Chapter 10
Mikhail
Minutes turn into hours, and hours turn into days that never end. I pace the small space of my cell, fingers brushing the iron bars as I turn. What the fuck is taking Antonio so long?
Upstairs, heavy footsteps trudge across the floor. Gruff voices rise in volume and then grow quiet again. The usual.
Despite the bullshit party he organized, Antonio is clearly not giving Cecilia away to some random Capo, and for good reason. Her shrink’s file from years ago—a dark little secret hidden from the public—told me everything I needed to know.
My future wife is a murderer. Like father, like daughter, I suppose.
I lean against the wall, flipping the piece of glass I retrieved from her broken caviar bowl. It flies into the air before landing in my palm upside down. I smile to myself, thinking about the way her world flipped since she committed the crime.
When she was six, Antonio found her covered in her mother’s blood, a knife dangling from her hands. The file said she’d snuck into the master bedroom one night, took a letter opener from the vanity, and plunged it into the woman’s heart for no apparent reason.
Cute. I’ve dreamed of doing that to my mother too, but I never got the chance. Maybe because mine is a special breed of psychopath.
The event was so traumatic, it has completely disappeared from Cecilia’s memory. Now, she only has to deal with the constant nightmares. Poor thing has no idea where they come from.
Like most girls born into a criminal organization, she’s been sheltered and raised in isolation.
Antonio keeps her on an even shorter leash, thinking she might one day attempt another murder.
So far, she hasn’t, but as much as he wants to pass his daughter over to someone else who can hold that leash, he can’t.
If Cecilia ends up killing her future husband, Antonio will be dragged into another war—this time, within his own circle. He could even lose his throne over the whole thing.
That’s why my proposal is so fucking brilliant.
I watch through the minuscule window—a hole in the wall—my eyes tracing the path of the rose-infested garden I walked the night I came here. They don’t even know who helped me with the address. I intend to break that news later, once the marriage is sealed.
Things had to be done this way. If I’d come armed, or with backup, no one would’ve believed I’m serious about peace. The only real choice Antonio has here is to make Cecilia my wife. Because if she somehow ends up killing me? Our families are already at war. No downside.
He knows it, I know it, and now, he’s just prolonging the inevitable to prove a futile point. Otherwise, my wounds wouldn’t be healing. He hasn’t sent anyone else down here to give me fresh cuts.
Only, his daughter came crawling to me like a needy pet. My cock twitches at the way my skin remembers hers. Fucking hell, that girl. What the fuck was that all about?
I groan, partly in annoyance, partly because I want more.
Her desperate breaths still echo in my mind as the heat between her legs drove my fingers there.
It seemed to calm her down, but, fuck me, it had the opposite effect on my body—left me wired like a goddamn Christmas tree in Times Square.
I’m restless, craving back my freedom like I’m the one suffocating now.
I need sleep. And pussy. And loud music. And that fucking cigarette she promised me.
I didn’t expect the trembling little thing to be on my mind so much, but I’ve been locked in here with no entertainment. How could I not think about her all the damn time?
Outside, polished shoes approach the two guards stationed in the garden—probably Cesare’s. I can’t see any faces from this angle. The men follow him back to the house a moment later, and I quirk a brow, wondering if it means anything.
Not too long ago, I used to spy on our guards with my brother, back when we were still two kids looking for comfort in each other’s presence.
I don’t let myself think about him often.
It never ends well. There are debts you can repay with money, others with power.
And then there are the ones that rot inside you, no matter how many years pass.
Everything I do now traces back to Wolfgang. Every compromise, every fucking sacrifice. If this sham of a marriage buys me even a fraction of absolution—if it shuts his mouth about what I did back then—then it’s worth whatever comes next.
My jaw tenses at the memory, at knowing how profound his hate for me has grown over the years. I caused it willingly, and I deserve every ounce of it. After all we went through, it was the only way to move forward.
A door slams open upstairs, and heavy footsteps descend into the basement.
Fucking finally.
Adrenaline spikes my blood, my brain delighting in the haze encompassing me.
Like a game of Russian roulette, the axis of my life spins in somebody else’s hand, and the only way to know if I’ll live or die is to wait until they pull the trigger.
Both options sound equally appealing. What’s the point of living when you’re trapped by guilt your entire fucking life?
Silhouettes come into view, heading for my cell. A guard works the lock on my door while others wait behind him. Cesare is here too, looking a regal way of pissed off. I cock my head, waiting to see what they’ll do, until the asshole finally talks.
“Get him out,” Cesare mutters, not sparing me a glance. His next words bring a slight upturn to one side of my mouth. “Don Ferrara needs him upstairs.”
Cecilia
Warm water drips down my body as I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my breasts. I tuck my wet hair behind my ears, walking barefoot toward my closet, avoiding my reflection in the mirror as best I can. I refuse to look at last night’s version of myself.
Slipping on a random dress, I plug in my blow dryer and begin fluffing out my hair.
It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m supposed to be sitting at the piano in ten minutes—not that anyone will be coming to my practice.
It’s just the schedule Ms. Donatello ingrained in me years ago: one hour and a half after breakfast and another session of the same length before dinnertime.
Not once have I skipped this routine, not even when I was feverish with chickenpox or curled over from a UTI. It’s the only thing I still have control over in my life. If he wants me to stop, my father will have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.
When I do show up in my study, my piano waits for me in the corner.
I roll my shoulders, forcing them to relax, and trudge to the black leather chair.
My hands look steady. They feel steady, but something deep inside me isn’t.
I refuse to think about it now, knowing exactly what it is that tries to steal my focus.
Before I begin warming up, I look out the window, the ocean’s waves crashing into the rocks in the distance. Seagulls fly above the wild beach, occasionally landing on the sand. It’s peaceful. Familiar. Exactly what I need right now to feel sane again.
I start with a set of scales and arpeggios, allowing my hand muscles to get used to the motions. The sound flows through the room, and my attention feels steady, like I can do this with no problem—until it doesn’t.
My fingers slip, tangling the melody as if it’s my first time doing these exercises. I part my lips in surprise before I take in a heap of air and start from the beginning.
G, E minor, to C, to G, to—
Clunk!
My fingers slip again, heat flashing through me as the memory of Mikhail’s hand around my throat returns, slamming into my mind.
Don’t think about him. Just play.
G, E minor, to C, to—
Clunk!
I jolt from the piano, turning to the window, my hands on my flushed face. My fingers still tingle. My lungs struggle to expand. This is bad. This is so, so bad. What am I if I can’t play?
I let him touch me in ways no one else has, and even if I refuse to turn that thought on its head, I know damn well I enjoyed it. How can someone scare and intrigue me so much at the same time?
Something’s seriously wrong with me. It’s the kind of thing I should be talking about in therapy, if my shrink wasn’t giving my father detailed summaries of everything we discuss. He questioned me about something he wasn’t supposed to know once, and that’s how I found out.
And the marriage…the marriage. It’s coming, whether I like it or not.
Running away comes to mind, but even in this state, I recognize how na?ve the thought is. Where would I even go? Who would I become? I don’t know how to exist outside these walls. I have no money, no contacts, no place I could hide without my father finding me and dragging me right back.
A knock on my door pulls me out of my head. I wipe a hand under my eyes, clearing my throat. “Yes?”
“Don Ferrara needs you in his office,” Enzo says, his voice muffled beyond the thick wall.
I nod, even though I know he can’t see me. “Fine. Just give me a moment.”
I scurry into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I’d hate to show my father I’ve been crying. He doesn’t deserve my tears. For a second, I close my eyes, and the basement clamps around me again. The dark, the quiet, the feel of someone else’s hands guiding my breath.
I shove the memory down.
Even Mikhail can’t save me this time. Despite all that raw, primordial dominance, he’s just a pawn in my father’s game, like all of us. Will they kill him once I’m married and out of this house? Does he regret stalking me in exchange for his life? He has to. He must.
In the end, what was I to him? Merely a curiosity.
Out into the hallway, Enzo greets me with a nod, walking behind me as I descend the stairs and make a beeline for the office.
The door is already open, and as soon as I approach it, I make eye contact with my father.
He looks tense—uncomfortable, even. The strain in his gaze and the slight downturn of his mouth are clear signs.
I only ever see him like this when things don’t go according to plan.
Another man sits across from him with his back to me, sprawling in his chair, his ankle resting on his knee.
Something in my stomach twists before I even see his face.
I swallow into my dry throat, preparing myself for the worst. This has to be about marriage.
And this person…is likely someone from last night’s party, the son of some Capo I’m supposed to fawn over.
“What is it?” I ask, pressing my teeth together until my gums begin to hurt.
Except nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for the moment the man turns, revealing the face of the monster I’ve been secretly visiting in his lair.
Elegant.
Intoxicating.
Scarred and bruised, yet fresh, as if the devil came out into the sun for once.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Mikhail purrs. “Don’t you look beautiful in the morning light.”