Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
A ntonio
I stand on the balcony of my Manhattan apartment and look down.
Dahlia’s in this city, not that I’ve seen her.
But illogically, her presence here is what drew me back. I needed to breathe the same air she breathes. Walk the same streets.
Every cell in my body aches for her. It seems incredible that I only had her in my bed four short nights because I seem to remember every single freckle on her skin, every curve of her flesh. I remember how silky her hair is, the way her mouth parts when she’s close to coming.
And the music.
It haunts me all day and night.
I hear her voice singing Puccini. I remember the joy on her face when she was on that stage in Miami, singing pop songs and dancing with abandon.
“Boss, you gotta see this.” Il Greco comes out on the balcony and shoves a newspaper in my face. It’s the society pages of the Manhattan Times, and the bold headline reads, “Yacht King Heiress Spills About Her Marriage.”
I thrust it back at him. “I don’t want to read it.”
“No. Really, Antonio. You need to read it.”
My lip curls in a snarl, but I snatch the paper back and snap it open. What kind of fuckery do I have to strategize around now?
In the days I’ve been back, I’ve expected some kind of assault from King. I expected the FBI or more mercs. I bolstered security on the King Yacht operations and my private residence, but nothing has come.
Now, it seems they’re fighting with public opinion.
What a laugh–as if a brute like me gives a fuck what people think of him. I’m a Beretta. My reputation was tarnished the day I was born.
King Yacht heiress Dahlia King reveals all about the man she has loved since she was fifteen. My eyes slow as the words jumble and rearrange themselves on the page.
What is this?
I reread the pull quote then start again at the beginning.
Dahlia Beretta (King), daughter of Benedict and Barbara King, gave an exclusive interview to the Times this week to explain her last-minute change in groom at her wedding. Last week, the heiress was expected to marry New York City Mayor Jake Reese in a very large and public wedding spectacle in Cape Cod, yet guests were stunned when the mayor did not appear at the altar.
Rather, Antonio Beretta of New Jersey, a man with a criminal record and ties to the mafia stood at the altar and claimed the bride. Beretta also became the sole shareholder of the entire King Yacht enterprise that day.
Speculation over the past two weeks has been that the bride and her father may have been coerced, but the truth is actually even more spectacular of a story.
According to Mrs. Beretta, she and Antonio have been in love since she met him as a teenager. Her father did not approve and alleged the young man stole from him while working as a caterer at Mrs. Beretta’s debutante ball.
Beretta was later sentenced to three years in prison for the crime, which Mrs. Beretta maintains he did not commit and was fabricated by her father to keep the two apart.
The wedding swap was an elaborate plan worked up by the couple to be able to fully celebrate their partnership and matrimony with all of New York’s society as witnesses. Mrs. Beretta said it was important to her that society see and recognize the union, which would have been snubbed had it been previously announced.
I stop reading and scrub a hand across my face.
What does this mean? What is Dahlia up to?
It’s a trap of some sort.
Except my traitorous heart has grown warm and full.
What if it’s not a trap? What if this is Dahlia’s attempt to save me? Perhaps from her father, perhaps from the law.
I’m moving before the thought has fully formed in my mind.
I have to find her. To see her.
Dahlia cares about me.
Maybe, she even loves me, as the article claims.
And if that’s true, then every second I’m not with her is wasted.
I jog to the door and get in my new 1964 convertible Corvette.
Dahlia Beretta belongs to me, and I’m going to go and get her. I park on the street beneath her parents’ luxury skyrise apartment on Central Park.
“Antonio Beretta here to see my wife, Dahlia.”
The doorman is obviously prepared for me. His eyes dart around nervously, but he holds his ground.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Beretta, but I’ve been instructed to ask you to leave.”
I shake my head. “I’m not leaving without my wife.”
The guy swallows. He’s scared as shit of me. Sweat trickles down his brow. “Should I call the police, sir?”
“Call Dahlia. Tell her I’m here.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I have my instructions.”
“Now.”
The guy jumps but shakes his head. “I-I’m calling the cops.”
Fanculo.
I’m tempted to use intimidation, but I check my aggression. I feel quite certain Dahlia wouldn’t want me to rough up her parent’s doorman.
“Fine.”
I park my car on the opposite side of the street and lean my ass against the car door. I fold my arms across my chest and settle in to watch the entrance. Sooner or later, some member of the King family will come out that door, and I will be here to talk to them.
Of course, the sky opens up and begins to pour rain down on me.
I put the top up on the car but don’t change my position.
I don’t care if I have to wait for five days in the fucking rain.
I’m not leaving here until I see my wife.
Dahlia
“You ruined this family!” My mother screams at me. She’s been crying all morning, ever since the article came out in the Manhattan Times society pages.
I was able to shut down or at least stall my father’s plan to send the FBI after Antonio with my promise to go public with the whole story if he did.
He whisked us back to Manhattan, and I’ve been a prisoner here ever since. I called Bea to come and get me, but the doorman refused to let her in. My father has security guards stationed outside our door–ostensibly for our protection, but when I tried to go out, they wouldn’t let me.
That’s why I called the reporter. I realized it was a way to protect Antonio in the future. Now, anything that happens to him will be examined by the public, and hopefully, the law, with the lens of the story I wove about star-crossed lovers kept apart. Another West Side Story. I kept out the part about Antonio ruining my father financially and the bloodbath on The Honeymoon.
“ I’m not the one who ruined it.” My voice holds all the censure I have for my father and his behavior. He’s the one who mistreated Antonio. The one who was cocky or foolish enough to lose his entire fortune to the man, and the man who somehow still thinks he has any say in my life or how I live it.
I’m no longer beholden to my parents. The fetters of obligation and obedience are finally gone. I may have thought I was an adult before my wedding day, but I was still a child, acting for them.
Now, I’m a woman. A woman with power she can wield all on her own, simply with a call to a reporter.
“I’m not the one who started a war with the Beretta Crime Family and thinks he can win it. But I am the one who can put an end to it.”
“You put an end to us. To everything we had. You were going to be a president’s wife ,” my mother shrieks. She’s at the wet bar, pouring herself a drink, even though it’s barely after noon. Outside, the sky is charcoal grey, and pouring rain.
“We have nothing,” I remind her. “My husband already took it all.”
My mother whirls, her mouth open in shock at my use of the words my husband . “Is that what this is about? You care about this man?” Before I can answer, she draws herself up into a rant. “You don’t care about him! Those were lies you told the newspaper. Desperate lies designed to ruin us. You just want your revenge because you had no say in your marriage.”
“Ah.” I fold my arms across my chest. “There it is. You finally admit it. You’ve been trying to sugarcoat your choices for my life all these years, but that’s the reality. I was a prisoner in a gilded cage. Raised only to do your bidding and fulfill the destiny you wish you’d had!”
“Enough.” My father emerges from his office in yesterday’s clothes. His hair is tousled, and there’s an alcohol stain on his shirt. Like my mother, he’s day drinking. “We need to pull together as a family now. We’re all we have.”
I let out a scoff.
The last thing I want to do is pull together with this family.
Out on the street, someone is blasting Puccini–the same damn song I sang for Antonio.
My heart feels as if it will rip from my chest.
The story I told the reporter wasn’t a lie. I have loved that man since the day I met him. Maybe I didn’t know him, but my soul recognized his. We were destined for each other. I feel certain of it.
Nothing else would explain this connection I’ve felt with him from the beginning. The flutters of excitement every time I’m in his presence, the sense of trust I feel without there being any basis for it.
I almost got him killed by trying to “pull together” with my parents. What would my life look like if I cut ties with them and went to the man I believe I’m meant for?
I hear honking from outside. Long steady honks. Honks in the “Shave and a Haircut” rhythm. Then the song “Be My Baby.”
I gasp and run to the front balcony.
“Dahlia! What are you doing?”
I ignore my mother’s screech of horror behind me and step into the downpour. Throw myself against the railing to peer over.
Oh, God.
I cover my mouth to catch the sob.
He’s there. Standing in the rain, leaning against a beautiful, cherry red convertible, staring up at me.
“Antonio!” I shout.
People are watching. Camera flashes go off. The paparazzi must be camped out, along with Antonio.
I see Bea there, too. She’s climbing out of Antonio’s car, like she was the one managing the music. She waves her arm in a giant arc.
Antonio spreads both hands. “Dahlia. Please come down.”
I look over my shoulder. “I can’t. There are guards at the door.”
More flashbulbs go off. The press is getting every word of this.
I see the sudden danger in Antonio as his shoulders stiffen, and he pushes away from the car.
“No, wait!” I don’t want any more bloodshed. Not on my account.
I throw one leg over the balcony railing.
“No, Principessa !” Antonio lunges into traffic, causing cars to screech to a halt as he bolts across the road.
“Catch me,” I challenge. We’re only three floors up. I know without a shadow of a doubt Antonio won’t let me fall.
“No, no, no! Wait, Dahlia!”
I don’t wait. I slip off the slick balcony, screaming and flailing at the swift plunge. Air rushes past me, the sidewalk rushes up to meet me.
I fall squarely in Antonio’s arms. My weight knocks him to the ground, and we tangle on the wet cement.
His lips find my ear, his arms squeeze me so tight I can’t breathe. “Dahlia… Dahlia. My wild, feisty bride. My love.”
“Antonio. I’m sorry about The Honeymoon .”
Antonio gives a soft laugh, rolling me over to face him. Our clothes are soaked, and he’s on his back in a puddle. “The yacht or our actual event?”
“I mean what happened.” Tears fill my eyes. “I shouldn’t have sent word to my father. ”
He cradles my face and pulls my lips down to his. “No, no, no, amore. You did nothing wrong. I had no right to take you against your will. Forgive me.”
I nod, tears spilling down my already wet cheeks. “I forgive you. Do you forgive me?”
“Nothing to forgive. You are perfect.”
A crowd of people has gathered around us now. Flashbulbs still go off.
Antonio lifts me off him to get to his feet and help me stand. His hands coast over me, his gaze rakes over my body. “Are you hurt?”
I shake my head.
He extends a hand in the direction of his car across the street. “Your chariot awaits, my lady.”
Someone bursts into applause nearby, cheering at the top of her lungs.
Bea.
I rush to her and give her a giant hug as the rest of the crowd break into applause and cheering.
“Ah, yes. I met your delightful bridesmaid again. She was a great help to me in finding the music to draw you out.” He leans over to give Bea a cheek kiss.
“Come, my sweet wife.” He sweeps me up into his arms. “Our future is waiting.”
Antonio
I carry my beautiful wife across the threshold of my penthouse. We’re still wet from the rain, and her cheeks are flushed. Her big blue eyes are soft on my face, making me feel taller than the Empire State Building. She’s been looking at me that way ever since I caught her under the balcony.
Goddamn, my heart stopped in that moment. I will have nightmares until the day I die. If she’d been hurt–if I hadn’t caught her, or my body hadn’t broken the fall–I never would have recovered.
She ignores the interior of my loft as I carry her through it and into the bathroom in the master suite. Instead, she’s apparently fascinated, still, by my face. She’s touching my jaw, pushing my wet hair out of my eyes.
I set her down in the bathroom and tug her wet blouse over her head then slide her pants and panties down her legs. She unhooks her bra and tosses it to the marble floor.
She unbuttons my shirt as I toe off my shoes, and then I find her mouth. I haven’t kissed her properly since the day The Honeymoon sank at sea. Haven’t claimed her sweet mouth or seen her naked. I haven’t been able to touch or taste her skin.
I strip out of the rest of my clothes as I kiss her then walk her backward until we’re under the spray.
“I missed my wife.” My voice sounds rusty.
“I missed you, too.” Dahlia picks up the bar of soap and strokes it across my chest.
I close my eyes, savoring the moment. Drinking it in. Celebrating what has become. This was not a future I ever foresaw. In fact, I don’t think my revenge plan ever got past our I-do’s at the altar.
It’s so much sweeter than taking King Yachts. So much richer than having the last word with Benedict King.
It’s far more magical, even than getting the girl I was told I wasn’t worthy of.
This moment is real. It’s now. Dahlia isn’t some stuck-up debutante I want to bring to heel. She’s the vibrant, talented, three-dimensional woman touching me, who, against all reason, has chosen my side. Has offered herself up to me–willingly, this time.
I open my eyes and take the soap from her. Rubbing it between my hands, I generate suds, then stroke around her breasts.
“I’m going to make you happy,” I promise her.
She sways on her feet, her lids drooping.
“You can have anything you want. Voice lessons, performances, your own band. Whatever makes my wife smile, I will make it happen.”
Her face lights up with a smile that slays me.
I go down on one knee to soap each leg, then stroke all around her ass and between her cheeks.
She doesn’t giggle or squirm, she receives my intimate touch like she’s the queen, and it’s her due–which it is.
The tether on my self-control snaps, and I press her against the wall, lifting one of her legs over my shoulder to get at her core. I lick into her, pinning her pelvis to the tile, so I can properly pleasure her.
She grasps my head, first to steady herself then to pull me against her hot flesh, urging me on. I work her clit with my tongue as I slide my fingers along her cleft. She wants more though. She grasps my wrist and presses my fingers against her. I screw one in and slowly pump as I suck the nubbin of her clit.
“Yes,” she moans. “Please, Antonio.”
Fanculo. Her begging makes me lose all control. I add a second finger and pump. Her moan gets louder and louder and rises in pitch until it's almost a scream.
I can't take it anymore. I rise and turn her to face the tile wall. After spreading her legs, and pulling her hips back, I line up my cock with her entrance.
I try to go slowly. Try to remember she's practically still a virgin. But then she pushes that ass back at me, and I forget to be gentle. I grip her hips and shove into her, flattening her chest against the tile. Our two bodies meld as one, in a perfect rhythm and synchronicity. Her cries blend with my panting breath. Each forceful thrust brings us to the brink of ecstasy. We are glorying in the moment, this moment when we stopped becoming individuals and became one united force. Dahlia belongs to me, and I belong to her. We are everything together.
I don't know how long our love-making goes on. I know at one point I pull out, turn her around, and pin her against the wall the other way. I know her arms are twined around my neck, her throaty cries croon right in my ear. I know she's calling my name, and I'm calling hers. And it goes on and on, as if making up for our seven years apart, for our tumultuous beginnings. This is the way we affirm what we are now. Our marriage. Our union. Our truce.
This is the way I get the ultimate revenge fuck. The one that initiates an entirely new life, full of love, communion, and Dahlia.