Chapter 3
Am I in a dream?
Or, in this case, a nightmare?
I’m stuck in a vehicle with Julian Bellini.
A cold-blooded killer in the Lombardi Mafia family.
His older brother, Damien, is the underboss of said family.
I also have history with this man.
For years, we’ve gone back and forth in a forbidden game.
He’s like a nicotine habit I can’t kick.
A drink I can’t put down.
A craving that’s sweet but deadly.
My heart thrashes against my chest, still recovering from him pinning me against the door.
He told me to stop, but I kept talking shit.
When I’m nervous, I run my mouth. My mother always said it was a habit that’d make it hard for me to find a husband.
I, however, always found it to be more of an asset.
No, thank you on a man who doesn’t appreciate a little bit of attitude.
I peer over at Julian, taking in the way his jaw tics as he drives.
Deranged or not, he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I’ll never forget the first time I saw him.
I was sixteen and in his parents’ kitchen with his sister, Melissa. Marta, their mother, was showing us how to make the perfect cannoli. Even though my mother didn’t like me at their house, claiming it was bad for our family’s reputation, my father overruled her decision.
Julian stumbled into the kitchen, holding his side, while his father muttered Italian behind him. He was so calm at first, and I didn’t notice the blood oozing from his side, soaking his white button-up until Marta scolded him for getting blood on the floor.
Melissa helped him into a chair while Marta scurried off, muttering, “Let me get my supplies.”
Entranced, I observed him slowly take off his shirt and drop it on the floor. Melissa pressed a towel against his wound and didn’t step away until Marta returned to help him.
In freak-out mode, I blurted that we needed to call the cops and take him to the hospital. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at me like I’d suddenly grown another head. You’d think I’d suggested we stab the other side of his torso so he could have twinsies wounds.
Julian took long swigs of vodka and watched me through a swollen eye as Marta stitched him up.
His wariness of me was apparent.
He didn’t like me. That much was certain.
But me?
I was fascinated by him.
I stared, my eyes drifting from his face to his six-pack.
He was the most attractive man I’d ever seen.
I no longer cared about boys in my private school who wore designer sweater vests and loafers and bragged about which country clubs they belonged to.
I wanted my best friend’s brother.
A man in the Mafia, who was dangerous and corrupt.
A man who didn’t flinch at pain, who protected his family and gave his mother a kiss on the forehead after she stitched up his wounds.
Deep down, I knew it’d never happen.
He was nothing but a crush to me.
And to him, I was nothing but a threat to his family, as if I’d been sent to destroy them.
I have so many questions for him.
Why did he show up at the office?
Why the actual fuck did that Russian psychopath think I was his bride?
Julian helped me, but I know he didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart.
“Where are we going?” I ask as he passes a car.
“My place.” His phone rings, stopping our conversation, and he answers it. “I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he tells the person on the call before ending it.
As if he knows I’m about to play twenty questions, he turns up the music. When I reach forward to lower the volume, he snatches my wrist, slowly shaking his head.
Julian doesn’t drive long, and we’re still on the outskirts of New York City when he turns onto a private road and stops at a solid wood privacy gate, surrounded by a tall concrete wall.
He punches in a code, opening the gate, and drives forward.
I stare out the window, taking in the maple trees lining his driveway. He turns into an underground tunnel that leads straight into a garage.
As someone used to seeing sprawling estates designed to show wealth, I’ve never seen such a private setup before.
I unbuckle my seat belt as he parks. “Nice place. It gives very Batcave vibes. I’d ask if you’re a superhero, but we both know you’re the villain.”
Not saying a word, he steps out of the Escalade.
I do the same, noticing two other parked cars—a black Mercedes and a Chevelle similar to the one his father had.
He punches in another door code, and I follow him inside.
The fresh scent of clean linen and lemon lingers in the air as he flips on the lights before dropping his keys on the kitchen island. I shut the door behind me and stand in the doorway, unsure of what to do.
The home is simple yet rich with plants, cream and dark-wood furniture, and sage-colored walls. Windows line the living room wall, revealing a patio, surrounded by more plants.
Since he’s not giving me any direction, I head toward the living room.
“Keep your ass in here,” he snaps, causing me to stop. “I don’t want blood on my furniture.”
I’m reminded I’m wearing my father’s blood. I tried to wipe it off the best I could during the drive here, but there was no getting it out of my white cashmere sweater.
I cross my arms, turning to face him. “Who were those guys, Julian?”
He stares at his phone screen. “The Russian Bratva.”
“Bratva?”
“Mafia, only the Russian version.”
“Why did a man in the Russian Mafia?—”
“Bratva,” he corrects as if he doesn’t want them affiliated in the same category as him.
I roll my eyes. “Okay, Bratva . Why did he refer to me as his wife?”
He finally lowers his phone and tosses it on the massive stone island. “Contractually, you were to wed him in”—he lifts his shoulder to raise his sleeve and checks his gold watch—“two days.”
I roll my eyes again.
Asshole .
If he was looking for days , he needed to pull up a calendar, not look at his watch.
He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “But good news for you, I managed to save you from the Russians and cut you a better deal.”
“A better deal?” I ask, raising my chin. “I’m not some Honda Civic, sitting in a used car lot.”
“True. Your price was more along the lines of a Rolls-Royce, shiny and new .”
“Why was a deal even made for me?”
“Your father owed the Russians a lot of money.”
“Why would he owe anyone money? He’s the richest man on Wall Street.”
“That’s what he led people to believe. Realistically, your father was the biggest fraud on Wall Street. He did things real rich men don’t do to maintain their wealth.”
“Things like what?”
“Insider trading, took on clientele not exactly the Wall Street type, and stole money from clients to maintain his lifestyle.” He lifts his thick brow. “Now, he’s dead, and you’re fucked.”
I swallow. “What does his debt have to do with me?” I swallow again. “Why am I fucked ?”
“He borrowed money from the Russians and defaulted on his loan. He also poorly invested their money and eventually pocketed some of it. When the Russians came to his office for their money, Dima saw your photo and liked what he saw.” His gaze drifts down my body, and he smirks.
“Your father and mother signed a new contract. They had sixty days to pay the debt. If they failed, you’d marry Dima. That was sixty-one days ago.”
“And now, I’m … free?” I ask, already dreading Julian’s answer.
He runs his finger along his lower lip. “And now, you’re mine .”
I stumble back a step, nearly tripping on my feet. “Excuse me?”
His harshness turns into amusement as he approaches me, unbuttoning his blazer in the process. “Genesis, I do nothing for free.” He circles his arm around my hips, stopping me from backing away. “Every move I make ends in my favor. Bad deals are what put men, like your father, in caskets.”
I gulp, and it takes me a moment to raise my gaze from the floor to him. Dread sits in the pit of my stomach.
“What’s your price , Julian?”
He brushes a single callous finger along my jaw. “I need a favor from you.”
I shiver, unsure if I want to smack his finger away or ask for more of his touch. “What favor could you possibly want from me?”
He’s in the line of murder and gambling.
I’m not murdering anyone. That’s for damn sure.
I doubt it’s sex.
He’s never had trouble getting women.
He’s hot as fuck, he has money, and he’s in the Mafia.
An instant turn-on for women.
Well, us insane women.
I also offered myself up to him before, and he declined.
Declined sex, but he had no problem touching me in the back of a nightclub.
“We’ll discuss that when I return.” He digs his finger into my lip before swiftly drawing back. Not another word leaves him as he returns to the kitchen, collects his keys, and walks toward the door.
I sprint across the room and block the door.
He raises his brow in humor.
“No, I want answers now,” I demand.
He shoves me against the door, fastens his hands around my wrists, and slams them against the door over my head. I whimper when he presses his body against mine, lowering his mouth to my ear and sliding his tongue along the lobe.
“Which do you want more? Answers or protection from Dima?” he sneers.
I stare at him, lost for words, and bite my lip.
“Do you want to stay alive?”
“That’s been my lifelong plan, yes.”
“Then, you’re going to have my baby.” He pulls me away from the door, pushing me toward the kitchen. “And FYI, I have two men waiting outside who I’ve instructed to deliver you to Dima’s doorstep if you try to leave. Or shall I have them drop you off at the altar?”
I rub my wrist and glare at him.
He cunningly smirks before leaving.
I flip him off as soon as the door shuts behind him.