Chapter 2
Chapter Two
A ntonio
Dahlia drops her bouquet.
Her lips part.
Benedict stoops to pick up the cascade of roses and hands it to her. “Say your vows,” he hisses as he deposits her at the altar and lifts her veil.
Dahlia hasn’t looked away from me, her pale blue gaze locked in mine. She whirls to look over her shoulder at her mother, crying in the first pew. Then she scans the exits, no doubt noting I have every one of them covered.
“Nowhere to run, Dahlia,” I murmur. “You just got sold into slavery.”
I say it to be cruel. To punish her for her father’s misdeeds. And hers.
Dahlia is the ultimate revenge fuck.
She returns her gaze to mine. I expect confusion. Tears. Refusal. Instead, she lifts her chin. “I’m not running.”
And just like that, I remember why I debauched her in the first place. I enjoyed this rebellious edge–the one that separates her from the rest of them. I believed–falsely–it meant she had a soul inside that perfect shell.
I glance at the priest, who I spoke with before we walked in. He and I should understand each other perfectly now that I’ve lined his church pockets. “Go on.”
He greets the audience. “In deference to the family’s wishes, we will skip the readings and prayer and go straight to the Statement of Intentions. Antonio and Dahlia, have you come here to enter into Marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?
I nod my head. “I have.”
Dahlia glances toward her parents in the front row again. Both of them vigorously nod at her. She looks over her shoulder at her bridesmaids who look as bewildered as she does. Bea, the one closest to us, shakes her head.
I cock mine and send Dahlia a warning glance. She doesn’t know me–doesn’t know what I’m capable of or who I am. I doubt she even knew my first name before the priest mentioned it. But she understands the look just the same. I can tell because she pales and swallows.
“I have.” To her credit, her voice rings out clear and smooth.
The girl was trained to perform, and she’s putting on the performance of a lifetime right now.
“Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?”
“I am,” I say.
“I am.”
“Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?”
A little shock ripples through Dahlia at the mention of children, but after another quick glance toward her parents, she answers after me, “I am.”
“Since it is your intention to enter the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and his Church.”
I reach for my virgin bride’s hand and take her cold, trembling fingers. “I, Antonio Beretta, take you, Dahlia King, to be my wife.”
There’s a gasp in the audience at my last name.
“I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”
That’s right, everyone. The Yacht King just got revenge fucked.
Now all that remains to be done is to give his daughter the same treatment.
I expect that round will be equally if not quite a bit more enjoyable.
Dahlia says her vows like a good girl, and we exchange rings. Yes, I give her the one her intended groom bought for her. I stripped it from the young politico before I installed him and his family in a limo headed back to Manhattan under the careful guard of a few of my men. I left it to Benedict to ensure they take it gracefully once the wedding is over.
The priest pronounces us man and wife. He doesn’t suggest I kiss the bride, but I take my due. I cradle the side of her flawless face and tilt her lips up toward mine.
Anger flashes in her pale eyes as I lower my head. I hover with my mouth just above hers. “Be a good girl and kiss your husband,” I murmur.
“Go fuck yourself,” she whispers back but lifts on her tiptoes to deliver a quick peck. She tries to draw away, but I hold her in place, slamming my lips down on hers, sliding my tongue in her mouth in front of everyone.
I hear the shocked intake of collective breaths. The murmurs grow louder as I continue to plunder my bride’s mouth.
She tastes of minty toothpaste. Her lips are as soft as I remembered. Her skin as smooth. Bad on me, I guess. But kissing Jailbait didn't warrant three years in the pen.
She starts to struggle against me, pushing me away, but I hold her fast.
She needs to learn that she’s not in charge of anything in this marriage. Especially not how much and well I use her pretty little body.
I ease my lips back, still cradling the side of her face in my hand. I stroke my thumb over her cheekbone. “There will be consequences for your disobedience, Principessa .”
She makes no sound but a little chuff of indignation bounces from her chest.
“Now smile, take my arm, and walk out of here with me. I'm the new Yacht King, and you're my prize.”
I lead her straight out of the cathedral where we’re showered by rice as we smile, wave, and get in the waiting limo.
“To the yacht,” I command.
Benedict’s wedding gift to the couple was a beautiful, new yacht named Wedding Day bought with my uncle’s money. Now it belongs to me. I already had Benedict call to order his staff–all but the captain, who will belong to me now–off the yacht. My men are in command of the vessel. My branch of the Beretta family just got a new headquarters.
Dahlia stares out the window in disbelief. I reach past her to roll down the tinted glass. “Smile and wave, darling. Show them how happy you are.”
I expect another fuck you, but other than to mutter, “I’m not your darling ,” she does as she’s told. I suppose that fits. Her rebellions are tiny–private glimpses of her will while she still outwardly performs exactly as is expected of her. As if she’s incapable of stepping out of the mold created for her, no matter how much she hates it.
When we’re out of sight of the throng, she turns to stare at me. “What just happened… Antonio ?”
She spits my name out like it offends her. As if I’d kept it from her all these years.
“I just claimed my due.” I sit back against the limo seat, satisfaction coursing through my veins.
Her mouth opens and closes, then opens again. “And I’m your due?”
“The yacht business was my due. You are the icing on the cake. The coup de grace , as they say.”
I wonder if she marvels at my French. Wonders how that lowly waiter she let her father’s men drag away the night of her ball learned any refinement. It certainly wasn’t in a Parisian prep school like the one she attended. No, I got my education in prison. French was one of the many correspondence courses I took while I plotted my revenge.
I needed all the skills I could get in order to fully claim Benedict King’s life.
Dahlia stares at me in utter confusion.
So. She didn't know what happened to me.
“Did you ever wonder what became of me, Principessa ?”
Color floods her cheeks, perhaps at the memory of what I did to her in that supply closet. “Of course, I wondered!” she says hotly.
I don’t believe her. Her father certainly didn’t remember me or what he’d done. I honestly didn’t expect Dahlia to recognize me at the altar.
“Don’t pretend you thought about me.” I stroke her cheek, and she pulls sharply away.
“I really don't understand what's happening. Why did you come for me? What happened to Jake? What are you holding over my parents?”
The mention of her boyfriend sets my teeth on edge. I’ve been throwing darts at the newspaper clippings with their photos for years now.
“In due time, bella. ”
“No. You tell me now.”
“Oh, Dahlia. There is one thing I will tell you about our marriage.” I issue a dangerous look. “You don't give the orders.”
Anger flares in her gaze, but she snaps her mouth shut and doesn’t retort. She’s either too well-bred or too scared of me. For some reason, I hope it’s the former.
She glances back in the direction of the cathedral. “Are we skipping the reception?”
I imagine her brain stuttering as she tries to assimilate the fact that her mother’s perfectly planned wedding has been thoroughly hijacked.
“Yes, love. I’m keeping you caged until you’re sufficiently under my thumb.”
She reaches up and fingers her tiara, then tears it from her hair, knocking loose the locks in front. One might believe she’d spent time in the pen herself because she strikes without warning, slashing the headpiece at me like a weapon, aiming for my eyes.
I catch her wrist as the crown hits, but not before it breaks the skin on my forehead.
Her mouth forms a round “O” of shock as she stares at the blood she produced.
Grudging admiration at her pluck surfaces. I like a fighter. It makes her ultimate defeat all the sweeter.
“Ah, there’s that rebellion I remembered.” I keep hold of her wrist, and with my free arm, I catch her waist and pull her onto my lap. I’m momentarily unnerved by how satisfying it is to have her soft ass cradled against my cock. To feel the slender lines of her waist under the silk brocade of her dress. To catch her honey and ginger scent.
“I will punish you for that. Drop the weapon, darling.”
Rather than open her fingers, she engages in a contest of strength, trying to shove the damn tiara in my face.
“Dahlia.” I don’t raise my voice; I lower it.
She sucks in a sharp breath, likely hearing the danger in my tone.
“Teaching you to obey will be my pleasure, but I very much doubt it will be yours.”
Dahlia
I don’t know how I got in an actual sparring match with this man.
With Antonio . The guy who gave me the most exciting moment of my life. The one who appears to be some kind of criminal now. Mafia, no doubt.
I should probably be petrified for my life, considering I just drew blood, but I’m not.
There’s something too familiar about him, regardless of the fact that I’ve only been with him for a combined total of two hours. I feel safe enough, even while he’s threatening me.
Perhaps it’s because he pulled me on his lap first. As if he wanted me closer, not further away.
Or maybe, it’s the purr in his voice when he promises retribution. Something that makes me want to know exactly what he intends to do with me if I disobey.
His bad-boy appeal is still firmly intact.
But I’m scared enough not to push.
I release my hold on the tiara.
“Good girl.” He brings my bundled fingers to his lips and bites my knuckles. Not hard, but it’s more than a nip. A tiny punishment. Or perhaps a warning.
I shouldn’t love the sensation the words good girl produce in me. The warm slithering through my core. A rise in temperature. The way they make me squirm over his hard thighs. I feel the answering hardness
“You’re bruising me,” I complain because his fingers are still wrapped too tightly around my wrist.
He releases it, and I lift my thumb to wipe the patch of blood at his temple. He watches me with an unwavering golden gaze.
I seem to recall that gaze was exactly what made me lose all reason the last time we were together.
The time he took my hand and pulled me into a supply closet to kiss me senseless. To stroke his large hands across my bare shoulders.
But what happened between then and now, I can’t fathom. I have no idea why he’s here. Why he’s my new husband. What happened to Jake Reese.
I try to piece it together. “You married me for my father’s business?”
Antonio scoffs. “No, Principessa . Your father already signed that over to me. I took you because I could.”
I stare at him. "But why? " Some dark, desperate, needy part of me wants to hear it’s because I meant something to him. The way he meant something huge and significant to me.
But that seems unlikely. What could a sheltered, spoiled fifteen-year-old girl possibly have meant to an obviously experienced young man? A guy clearly from the street with knowledge of who-knows-what kinds of sins and pleasures? That was my impression of him at the time, anyway.
He's changed, though. The bad boy has become a man, and where he seemed dangerous before, now he’s deadly.
He cages my throat with his hand and uses it to turn my head this way and that, like he's examining me. Like I’m a prize horse he’s thinking of buying at auction.
He runs his thumb across my lower lip. "Because bella . You're the reason this whole thing began. So, in a way, you're the one who made me the Yacht King."
The man speaks in riddles. I try to lunge off his lap, but he doesn't allow it.
He holds my waist fast and reaches up to pull the pins out of my hair. "You'll wear your hair down for me," he orders.
I choose to ignore the obnoxious edict and run my fingers through the front of my hair. “It's not going to look right,” I tell him. Not because I believe it’s my job to look the way he wants me to. More because I hate the feeling of my stiff, unnatural waves right now. I hate updos. “There's too much hairspray in it."
“Let me see.” Antonio adds his fingers to the mix, combing through and arranging it to one side. He tucks a lock behind my ear.
There's a false tenderness to the gesture that makes me shiver. It’s like I wish it were real. And the falseness of it frightens me.
“You'll dress for me, now.”
This time, I can't hold back. “Go to hell,” I snap. “I don't know what's going on, but I won't be sticking around to find out.”
His expression turns to steel. “Oh you will, Dahlia. You’re my wife now. And your parents’ lives depend on your continued cooperation, bella . But please, as I suggested before, test me. Taking you in hand will be my great pleasure.”
His words make me squirm. I twist over his lap. I tell myself I’m trying to get free of it, but it’s possible I’m trying to alleviate the ache in my core his words produced.
“I feel sick,” I complain. Just like my parents, Antonio treats me like an errant child. So I respond with petulance.
Still holding me tight with one arm, Antonio reaches for a glass bottle of sparkling water, which he opens and holds to my lips.
I try to take it from his hands, but he pulls it away, out of my reach. He doesn’t bring it back to my lips until I lower my hands. I accept the drink, suddenly desperately thirsty.
The limo rolls to a stop, and Antonio waits until a man in a suit opens the back door for us. He looks like he’s part of the mob, too.
Antonio hands me out and speaks to him in Italian. The man answers smoothly as Antonio alights and takes my hand.
I strain to understand their conversation, but I don’t know any Italian, and my prep school Latin was too dismal to be of much use. The only language I actually acquired was French, and that’s because my parents sent me to summer school in Paris.
“Come, Principessa .” Antonio tugs me toward the yacht that was meant to be a showy wedding gift from my father to me and Jake. Something all the society pages would photograph and write about.
Seventy-five meters in length, the enormous vessel features a pool and jacuzzi tub on the exterior decks, a stunning, double-height atrium, and four interior decks. A cinema lounge and fine dining room are available for entertaining the guests who could sleep in any of the six staterooms. The master suite has vaulted beamed ceilings and largess fit for a king.
My father named her The Honeymoon. He showed it to me when it was finished, not because it was truly a gift to me, but so that I would memorize all the features and details. So I could extol its virtues when I gave tours of it and hosted political meetings and parties here.
I can’t imagine how much he must be withering now at how things turned out. His entire fortune and his precious prize daughter–his only child–were claimed by a mafia boss. Our reputation is forever sullied by crime.
As Antonio propels me toward the yacht, I balk. Somehow I know that if I get on The Honeymoon , there will be no going back. It’s as if the vows I swore in the church weren’t real, but this will be. This is the moment when everything changes.
I cast a wild look around, hoping to see someone who works for my father or a policeman. Anyone who might help.
Antonio says nothing, but in the next moment, I’m up over his shoulder being carried down the gangway.
“Stop it!” I kick my legs. “Put me down! I’m not going with you.”
Antonio ignores my protests, swinging me in the ignominious position like a sack of potatoes onto the yacht.
That’s when I realize none of my father’s staff is on the ship. They’ve all been replaced by the mafia. Men who appear armed and dangerous.
For the first time, I’m struck by real fear. Antonio’s threat to my parents’ lives and their obvious terror finally register. I don’t know why I wasn’t properly afraid before. I think seeing the man who has starred in so many of my fantasies–a man I never expected to see again–standing at the altar muted the danger for me.
But now it registers in every cell. I feel it to the bone.
This man is dangerous. People die by his hand. And right now, my family and I are in his crosshairs.
I change my tone. “Please,” I try. “I’m sorry. Antonio, please put me down.”
He gives my ass a slap. “Yes, beg, darling. It’s a sound I relish from your lips.”
I bite back the snarky I’m not your darling that wants to come out and force myself to stop kicking. “Please,” I try again.
Antonio carries me into the master suite and shuts the door. The interior design of the yacht was completed by none other than Caroline Ferdova, and this room was papered in silver and gold crane wallpaper with thick white shag carpet that will get dirty by the end of our first voyage.
It was decorated for my honeymoon. Red rose petals are scattered across a white bedspread.
Champagne glasses stand on the bedside table.
Antonio drops me in the center of the bed. One breast pops free of my strapless gown, and I scramble to cover it.
Oh, God.
I suddenly realize what hadn’t occurred to me in the limo or at the church.
This sham of a marriage might require consummation.
My gaze flies to my groom’s, and a shock wave of confirmation ripples through me. His lids are at half-mast, and his tongue pushes against his cheek as he devours my body in a heated gaze.
“I’m not having sex with you!” I say quickly before we get any farther.
Antonio’s lips twitch. He arches one brow. “Dahlia. You are.”
I scramble back on the bed, hiking the long train of my gown up to rise awkwardly to my knees. “I won’t do it. You wouldn’t–you won’t…it would be rape!” I’m semi-hysterical now.
As if to punctuate the moment, the yacht begins to move, taking me away from any hope of rescue or salvation.
Honestly, I was far more repulsed by the idea of consummating the marriage with Jake than I am with Antonio, but I’m not giving it up like this. I won’t just lie down and take it. I draw the line at–
I realize Antonio no longer appears amused. In fact, there’s a dark scowl on his sexy mouth. “I won’t rape you.” He’s gone quite still now, and I find it vastly more threatening than when he was prowling toward me. “You will give yourself to me willingly. In fact, you’ll beg me to give you release.”
His confidence makes goosebumps race across my skin. I hate myself for already wanting to know what exactly he might do to me that would make me beg.
“Also, you won’t leave this yacht until the marriage is consummated.” He walks to the bed and extends a hand. “Now come here for your punishment.”
I flatten myself against the wall and let out a semi-hysterical laugh. “I don’t think so.”
“I’ll double it if I have to come and get you.”