Chapter 5 Alessandro
Three days since I claimed her in that chapel. Three days of her body learning to arch toward mine even as her mind rebels. Three days of honeymoon isolation that ends tonight.
The blue dress I selected clings to every curve as I watch her prepare for her first family dinner. My family gave us privacy, a courtesy for newlyweds, but Sunday dinner is law. Even for a marriage built on lies I'm beginning to suspect run deeper than simple nervousness.
"Breathe," I murmur against her ear, letting my lips brush the shell. "They can smell fear."
She straightens her spine, lifting that stubborn chin in a way that makes me want to bite it.
The dining room sprawls before us, mahogany table set for eight, crystal gleaming like weapons in candlelight.
The room reeks of old wood and older blood, every family celebration and execution held in these walls.
My hand rests possessively on the small of her back as we enter, feeling the fine tremor that runs through her body. Good. She should be nervous meeting my family.
Marco enters first with Valentina, his presence filling the room like smoke. My brother nods once, eyes tracking my wife with the calculation of a man who measures everything in terms of profit and loss.
"Welcome again," he says, taking her hand and kissing both cheeks in formal greeting.
She manages the introduction with surprising grace, though I feel her pulse racing where my thumb strokes her wrist. Dante and Ana arrive next, my mute brother signing something that makes Ana smile softly. She's holding their daughter Antonia, the baby's dark eyes alert despite the late hour.
"The Rosetti men aren't as bad as they look," Ana tells my wife, genuine warmth in her voice. "They tend to grow on you."
Luca and Faith enter, my brother's pale eyes finding mine with unspoken amusement. Faith's hand rests on her swollen belly, six months along, looking like she stepped from a Sunday school rather than into a mafia dining room.
"The newest Mrs. Rosetti," Luca drawls, circling us with predatory interest. "How delightful."
Nico appears in the doorway, standing at attention even in civilian clothes, the soldier he'll always be. Then Sofia glides in, blonde perfection wrapped in cream silk, her smile sharp as the blade I know she carries.
Each family introduction carries weight, establishing hierarchy, and I feel my possessive pride swell as I present my wife to each of them. "My wife," I say with each introduction, the words like ownership on my tongue.
This was supposed to be simple. A business arrangement. But watching her navigate their calculating stares, something feral claws at my chest.
"We're so thrilled Alessandro finally settled down," Sofia coos, air-kissing with precision. "We were starting to worry he'd die alone surrounded by his watches."
"Now, now," I say, guiding my wife to her chair. "No need to share all my secrets on her first family dinner."
The chair I pull out for her is to my right, close enough that I can touch her whenever I want. Close enough that everyone knows she's mine. The family takes their seats, years of hierarchy determining placement.
"We stayed away to give you both time," Marco says, unfolding his napkin with precise movements. "But Dante and Ana are considering finding their own place soon anyway."
Dante signs something, and Ana translates while adjusting Antonia on her lap: "He means we want more privacy with the baby."
"Understandable," I reply, my hand finding my wife's thigh under the table. She jumps slightly, then forces herself still. "Though you'll be missed."
Conversation turns briefly toward business.
Marco's briefing this morning included troubling news: Volkov shipping movements along our northern routes.
The Russians have been quiet for over a decade, ever since Luca killed one of Viktor Volkov's sons during that Moretti meeting-turned-massacre.
But quiet isn't the same as gone. Sofia still flinches when anyone mentions that night, though she claims not to remember the details.
"What about the Volkov situation?" Nico asks, and Sofia's wine glass clatters against her plate. Everyone pretends not to notice. "Our sources say Alexei's been making inquiries. Asking about old business. The Moretti massacre."
It’s Ana’s turn to flinch at the mention of the night that killed her father, and baby Antonia starts to cry.
"That was eleven years ago," Marco says flatly. "Mikhail Volkov is dead and buried."
"His brother isn't." Nico's jaw tightens. "And Russians have long memories.”
The first course arrives, some elegant soup that Maria insists will impress.
My wife holds her spoon with careful precision, but I notice the slight struggle with formal etiquette, the way she watches Ana from the corner of her eye to copy the proper form.
Her perfume changes when she's nervous. The vanilla turns sharp, metallic.
"So," Sofia begins, twirling her wine glass with deliberate casualness, "tell us about Switzerland. Those finishing schools must be fascinating."
My wife freezes for just a heartbeat before recovering. "It was… educational."
"I imagine so." Sofia's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Which one did you attend? Le Rosey? Aiglon?"
"It was very exclusive. They valued privacy above all else."
Marco saves her inadvertently, turning the conversation to business. "The Hewson technology patents are exactly what we need to modernize operations. Digital territory is the future."
"Assuming the family delivers as promised," Luca adds, watching her with those unsettling pale eyes.
"They will," I say firmly, my grip tightening on her thigh. "Won't they, cara mia?"
She nods, but stays silent, her lips pressed together in a thin line. I can feel her trembling under my hand, the question clearly beyond her knowledge.
"I'm sure the Hewsons will honor their agreements," Marco says, filling the awkward pause. "They understand the consequences of failing us."
"How wonderful," Sofia purrs, leaning forward. "Though I must say, your etiquette is quite… unique. Did they teach that particular way of managing the courses in Switzerland? You seem to struggle with the formal progression."
The words hang in the air like a blade. I watch my wife's fingers clutch her napkin, her struggle with etiquette now highlighted for everyone to see. Around us, the family goes still, everyone recognizing Sofia's probing for what it is: an interrogation.
"What exactly are you implying?" My voice drops to a growl.
Sofia's eyes widen with false innocence. "Nothing at all. I'm simply curious about her background. She seems so… different from what we expected. The way she holds herself, it's not quite finishing school, is it?"
My wife opens her mouth, maybe to defend herself, maybe to confess, but I'm already moving.
I choose the wall beside Sofia's head with precision.
Close enough to make my point, controlled enough to show I choose my violence carefully.
My fist connects with the marble, the crack echoing through the room.
Pain explodes through my knuckles as they split against stone, blood immediately welling from torn skin.
"The next person who questions my wife won't get a warning." I let the blood drip onto the white tablecloth, each drop a promise. "She's a Rosetti now. That means she's under my protection. Anyone who forgets that will answer to me. I've dissolved men in acid for less than what you just implied."
Sofia doesn't even flinch, just sits back with a satisfied smile playing at her lips. She got exactly what she wanted: proof that I've lost control over this woman.
"Alessandro," Marco's voice cuts through the tension. "Enough."
I flex my bleeding hand, feeling the sting of split skin.
My knuckles throb in time with my heartbeat, each pulse reminding me what I'll do for her.
The pain grounds me, reminds me why I'm doing this.
My wife sits frozen beside me, staring at the blood on my knuckles with something that isn't quite fear.
Her pupils are dilated, her breath coming faster.
"My apologies," Sofia says sweetly, though her satisfied smile widens. "I didn't mean to upset anyone. I'm simply protective of our family."
"Your protection isn't needed," I growl, pulling my wife closer with my uninjured hand. "Not for her."
Luca laughs, soft and unsettling. "How fascinating. Our Alessandro, actually caring about someone besides himself. Splitting his knuckles on a wall like some lovesick fool."
"Careful, brother."
He raises his hands in mock surrender, but his pale eyes track the way my wife unconsciously leans into my touch, despite witnessing my protective violence. The whole table watches us now, measuring this unexpected display of blood spilled in her defense.
The sight of her fear makes something crack in my chest. Not because she's afraid. Fear is natural in my world. But because I want to be the exception. The one person she runs to, not from.
Faith breaks the silence, her voice gentle: "Perhaps we should continue dinner? The second course is getting cold."
But I'm done with pretenses. Done with letting them circle her like wolves testing for weakness. "We're leaving."
"Alessandro," Valentina speaks for the first time, her strategic mind always working. "Leaving now makes her look weak."
She's right, and I hate that she's right. I sit back down, pulling my wife's chair closer to mine in the process. My bloodied knuckles leave red smears on the white tablecloth as I reach for my wine glass with my injured hand, letting everyone see the damage.
"Then we stay," I announce. "But the interrogation ends now."
The rest of dinner passes in tense silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and stilted small talk. My hand throbs, blood still seeping slowly, but I don't tend to it. Let them see what happens when someone threatens what's mine.
My wife excuses herself to the bathroom after dessert. I watch her go, noting the slight sway in her walk, the way she grips the doorframe for support. The evening has taken its toll.
Sofia rises like a blonde viper. "I'll check on her."
Before I can stop her, she's gone. My blood turns to ice. I know what my sister does best: identifying weakness and exploiting it. Marco chooses that moment to demand my attention about a shipment issue, but my focus stays on that bathroom door.
When I can't wait a second longer, I get to my feet and follow the two women down the hallway. Their voices float around the corner.
"My brother doesn't love you," Sofia says. "He doesn't do love. But he's decided you're his, and that's actually worse. Do you understand what that means?"
I picture my wife's hands gripping marble for support, staying silent.
"Alessandro kills people who look at his possessions wrong. A man once touched his favorite watch at a party. They found pieces of him in three different states. And you? You're his most precious thing now."
"You're trying to scare me."
"I'm trying to warn you. There's a difference. When he finds out what you're hiding, and he will, his love won't save you. It will make it worse. The betrayal will drive him insane."
"I'm not hiding anything."
Sofia's knowing laugh. "Your pupils are dilated. Your pulse is visible from here. You're terrified, but not just of him. You're terrified he'll find out whatever it is you're hiding. Perhaps I'll find out first."
The bathroom door opens, and my wife emerges looking pale but composed, Sofia following with that same satisfied smile.
Back in our bedroom, I finally tend to my bloodied knuckles at the bathroom sink. The water runs pink, then clear. Frances hovers in the doorway, still wearing that blue dress that's been driving me to distraction all evening.
"Come here," I say without looking up.
She approaches slowly, each step measured like she's walking through a minefield. I dry my hands carefully, then catch her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up to examine it in the light.
"Did Sofia upset you?" The question comes out gentle, but we both hear the threat underneath.
"She was… informative."
"Informative." I trace my thumb across her cheekbone, examining her face for signs of distress. "And what information did my dear sister share?"
She tries to look away, but I hold her steady, examining every detail. The way her lipstick has worn off, leaving her mouth naked and pink. The tiny scar at her temple she tries to hide with makeup. The way her pupils dilate further when I lean closer.
This is inconvenient. I've had hundreds of women—blondes, brunettes, redheads, all eager, all willing, all boring after a week.
But this one, who flinches at her own name and handles crystal like she's afraid it'll break?
She's making me curious. And curiosity has always been my weakness, right after beautiful women and expensive whiskey.
"Sofia said you kill people who touch your things," she whispers.
"True." I let my hand slide down to her throat, feeling her pulse hammer against my palm. "Does that frighten you?"
"Yes."
"But not enough to run?"
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and my cock stirs at the unconscious gesture. "Where would I run? I'm your wife."
The words send heat through my veins. I back her against the bathroom counter, caging her with my body. My bloodied knuckles throb, but the pain only sharpens my focus on her.
"You are," I confirm, my voice dropping to something darker.
She stares at my bloodied knuckles, then up at my face. The dangerous intimacy between us thickens like smoke. Her body sways toward mine involuntarily, drawn by the same magnetic pull I feel.
"You split your hand open defending me from your own sister." Her voice carries wonder.
"I'd split more than that, piccola bugiarda." The Italian slips out unbidden. Little liar. Because she is lying, about something, and we both know it. "Sofia needs to learn that you're untouchable. They all do."
Her breath catches. "Why do you care so much? This is just a business arrangement."
I smile, slow and dangerous, still examining her face for every tell. "Is it? Then why are your pupils dilated? Why is your pulse racing? Why do you keep looking at my mouth?"
She doesn't answer, but her body tells me everything. The way she arches slightly, seeking more contact. The way her hands come up to rest on my chest, not pushing away, just touching.
"Next time someone questions you," I murmur against her ear, letting my bloodied knuckles ghost along her throat, "I won't stop at the wall."
The promise hangs between us, dark and absolute. She shivers, and I know it's not entirely from fear.