another claim, and tonight every woman in Chicago’s elite will know it.
"Beautiful," he murmurs against my ear, his fingers lingering on my pulse point where the necklace sits. "My queen."
I touch the diamonds deliberately, feeling their weight. Let him think it's submission. I know it's strategy. "Your trophy, you mean."
His reflection smiles, dark and knowing. "Both."
The black Valentino gown clings to every curve, the kind of dress that makes intentions clear. But it's the diamonds that mark me as his. The Rosetti family jewels that haven't been worn in public since his mother's death. Every person at tonight's charity auction will understand the significance.
Mother's rosary beads hide in my clutch, their familiar weight a reminder of what happens to women who enjoy their cages too much. But when Marco's hand settles possessively on my lower back to guide me to the elevator, I lean into his touch just slightly. My body's betrayal is becoming habit.
The Palmer House ballroom glitters with danger masquerading as elegance.
Tommy waits with the car as Marco's security detail flanks our entrance, their hands never straying far from concealed weapons.
Two more of his soldiers blend into the crowd, their eyes tracking every movement toward us.
The scent of expensive perfume can't quite mask the gun oil and barely leashed violence that follows men like my husband.
Conversations pause as we pass. Marco's reputation precedes him. The Don who took a bride from the altar, who broke a man's hand for touching what was his. Women eye me with a mixture of envy and pity. The men don't look at me at all, too aware of what happened to the last one who did.
"The infamous Mrs. Rosetti," Margaret Whitmore approaches, her smile sharp as winter. She's Senator Whitmore's wife, untouchable by Chicago PD but very much aware of who truly runs this city. "You look radiant. Captivity suits you."
The barb is testing for weakness. I lift my chin, channeling every lesson in regal composure my mother taught me before Father destroyed her. "Freedom is overrated when the cage comes with Cartier."
Her laugh is surprised, reassessing. "Indeed. Though I imagine some birds sing prettier in cages than others."
"Only if they choose to sing," I counter, feeling Marco's approval in how his thumb strokes my spine.
She retreats, message received. I'm not some trembling victim. I'm choosing to be here, choosing to wear his diamonds, choosing to play this role. Even if the choice isn't entirely mine.
"Magnificent," Marco murmurs against my temple, his breath stirring my hair. "You're learning to be my queen."
The praise warms me despite myself, heat pooling low in my belly. I've become addicted to these moments of approval, these glimpses of pride in his dark eyes. Mother would be horrified.
The auction begins with the usual pageantry.
Hospital executives thanking donors, sob stories about sick children, the careful dance of charity that's really about tax write-offs and social positioning.
Marco bids occasionally, throwing money at causes with the same casual indifference he uses for everything that isn't me.
Then the bachelor auction starts.
"Ladies, prepare your checkbooks!" The auctioneer's voice booms. "Our next item is a dance with one of Chicago's loveliest. Mrs. Valentina Rosetti!"
My blood freezes. I glance at Marco, whose expression has gone lethal. Of course he knew. He controls every detail of my life. This is another test, another public display of ownership.
"You knew," I whisper.
"I know everything that happens in my city." His voice could frost glass. "The question is whether anyone's stupid enough to bid."
Before I can respond, a familiar Irish accent cuts through the murmuring crowd. "Fifty thousand for a dance with the beautiful Mrs. Rosetti."
Liam O'Brien stands across the ballroom, his green eyes holding mine with calculated malice. My former groom, the one I was supposed to marry before Marco stole me. The Irish prince testing the Italian king.
The entire ballroom goes silent. This isn't about charity anymore. This is about territory, about who owns what in Chicago's underworld.
"One hundred thousand," Marco says, his tone conversational but deadly.
Liam's smile is cold. "One-fifty. Some prizes are worth the cost. Even stolen ones."
Around us, I sense the shift in the room. Hands moving to concealed weapons, bodies positioning for potential violence. Marco's soldiers step closer to the stage.
"Two hundred thousand," Marco says, each word precise as a bullet.
Liam considers, his eyes stripping me mentally, calculating if pushing further is worth potential war. "Two fifty. Unless you're worried about competition, Rosetti. Scared she might remember what she's missing?"
The insult lands perfectly. Marco goes still beside me, the kind of stillness that precedes violence. When he speaks, his voice carries enough threat to make seasoned killers step back.
"Five hundred thousand." The number drops into silence. "She's already mine. This is just making it expensive for anyone to forget."
The auctioneer's gavel cracks before Liam can respond. "Sold! Five hundred thousand dollars to Mr. Rosetti!"
The applause is nervous, uncertain. Everyone recognizes what just happened. A public claiming worth a fortune. But as Marco leads me to the dance floor, I don't feel humiliated.
I feel powerful.
He spent half a million dollars just to remind everyone that I belong to him. The thought makes me wet, makes my nipples harden beneath the designer gown. My body has learned to crave his possession as much as it fights against it.
His hand burns through the silk at my waist as we dance, his other hand holding mine with deliberate possessiveness. Every eye in the ballroom watches us. The Don and his stolen bride, five hundred thousand dollars' worth of public claiming spinning across the floor.
"You enjoyed that," he murmurs against my ear, his breath making me shiver. "Watching me destroy him financially just to prove a point."
"You're delusional," I manage, but my voice comes out breathy.
"Your body says otherwise." His hand tightens on my waist, thumb stroking just under my breast where others can see. "Your pupils are dilated. Your pulse is racing. And if I slid my hand under this dress right now, I'd find you dripping wet."
The crude truth makes me flush hot. Because he's right. I'm soaked, squirming with each movement of the dance. Some dark part of me loves this. Being worth so much to him that he'll publicly humiliate rivals just to keep me.
"Careful, Rosetti," Liam's voice cuts in as he passes close during his own dance. "Some prizes come with a blood price. The Irish have long memories."
Marco doesn't even look at him. "And I have a basement perfect for shortening them."
The threat is casual, matter-of-fact. Liam pales and moves away, his dance partner looking relieved when the song ends. Around us, the other dancers give us space, recognizing the danger that radiates from my husband.
"We should leave," I whisper, aware of the attention, the way people whisper behind manicured hands.
"Not yet." His hand slides up my back, fingers tracing my spine with dark promise. "I want every person here to see exactly who you belong to. Want them to watch you melt into my touch despite yourself."
He spins me, then pulls me back against his chest, my back to his front. His hands settle on my hips, possessive and unmistakable. In the mirrored wall, I see us. Him dark and dangerous behind me, me flushed and obviously aroused in his arms.
"Look," he commands softly. "Look at what you've become."
In the reflection, I see a woman I don't recognize. Dripping in diamonds that mark her as owned. Body pliant against her captor. Eyes dark with need instead of fear. I look like every mafia wife I swore I'd never become.
"I hate you," I whisper, but my hips press back against him, feeling his erection through our clothes.
"No," he corrects, his mouth at my throat. "You hate that you want this. Want me. Want to be my dark queen."
The song ends, but he holds me for a moment longer, letting everyone see. When we finally return to our table, women look at me with newfound respect mixed with fear. I'm not just his captive. I'm his chosen obsession, worth bankruptcy and bloodshed.
The rest of the evening passes in a haze of congratulations and careful distance. People approach to pay respects but don't linger. Liam and the Irish delegation leave early, message received. The senator's wife nods to me with something like approval.
In the car afterward, Marco's hand finds my thigh, proprietary and warm. "Five hundred thousand," he muses, thumb stroking higher. "Worth every penny to see you realize what you are."
"And what's that?" My voice shakes, fingernails cutting into my palms.
"Mrs." His hand slides higher, beneath the hem of my dress and up along my thigh until he is playing with the edge of my panties. "Fucking." He pushes the panties aside and finds the wet heat inside them, running a finger through my wetness. "Rosetti." He pushes a finger inside me, making me gasp.
I catch my reflection in the window. Diamonds at my throat, his marks on my skin, my lips swollen from biting them during the dance. When his fingers stroke me, I spread my legs wider, hating myself for the moan that escapes.
"Tell me you want this," he challenges. "Call me husband and beg to stay with me."
"Never," I gasp out, even as my hips rock against his hand.
His laugh is dark, knowing, carrying an edge of danger. "Oh, you will. And when you do, you'll get all of me, principessa. Every. Last. Inch."
And when he removes his hand from me, licking his fingers slowly, then turns away and looks out the window at the city blurring past, I almost give in.
I almost lean down and take him in my mouth, anything to be closer to his body.
It takes every iota of willpower I possess to turn away and swallow my moans, pretending I don't care.