Chapter Ten
Alessia
Luca’s statement hangs frozen in the air between us, and I’m sure I’m experiencing some neurological event because my brain seems unable to unravel the meaning of his words.
A heavy, confused frown contorts my features.
“Okay, but what the heck is a virgin bride?”
I ask, and my question elicits grins from the three larger-than-life men before me. Then it hits me. Virgin bride. Virgin bride.
“Oh no. No. No. I can’t be your bride.”
“Correction. You already are our bride.”
Oh god. I’m going to faint. This can’t be happening.
“What is wrong with you? Why would you want to marry me?”
“Again, already married,”
Nico says.
“Why?”
I cry, at my wits' end.
“Because when we see something we want, we take it,”
Nico answers.
“And we wanted you, Alessia. Laid out naked before us, your nipples bruised from our mouths, your hips marked with our handprints, your legs spread, your sweet pussy wet and open for our thick cocks to plant our seed so deep inside you that you’ll feel us running through your veins and our ring on your finger,”
Vince says.
I’m so flustered I need to sit, but my legs won’t move, and my panties are wet. The forest fire inside me has reached my skin, and I’m hot and drowning at the same time. I can’t breathe.
“But... I’m a Moreno. I’m bad stock,”
I say lamely.
“You have the face of our bride and the body for our heir. It doesn’t matter where you came from, who you are, or what you’ve done,”
Luca says.
“You don’t even know me.”
This is bad. So, so bad.
“We know everything there is to know about you, Alessia. Everything,”
Nico says darkly.
But why me?
No, I’ve been asking the wrong damn question.
“How? I didn’t say yes; I didn’t sign anything. You can’t just say I’m your bride. It doesn’t work that way.”
But I close my eyes. It’s exactly how it works in their world. I remember my mother telling me things. She would say my father might not have wanted to be associated with the Passero, but he still had a deep respect for the age-old traditions and for the board of the Reale Dorato that preserved the integrity of the families. There is honor among thieves, she told me. Onore tra ladri.
No one regretted more than my father that the Passeros were wrecked by incompetent heads that ruined the family name, but the damage was irreversible. The Passeros just have bad blood in them inherently, and any kind of power makes them worse, greedier.
She told me about the Falchi too, the strongest and the most powerful in the Reale Dorato. They have the right to claim a bride merely by pointing at her, provided the woman in question comes from a family that is a member of the Reale Dorato also, like me. I can’t change my bloodline, which is painfully unfortunate.
No mafia family will refuse the honor of one of their daughters being their bride, especially not a Falchi bride. But I can.
“No. I don’t want to marry you. And you shouldn’t want to marry me either. I would like to leave now. Please, can you help me?”
In response, Nico picks up a familiar envelope, the one that traveled with me all the way from the Vergine Selettore. It’s the contract I signed. I bite my lip as Nico pulls out a sheet of paper. My heart sinks. What did I sign?
“When you signed this form, you didn’t just sign your body over to us; you signed your life over to us as well, which includes making you our bride should we so desire.”
My knees finally give in, and I collapse onto a chair.
It’s so different from being a virgin for breeding. Once the virgin is pregnant, she is sent away to a private location where she’ll receive top medical attention until the baby is born. She will be allowed to stay with the child until they turn eighteen, at which point they will go into apprenticeship with the Falchi.
But a bride is someone who must live with them day in and day out, sharing their bed. Until the day she dies.
“Well, jokes on you. I’m not even a virgin, so I can’t be your virgin bride.”
“You’re not?”
Luca asks, with a sardonic tilt to his eyebrow.
“Haven’t been for years,”
I say confidently. Finally, a way out. I got what I came for, and now I need to run.
“So, please, about that helicop—”
I don’t get to finish my request before Vince backs me against the wall, his entire huge, strong body pinning me down. Fresh wetness coats my folds, and I don’t know what to do about it.
“What are you doing—”
I cry, but he’s bundling up my skirt in his huge hand. I forget my name when I feel the imprint of his hand on my thigh, scorching me right through the two pairs of tights I’m wearing.
“Checking. But fuck, you’re wearing too many layers of clothes, kitten,”
he growls. He lifts me up, throws me over his shoulder, and while I’m fighting him to be put me down and failing, he uses one hand to unzip my boots, then jerks them off my feet. He then tucks that same hand into the waistband of my tights and my underwear and drags them off me.
Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Oh, my god.
He carries me over to what looks like a table; the legs are intricately carved wood—falcons, to be sure—but the top is padded velvet. Before my next breath, he brings my hand down to my side and restrains me with a cuff attached to the table.
My fight to be free diminishes completely by the time he’s captured and bound my other wrist and my ankles as well.
“What are you doing? Let me go.”
But my voice isn’t as loud and confident as I think. I’m shrieking in pure panic; my nerves are shot, my body on fire, and my legs are parted.
The only thing shielding the most private part of me from their gaze is the length of my skirt, until Vince lifts it and tucks it under my butt, exposing me to the point where the open air breezes over my heated center.