Chapter Four
Vincenzo
THOSE GREEN EYES of hers are wide and I can see shock in them, which is interesting.
I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to her, but I thought that since she is going to be my wife, she should know that her mother and brother didn’t die by my hand.
Clearly, her father has been feeding her all kinds of bullshit about what happened that night, so I’m happy to give her the truth.
It’s tedious to explain oneself, yet there’s an unexpected pleasure to be had in upending her expectations about me.
I prefer people to be afraid, it makes them much more biddable, and over the years I’ve accepted that I’ll always be the villain of the piece. That’s the role I took on when I decided on my crusade, because the people I’m dealing with only understand one thing: violence.
But now I’m discovering that there’s satisfaction in seeing the shock in her eyes. Shock that I’m not the villain she was expecting, or rather, less of the villain than she was expecting—I’m certainly not ever going to be the hero.
‘Don’t tell me,’ I say, since she says nothing. ‘Your father has been busy laying the deaths of your mother and brother at my feet for years.’
Her hands grip the white silk of her gown as if she wants to tear the fabric apart and for a second the image of me tearing apart the white silk myself to lay her bare flickers in front of my eyes. A kick of unexpected heat goes through me and I’m shifting in my seat before I can stop myself.
What the fuck? It’s been years since I’ve experienced an unanticipated attraction, and I certainly don’t want to experience one for Caterina Salvatore.
She’s pretty, yes, but she’s too young and I’m a man of sophisticated appetites.
I have lovers who satisfy me, who don’t want more, so why I’m currently thinking about ripping her wedding gown off her, I have no idea.
Maybe I’ll organise a wedding night after all, but with one of my current mistresses. Annika likes it rough and she’s always ready for me.
‘You were there, though,’ Caterina says. Her voice has a trace of huskiness that I find more attractive than I care to admit. ‘And you shot him.’
‘I did,’ I acknowledge. ‘And I was. But the bullets that found your mother and brother did not come from my gun.’
‘But…’ She trails off, still staring at me.
I lift a brow. ‘But what?’
‘You just…didn’t want to kill a child? That’s the only reason you spared me?
’ She says this with some disbelief, and I don’t blame her.
Our world is a violent one, where innocents are hurt or killed all the time.
Where fathers beat the shit out of their sons and mothers don’t lift a finger to help. Having scruples is unusual.
‘Yes,’ I say dryly. ‘Did you know that outside the families, that’s actually considered a normal reaction?’
The flush in her cheeks deepens. Sparks of her ready temper glitter in her eyes. Clearly she didn’t appreciate my sarcasm and she’s still struggling with whether to believe me or not.
I don’t care. Her belief or otherwise won’t change what’s going to happen.
She looks down at her hands for a moment, then abruptly back at me. ‘Why do you need my family’s good behaviour?’
‘Finally,’ I murmur. ‘That should have been your first question.’
‘Apologies. I was too busy screaming in terror when you carried me out of the cathedral to think about the right questions to ask.’
Oh, she’s sharp, this one. I like it. I like it very much.
‘You weren’t screaming with terror, gattina.’ I smile. ‘You were screaming with rage.’
She scowls. ‘Answer the damn question.’
No one speaks to me this way. My bodyguards would have a gun to her head if they were in the car with us right now and she should know that, having been brought up in the cosa nostra.
I’m not offended, though. As I’ve already thought, she’s no threat to me.
Still, if she continues to push, she’ll find I have a line and once she hits it, I’ll push back. Hard.
‘Ask me nicely,’ I say lazily. ‘And I might consider explaining myself.’
Her chin juts, gaze mutinous. ‘Please.’ She spits the word out like poison.
I’m entertained by her temper. ‘Because I want them under my control, of course.’
‘What for?’
‘Demanding, gattina. You do realise that I am probably the most feared and powerful man in all the families, don’t you?’
‘I don’t care what or who you are,’ she snaps. ‘I’m not asking for my freedom. All I’m asking for is a reason.’
Well, I certainly can’t fault her courage.
In fact, it makes me want to give her that reason and for free.
Revealing one’s plans, though, is a risk and one I never take if I can help it.
Because once people discover what you’re trying to do, they’ll use that knowledge to stop you any way they can, and I know the families.
Information is a precious commodity. If this one knows about my crusade, then she could pass that onto her father.
Then again, as my wife she’ll be under my complete control and I’m certainly not going to give her any opportunity to speak to her father or ever let her see him again. So, what could it hurt?
‘The reason?’ I echo. ‘I’m bringing all the families under my control so the in-fighting and the feuds stop. So the killing of innocents stops.’
Her eyes widen. ‘That’s it? That’s the reason?’
There’s something about the way she says it that gets under my skin, as if she’s shocked that I should want the violence to end.
I understand why—my reputation isn’t exactly snow-white—but she has no concept of what it is to be brought up as a family’s heir.
How, at twelve years old, my father forced me to attend the torture session of a suspected mole, and at fifteen, handed me a gun and made me shoot a family soldier who’d betrayed us.
‘It’s either you or him,’ my father had said when I’d showed reluctance.
‘And if you can’t do it, I’ll shoot you myself. ’
‘Yes,’ I say, allowing a note of anger to show in my voice. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
She flushes and I find my gaze drawn to how the pink extends down her elegant throat and down below the neckline of her gown, where the fabric is pulled tight over a pair of small, high, beautifully shaped breasts.
‘No,’ she says quickly. ‘No. I just…’
‘Didn’t expect the Sicilian Wolf to care about anyone’s life?’
She looks away and once again I feel a wave of satisfaction that I’ve surprised her, which is puzzling.
Before I can interrogate the feeling though, my phone goes off and I answer it. There are a few logistical issues that need attention, so I spend the rest of the ride to my Roman villa, where the helipad is located, dealing with them.
Once we arrive at the villa, we go straight to the chopper and my wife-to-be says nothing as she is bundled into it.
I have a few more business calls to make, so I spend the flight to Sicily making them and putting out the fires that my bride stealing has ignited.
I order Elio, my consiglieri, to get Giovanni Salvatore’s vow of loyalty to me by sundown in return for the life of his daughter, and then I double-check my security.
An hour or so later, we’re coming down onto the rolling green lawn of the Argenti family villa.
It’s built on the clifftops overlooking the Aegean, with stone terraces descending amid cliffs and greenery, all the way down to the sea.
A deep blue-green infinity pool reaches the edge of one terrace, shaded by olive trees and white outdoor umbrellas.
The villa itself is two storied and made of whitewashed stone, surrounded by lawns and beautifully manicured gardens. It was my mother’s pride and joy, and so I employ a couple of expert gardeners to keep it looking as she would have wanted it.
Caterina stares out the window as we land, her expression guarded.
She didn’t say a word on the way over and I find myself wondering what she thinks of the villa, though why I care I have no idea.
I love the place myself, but my little crusade doesn’t leave me with as much time to spend here as I’d like.
The helicopter touches down, my various staff all lined up, waiting for me to disembark so we can get the ceremony started immediately. The Argenti family priest, Father Giuseppe, is also waiting.
I open the door, get out, then extend a hand to Caterina. She glances at it, and with that same mutinous expression I saw in the car back in Rome, she ignores it and slips from the helicopter without help.
Stubborn gattina.
Again, I’m amused, though I will be less so if she’s going to be this stubborn during our marriage ceremony.
I stride over the grass to greet my staff and Father Giuseppe. Caterina follows me, looking around her warily.
‘Come, gattina.’ I indicate for her to stand beside me.
A ripple of shock crosses her face as she looks at me, then the priest, then back again. ‘What?’ Her voice has risen. ‘You want to get married here? Now?’
‘Of course. I kidnapped you already dressed for a reason.’
She’s standing there as stiff as a post, her back rigid, yet there’s something oddly commanding about her.
Something proud. And a part of me, the darkness that lives inside me, the wolf, finds that impressive.
That even though she’s been kidnapped from her wedding by the man she thought killed her family, here she is, standing brave and strong rather than cowering in fear.
She will make an excellent Argenti wife.
The thought snakes through my head, despite having never given much thought as to what kind of wife I wanted. I knew I would marry one day, but I didn’t want to do that until I’d consolidated my power base, and that has taken me longer than I thought it would.
So when I received intel that Caterina Salvatore would be marrying Carlo Bianchi in a bid to bolster Salvatore alliances, it was clear what I needed to do and quickly. Too quickly to think about what kind of wife she’d make for me.
But now I’ve been in her company a few hours, I’m coming round to the idea that yes, she would make an excellent Argenti wife. She certainly has the force of will to be one.
She will make an excellent mother, too.
Oh yes, she will indeed. She’s fiery and brave, at least what little I’ve seen of her has been, and those are excellent qualities in a mother.
My own, for example, was both before my father’s treatment of her crushed the life out of her.
He’d wanted another child, but after three miscarriages, he lost patience with her and abandoned her here at the estate.
I won’t do that to Caterina, though. I’ll need heirs—someone has to carry on my legacy after I’m gone—but if we can’t conceive naturally there’s always adoption. I’m not as wedded to blood ties as my father was.
‘Your father’s life depends on your cooperation,’ I remind her gently. ‘It won’t take long, I promise.’
She glares at me then moves, coming to stand beside me, regal as a queen.
She very determinedly does not look at me and as the priest begins the ceremony, I find myself staring at her profile, noting the soft curve of her cheek and the lush fullness of her mouth.
Her silky black brows and the slight tilt of her nose.
Pretty gattina.
When the time comes for her to face me and say her vows, she does so even though her whole body radiates negation and reluctance and fury.
Her green eyes burn with rage, and her voice is full of venom as she spits the vows at me.
With her tiara askew and her hair half down, she should look ridiculous, yet she doesn’t.
She looks like a murderous goddess, and I’m confounded by my growing interest in her.
When I planned this, I didn’t think of her as a person—or at least, if I did, it was the five-year-old girl I was thinking of, not the woman.
But it’s the woman I’m marrying now and she’s forcibly bringing me face-to-face with the fact that she’s not a puzzle piece or a pawn.
First with the screaming, then with her flailing hands.
Then her quick-fire sarcasm and obvious fury.
She’s intriguing, nothing like the women I bed who tend to fawn on me, or the wives of my men and those in other families, who smile sweetly and make no fuss, embracing their roles as adjuncts to their husbands.
You didn’t want that kind of wife anyway.
No, I didn’t.
She puts out her hand for a ring to put on my finger, but I don’t have one for myself. The only ring I wear is my father’s heavy gold signet with the Argenti crest, so I take that off and put it in her hand.
It looks huge in her small palm and when she looks up at me, I can see her battle the overwhelming urge to fling the ring in my face. I dare her to silently, but she only sniffs and pushes the ring back onto my finger.
Then it’s my turn with the vows, and as I repeat the words, I can’t help but reach out and adjust the tiara on her head, before pushing a strand of silky black hair back behind her ear.
Her eyes widen as my fingertip brushes the tip of her ear, and she goes very still, electricity sparking between us at my touch.
The surprise of it jolts me, because while I enjoyed her scent and found her interesting, I hadn’t planned on seducing a very clearly unwilling woman. But…perhaps she’s not so unwilling after all?
Her lashes lower, hiding her gaze, yet it’s too late. We were both caught off-guard by that spark of chemistry, and now we both know it’s there. Or rather, I know it’s there.
I was expecting to have an on-paper wife, while still seeing my usual lovers, but perhaps it’s worth revising that decision. What would all that fire and fury look like turned into passion? Would she be as fierce in bed as she is out of it?
Something inside me shifts, a thread of desire winding tight, but it’s not the time, so I push it aside, taking the ring out of my trouser pocket instead.
Then I take her hand and slide it onto her finger as I repeat the vows.
It’s a simple band of white gold I bought on the way to the cathedral, but a stray thought tells me I should have had emeralds inlaid on it somewhere, to match her eyes.
Ridiculous. I buy jewels to match the eyes of my mistresses, not my wife.
‘You may kiss the bride,’ the priest says.
Caterina lifts her lashes and looks up at me, her green gaze silently challenging me the way I challenged her to throw my ring at my head.
I dare you to kiss me, she’s saying, and not because she doesn’t want it, she does. I can see it in her eyes, the curiosity and the heat. She wants to know if that spark between us was real or if she was imagining it, and I’m tempted to show her exactly how real it was.
But she’s expecting me to do that, so instead I reach out to cup her face between my palms. Then I bend my head, kiss her chastely on the forehead, before turning and striding into the house.