Chapter 11 - Marco #2
She sees me immediately. Her chin lifts in that defiant way that makes me want to pin her against the nearest wall and fuck that defiance right out of her.
"I bought something for you," she tells me, reaching into her bag and pulling out the book she bought.
She presses it to my chest, holding it there, lingering, daring me to accept it. When I finally do, she pulls her hands away like I'm made of fire.
I immediately open to the title page and read the inscription she wrote: "Know your enemy, but what happens when your enemy knows you back?"
"That old place on Michigan Ave never has first editions," I say lazily, tensing for her reaction.
She moves closer, each step deliberate. "You watched me today."
It's a statement, not a question.
"Every second."
"That's sick."
"That's protection." I stand, and she takes an instinctive step back. Good. She should remember what I am. "You think I'd let you wander my city without knowing exactly where you are? Who's near you? Which motherfucker is looking at you too long?"
"I wasn't going to run."
"No?" I move closer, backing her against the bookshelf. "The FBI was right there, principessa. Freedom on a silver platter."
"I came back."
"You came home." I cage her with my arms, not quite touching but close enough that she feels my heat. "Say it right."
Her breath catches. "I came back to the penthouse."
"Try again." My hand moves to her throat, thumb pressing against the spot she's been touching all day. Her pulse hammers beneath my touch. "Where did you come?"
"Home," she whispers, and the word destroys me. "I came home."
"Why?"
"Ask me again when I figure out the answer."
"You already know." I lean closer, my mouth near her ear. "You came home because your body knows who it belongs to. Because you've been wet all day thinking about this morning. Because you touch yourself at night wishing it was my hands, my mouth, my cock."
She shudders, and I feel her nipples harden through the silk of her dress.
"You didn't run," I continue, "because you're starting to crave this. The way I look at you. The way I make you feel. The way your pussy clenches when I get close."
"You're delusional."
"I'm right." My free hand finds her waist, pulls her against me so she feels how hard I am. "And tomorrow, when I send you out again with more freedom, you'll come home even faster. Because each day, you need this more."
Her hands press against my chest, but she doesn't push. "This isn't healthy."
"Nothing about us is healthy." I release her throat, watching her lean back against the bookshelf, breathing hard. "But it's real. And it's ours."
She looks up at me, lips parted, eyes dark with the same need that's been eating me alive for three weeks.
The moment stretches between us, electric and inevitable.
I lean in, close enough that our breath mingles, close enough that she can taste what's coming.
Her eyes flutter closed, her chin tilts up, offering her mouth like the surrender I've been waiting for.
"Marco." My name on her lips, half plea, half prayer.
My mouth is an inch from hers when my phone vibrates against my chest. I ignore it, focused only on the heat between us, the way her body arches toward mine. But it vibrates again. And again. The emergency pattern only my family uses.
"Don't," she whispers when I pull back slightly.
The phone continues its insistent buzz. I pull it out, ready to destroy whoever's interrupting, when I see Luca's text.
"Her father just made an announcement. Check the Tribune site. Now."
I open the link with one hand, the other still pressed against the bookshelf beside Valentina's head. The headline loads, and my blood turns to ice.
"BERNARDI HEIRESS TO WED O'brIEN SON: Alliance Strengthens Despite Recent Setback"
Below is a photo of Alice Bernardi, looking young and terrified, standing beside Patrick O'Brien's youngest son, Christopher. The same son with a reputation for breaking his toys.
Valentina must see something in my face because her arousal shifts to concern. "What is it?"
I turn the phone to show her. Watch the color drain from her face as she reads. Her legs give out, and I catch her before she falls, holding her against me as she processes what this means.
"No," she breathes. "He promised. If I married, if I didn't fight, he promised Alice would be safe."
"Your father's a businessman," I say, voice carefully controlled despite the rage building in my chest. "He found another daughter to trade."
She grabs her phone and dials her sister’s number, looking frantic. I let her. But she just shakes her head and turns it off, eyes glistening.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Call didn’t go through.”
"Alice is nineteen." Her voice cracks. "She still believes in love. Still thinks she might choose her own life. And Christopher O'Brien…" She shudders.
"I know what he does to women."
She pulls back to look at me, tears streaming down her face. "You know? Then you know what will happen to my sister. What he'll do to her."
"It's not my problem."
The slap catches me off guard, her palm cracking across my face hard enough to snap my head to the side. We both freeze, the violence hanging between us like a loaded gun.
"Not your problem?" Her voice rises. "You stole me to prevent my father's alliance with the Irish. You started this war. And now my baby sister will pay the price."
I touch my jaw where her hand connected, taste copper where my teeth cut my cheek. Any other person would be dead for striking me. But looking at her now, fury and grief warring in her eyes, I only want her more.
"You came home to me," I remind her, voice soft and dangerous. "Chose me over freedom. Was that just about protecting Alice? Or was there more?"
She laughs, bitter and broken. "Does it matter? I chose you, and Father's selling her anyway. My sacrifice meant nothing."
"Your sacrifice meant everything." I crowd her against the bookshelf again, hands on either side of her head. "You're mine now. Under my protection. That means something."
"But not Alice."
"Alice isn't my wife."
"She's my sister." Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, desperation replacing fury. "Please. Marco, please. You have the power to stop this."
"At what cost?" I study her face, the way desperation makes her even more beautiful. "What would you give me to save your sister?"
"Anything." The word comes out immediately, no hesitation. "Everything."
"Dangerous words, principessa."
"I mean them." She rises on her toes, bringing our faces close again. "Save my sister, and I'll stop fighting. I'll be your perfect mafia wife. I'll warm your bed, bear your children, stand beside you at every family gathering. I'll choose you, truly choose you, not just come home but stay home."
The offer hangs between us, tempting and terrible. Everything I've wanted offered freely, but for the wrong reasons.
"You'd whore yourself to save her?"
Her chin lifts. "I'd do anything to save her. The question is, are you man enough to protect what's yours? Or does your protection only extend to things that benefit you?"
The challenge in her voice makes my cock hard despite the gravity of the situation. This woman, my wife, standing here negotiating with me like an equal, using my own possessiveness against me.
"If I do this," I say slowly, "if I stop this wedding, save your sister, there's no going back. You're mine completely. No more resistance, no more pretending you don't want me, no more sleeping on the far edge of the bed like proximity to me is poison."
"Yes."
"You'll beg for my cock. Scream my name. Submit to everything I want to do to that perfect body."
Her breath catches, but she holds my gaze. "Yes."
"And if you're lying? If you go back on this deal?"
"I won't." She presses closer, until I feel every curve against me.
"Save Alice, and I'm yours in every way you've been waiting for.
This isn't just about protection anymore, Marco.
This is about whether you're the man I'm starting to believe you are, or just another monster using women as currency. "
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Luca: "Wedding scheduled for tomorrow night. They're moving fast."
Twenty-four hours to stop a wedding, save her sister, and claim what's been mine since I carried her from that altar. The game has changed, the stakes raised beyond anything I anticipated.
I push back from the bookshelf, already calculating what it will take. The Irish won't give her up easily. Blood will spill. Men will die. But looking at Valentina now, tears on her cheeks and steel in her spine, I know I've already decided.
"Pack a bag," I tell her. "We're going to get your sister."
The relief in her eyes is almost worth the war I'm about to start. Almost as valuable as what she's promised in return.
"Marco." She catches my arm as I turn to leave. "Why? Why would you do this?"
I look back at her, this woman who came home to me, who chose her cage, who's about to become mine in every way that matters.
"Because you're a Rosetti now," I say simply. "And Rosettis protect their own."
The truth is darker, more possessive. I'm not saving Alice out of kindness. I'm doing it because Valentina asked, because she offered herself completely, because the thought of her grateful and willing in my bed is worth burning Chicago to the ground.