38. Francesca
38
FRANCESCA
The last week has been a dream, a slow, simmering build finally breaking into something raw and consuming. Graham worshipped me on that couch, and I let him. I gave in to every touch, every whispered promise, every ounce of intensity in his eyes. My body still hums from it, from him , and if I close my eyes, I can still feel the rasp of his beard against my skin, the weight of his hands pressing me down, the way he looked at me like I belonged to him.
But beneath the glow of pleasure, a weight lingers.
Because three days ago, I told my mother I was already married.
Three days ago, I torched the carefully constructed path she had carved out for me.
Three days ago, I did the one thing she never expected me to do.
And I know my mother. I know her silence is not surrender. It's a strategy. I’ve never pushed back this strongly before, so I don’t have any way to gauge her reaction.
So while my body still tingles every time Graham’s lips twitch, my brain is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It happens on a Wednesday afternoon, wrapped in the cozy, familiar routine of Fiction & Folklore. The sun struggles to break through the clouds, and my third iced latte sits half-empty beside me. There’s a stack of new paperbacks waiting to be shelved on the counter, but I’ve been toying with the idea of doing a new display table. Something to spotlight indie romance authors.
Most of my favorite books are indie romance, and any other day, I’d have this done in twenty minutes. But there’s something about today. I’m just . . . off .
The bell chimes, and my heart stops, a painful squeeze inside my chest. My mother’s reckoning is here. I can’t explain how I know it, but I’m sure before I even look up.
I glance toward the door, my usual greeting trapped behind my clenched molars. I expected my sister. But it’s worse. So, so much worse.
Because Giovanni Baldini is standing inside my bookstore.
My stomach drops.
For half a second, I sit frozen, fingers curling around the stack of bookmarks, tightening until the edges press into my palms. I barely register the pain. My stomach twists into a knot so tight I think I might be sick. But I keep my chin up. My first instinct is to scan the shop, to check if anyone else is here—a customer, an employee, someone who could serve as a buffer.
But I already know we’re alone. It’s one of those random ghost hours we get on occasion. Where the stars aligned and there’s an hour of silence. I usually take advantage of it and tackle a project, but I’m glad something held me back today. I don’t want to be in a compromising position anywhere near this man.
His smile is easy, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tailored black slacks, and he looks every bit the polished, respectable businessman my parents always insisted he was.
But I know better. I see the danger lurking beneath the expensive watch and charming grin.
“Chessa.” His voice is warm, smooth, and unbothered. Like he’s greeting an old friend.
I hate that nickname. I always have.
I force myself to let go of the bookmarks, keeping my expression neutral. “Giovanni. What are you doing here?”
He tsks, shaking his head as he strolls deeper into the store, fingers trailing along the edge of a nearby bookshelf. “I’m disappointed in you, Chessa,” he says lightly.
My spine stiffens. Romeo presses into my legs, his hair fluffed out more than usual, a low growl vibrating through him.
He pauses near a display table, picking up a book, studying the cover like he’s truly interested. But I know it’s just a distraction—a way to appear calm, to give me the illusion of control when he’s the one who carefully orchestrated this moment.
I force an easy smile and mentally calculate how quickly I can reach my phone if I need to. “For what, exactly?” I ask, but I don’t care about his answer. I don’t care about his approval or anything about him at all, really.
But I’ve been forced to play these games long enough to recognize when I’m outmatched. And I’m always out-fucking-matched.
The thought sinks into my gut like a burning ember. It sizzles against my flesh, burning and burning.
He sets the book down and turns his attention back to me. His gaze sweeps over me, assessing, calculating. Then he exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh.
“For making things difficult, of course.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat, my fingers curling into fists at my sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Giovanni.” My voice comes out steady, even. A small victory.
He chuckles, a low, dark sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “Don’t play coy, Chessa. It doesn’t suit you.” He takes a step closer, his expensive shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. “We had an arrangement, you and I. A mutually beneficial one, if I recall.”
My stomach twists, nausea roiling inside me at his words. An arrangement. Like our relationship, our future together, was nothing more than a business transaction.
And maybe to him, it was. But to me, it was my life. My choices, my autonomy, handed over to a man I barely knew because my parents deemed it beneficial .
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders as I meet his gaze head on. “No. You had an arrangement with my parents.”
Something dark flashes in his eyes, there and gone again so quickly I can’t name it. “Hm. I seem to recall how generous I was when you came to me begging to go to college. Begging to open a bookstore. Begging to delay our wedding time and time again.”
I shake my head as that burning ember grows hotter inside of me, multiplying and evolving into something else.
Rage .
Romeo picks up on it immediately, his growls splitting the air.
Gio glares at my dog, malice peeking through the mask I knew he wore. “Get your dog under control before I do.”
“Get out.” It’s a low demand, said in a tone I don’t even recognize even though it came from me.
He laughs and takes a step toward me. It’s a challenge. “C’mon, Chessa. Don’t be stupid now. Not when your future is on the line.” His hand curls around my forearm, his grip tight. “I could make it good for you, at least the first time. All you have to do is pop out a couple of Baldini boys, and then I’ll leave you alone. For the most part.” He grins, malevolence dripping from his lips.
Rage burns white-hot through my veins, eating away my common sense and smothering my fear. How dare he come into my store, my sanctuary, and threaten me? How dare he speak to me like I’m some broodmare he can breed at his leisure? Like my only worth is what’s between my legs?
“Take your hand off me,” I say through gritted teeth, my voice low and dangerous. “Now.”
Romeo’s growls grow louder, his hackles raised as he edges closer to Giovanni, teeth bared.
Giovanni’s grip tightens painfully on my arm as he leans in close, his breath hot against my cheek. “You don’t get to make demands of me, Chessa. You seem to have forgotten your place.”
“My place?” I seethe, taking a step toward him. He’s only four or five inches taller than me, so it puts me in his face. Romeo stays glued to my side, his growls constant now. “Let me tell you your place , Giovanni Baldini. You’re small . A pawn who can’t get out from underneath his daddy’s thumb. You’re a glorified errand boy, jumping every time someone tells you to. And that’s all you’ll ever be.” I pause, breathing heavy as I deliver words I’ve been holding back for years. “And you will never be my husband.”
Rage flashes in his eyes. For the first time since he walked in, true fear slithers down my spine. My pulse pounds in my ears as his grip tightens.
His nostrils flare as he grips both of my arms now, shaking me a little as he brings me into him. “You’re a fucking bit?—”
“If you value your hands, you’ll remove them from my wife,” a deep, familiar voice interrupts from behind us.
My head snaps toward the sound, my heart leaping into my throat. Graham stands in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space, his expression thunderous. His eyes are locked on Giovanni, dark and dangerous, promising violence.
Giovanni’s grip tightens painfully on my arms before he releases me with a shove. I stumble back a step, catching myself on the edge of the counter. Romeo positions himself between me and Giovanni, his growls growing louder, more menacing.
Graham stalks forward, his movements controlled and predatory. The air crackles with tension, with barely restrained violence. He doesn’t take his eyes off Giovanni for a second as he puts himself in front of me, effectively blocking Gio’s view of me.
I step into Graham, resting my palm on his back. My shoulders drop and my hands tremble, which seems silly. All I did was say a few things to a man I’ve known for my entire life. I don’t even know if I swore. Damn, I should’ve lobbed some choice curse words at him while I had the chance.
I peek around my husband’s broad back.
“Let me guess. You’re the husband,” Giovanni says, straightening his suit jacket with an air of nonchalance that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Graham doesn’t respond, his jaw clenched tight, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s barely restraining himself from reaching for Giovanni’s throat. The silence stretches, heavy and charged, the only sound Romeo’s continued growling.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Giovanni continues, extending his hand with a shark’s smile. “Giovanni?—”
“Get the fuck out of my wife’s store,” Graham rumbles, folding his arms across his chest.
Giovanni’s smile widens, his eyes flashing with retribution. “Let me guess, criminal? Figures my Chessa would go for my complete opposite.”
Graham takes a step forward, crowding into Giovanni’s space. “If you ever touch my wife again, I will break every bone in your fucking hands. And then I’ll shatter your kneecaps so you’ll never be able to set foot in this town or any other. And then I’ll get my biker brother-in-law to give me a few pointers on how to make you fucking suffer. Is that criminal enough for you?”
He delivers the threats so calmly, so matter-of-fact, that it takes Gio a few seconds for his brain to register it.
Gio’s eyes narrow, his jaw clenching as he sizes up Graham. For a tense moment, I think he might actually be stupid enough to take a swing. But then he steps back, straightening his suit jacket with a huff.
“This isn’t over,” he says, pointing a finger at me over Graham’s shoulder. “You belong to me, Chessa. And I always get what’s mine.”
Graham takes another menacing step toward Giovanni, his voice a low, deadly growl. “She belongs to no one but herself. Keep talking though, you’re just digging your own grave.”
There’s no bravado in his words, no empty posturing. Just cold, hard certainty. The kind of promise that settles deep in your bones.
Then he scoffs and takes a step back, straightening his suit jacket once more. “You’ve made a huge mistake, Chessa.” And you're gonna regret it is implied.
He flicks his gaze toward Graham, something sharp and considering in his expression. Like he’s already strategizing his next move. With that final threat lingering in the air, he turns on his heel and strides out of the bookstore, the bell chiming cheerfully in his wake.
The moment the door closes behind him, the tension drains out of me like a balloon deflating. My legs wobble and I sag against the counter, my heart still pounding a staccato beat against my ribs.
Graham turns to me immediately, his hands gentle but firm on my shoulders as he looks me over. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” His voice is a low rumble, concern and anger warring in his eyes.
I shake my head, swallowing hard. “No, no I’m okay. He just . . .” I trail off, not sure how to put into words the poisonous mixture of fear, rage, and humiliation Giovanni stirred up inside me. Like he has the power to reduce me to that scared, powerless girl I used to be with just a few well-placed barbs.
His hands slide down my arms, his touch gentle as he examines me for any signs of injury. When his fingers graze the spots where Giovanni gripped me, I wince. Bruises are already blooming.
“I’m going to kill him,” he growls under his breath.
I grasp his wrists, holding him in place. “He’s not worth it.” I take a shaky breath, willing my heart rate to slow. “He wanted to get a reaction out of me, to make me feel small and powerless. But all he did was remind me that they can’t control me. I don’t belong to them anymore.”
He studies my face intently, his eyes searching mine. After a long moment, he slides his palm over the side of my neck, sinking his fingers into my hair. “You belong to me .”
Tears prick the backs of my eyes at his words, at the possession. I huff a watery laugh and lean into his touch. “I thought I belonged to myself?”
“You do. You belong to yourself and to me.”
I exhale a shaky breath as his words wash over me, settling deep in my bones. There’s no demand in his tone, no expectation of obedience or subservience. Just a simple statement of fact, like it’s an immutable truth of the universe.
His thumb strokes over my cheekbone, his touch achingly tender in contrast to the fierceness in his eyes. “No one will ever hurt you again, Francesca. I won’t allow it.”
Emotion wells up in my throat, thick and heavy. I believe him. With every fiber of my being, I believe him.