Chapter 4 #2
I've never had such an intense reaction to anyone. I grind against her stomach, loving the way she releases another moan. All I want is to bend her over my desk, pull up that emerald dress, and fuck her like I've never fucked anyone before.
Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I force myself to pull away, breathing hard. I can't lose control like this. The Boston Elite Syndicate is trying to repair our reputation, not cause more chaos. Taking a rival's daughter's virginity before marriage isn't the way to go. Not until we're properly bound, at least.
Vittoria looks up at me, chest heaving as she catches her breath. Her lips are swollen from our kiss, cheeks flushed. She looks utterly ravishing, and it takes all my self-control not to pull her back into my arms.
I can see confusion and desire warring in her gaze.
"Leave," I growl, angry at myself for losing control, knowing if she doesn't leave right now, I might do something I'll regret. "Now."
She hesitates, like she's about to say something, but thinks better of it. Without a word, she turns and hurries out, closing the door quietly behind her.
I slump back against my desk, running a hand through my hair in frustration. This was not how I planned for this conversation to go.
Not at all.
I pour another scotch and down half of it in one gulp. Vittoria Costa is proving far more intriguing and dangerous than I anticipated. That kiss was electric, igniting passion I haven't felt in years.
But with that passion comes risk.
The next morning, I'm nursing coffee and a headache when Giovanni appears in my study doorway. Unlike last time, there's urgency in his expression.
"Father, we need to talk," he says, closing the door behind him.
"What is it now?" I ask, not in the mood for more family drama.
"It's about last night. The engagement party." He sits across from me, expression serious. "We have a problem."
My blood turns cold. "Explain."
"The reporters Valentina spoke to, they were there. At the party."
I set down my coffee cup hard enough to rattle the saucer. "What?"
"Three of them. They posed as guests, had fake invitations, the works. It was a professional job." Giovanni's jaw tightens. "They got photos, recorded conversations. This morning, there are already articles online about the 'child bride' marriage."
Fury rises in my chest, hot and immediate. "How the fuck did they get past security?"
"We're looking into it. But Father..." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "The articles aren't just gossip pieces. They're asking serious questions about the alliance, about potential criminal connections. Someone's feeding them detailed information."
I stand abruptly and begin pacing behind my desk. This is exactly what we didn't need right now. "How bad is it?"
"Bad enough. Photos of you and Vittoria, quotes from guests about the 'unusual' nature of the marriage. They're painting a picture of forced marriage and criminal conspiracy."
"Fuck." I drain my coffee, mind racing. "What's being done?"
"Rocco's handling damage control. Legal threats, buyouts, the usual. But some of these outlets can't be bought or scared off."
This is a nightmare. Just when we're trying to rebuild the Syndicate's reputation, this shit surfaces.
"There's more," Giovanni continues reluctantly. "The Costas are furious. Domenico is threatening to pull out of the alliance entirely."
My blood turns to ice. "What?"
"He's claiming we can't protect his daughter's reputation, let alone her safety. He's demanding answers—who leaked the information, how we plan to fix this—and wants guarantees it won't happen again."
I close my eyes, feeling everything I've worked for crumbling. "Where is he now?"
"Conference call with the other family heads. They're all concerned about exposure."
This is a fucking disaster. I grab my phone and scroll through the news articles Giovanni mentioned. The headlines make my stomach churn:
"Boston Crime Family Forces Teen Into Marriage"
"Child Bride Scandal Rocks Elite Boston Wedding"
"Inside the Arranged Marriage That Has Everyone Talking"
The photos are damning; Vittoria looking young and vulnerable, me appearing possessive and controlling. The narrative being painted is exactly what we feared.
"Get Vittoria," I order Giovanni. "Bring her here now."
"Father, she's not the problem—”
"I know she's not the fucking problem," I snap. "But she's about to become the target. These vultures will tear her apart if we don't get ahead of this."
Giovanni nods and leaves. Minutes later, there's a soft knock.
"Enter."
Vittoria steps in, and I can immediately see she knows. Her face is pale, eyes wide with something between fear and fury.
"You've seen the articles," I state.
She nods, closing the door behind her. "My mother showed me this morning. Father's... not pleased."
That's putting it mildly. "Sit," I command, but she remains standing.
"I'd rather not."
"That wasn't a request."
After a moment's hesitation, she sits, but her posture screams defiance. "This isn't my fault, Cesare. I didn't talk to any reporters."
"I know that." I move around the desk to face her directly. "But you're caught in the middle of it now. Your reputation, our alliance, everything is at risk."
Her eyes flash with anger. "My reputation? What about yours? You're the one marrying someone young enough to be your daughter."
The words hit harder than I expect. For a moment, I see myself through her eyes, a middle-aged man forcing a teenager into marriage. The image isn't flattering.
"Careful," I warn, voice low. "You're walking a dangerous line."
"Am I?" She stands, facing me directly. "Because from where I'm standing, I'm already fucked. My name is plastered across newspapers as a 'child bride.' My future is being picked apart by strangers. What more can you threaten me with?"
Her boldness catches me off guard. Most people cower when I use that tone. But Vittoria? She stands taller, meets my gaze head-on.
"You want to know what I think?" she continues, voice rising slightly. "I think you're scared. Scared that this alliance will fall apart, scared that your precious reputation can't handle the truth."
I move closer, using my height advantage to intimidate. "And what truth is that?"
"That you're a forty-two-year-old man who needs to marry a teenager to secure power. That your family is so weak, you need my father's connections to survive."
The words are like a slap. Before I can stop myself, my hand shoots out, gripping her chin roughly, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"Listen carefully," I growl, voice deadly quiet. "You may think you know this world, but you have no fucking idea what I'm capable of. Push me too far, and you'll discover just how dangerous I can be."
Instead of fear, I see defiance blaze brighter in her eyes. "Go ahead," she whispers. "Prove exactly what kind of man you really are."
For a moment, we stare at each other, predator and prey, but I'm no longer sure who's which. The tension between us is electric, dangerous.
Then, before I can stop myself, I'm kissing her again. Hard, demanding, possessive. She responds immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt as she kisses me back with equal intensity.
This time, I don't pull away.
I back her against the wall, my body pressing into hers. She's so fucking responsive, arching against me, little gasps escaping her lips as I trail kisses down her neck.
"Cesare," she breathes, and hearing my name fall from her lips like that nearly undoes me.
I grab her thighs, lifting her until her legs wrap around my waist. The black skirt she’s wearing rides up her legs, and I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric between us.
"Tell me to stop," I growl against her throat, even as my hands roam her body.
She doesn't. If anything, she pulls me closer.
"Fuck," I breathe, grinding against her. I want her so badly I can barely think straight. But somewhere in the back of my mind, reason prevails.
Not like this. Not against a wall in my study like some desperate teenager.
When I make her mine, and I will, it'll be properly. In my bed, on our wedding night, where she belongs.
I force myself to step back, both of us breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed, hair messed from my hands. She looks thoroughly debauched, and it takes everything in me not to finish what we started.
"Go," I say roughly, my voice strained.
She stares at me for a moment, something unreadable in her expression. Then she straightens her dress, smooths her hair, and walks toward the door.
"Vittoria," I call out just as she reaches for the handle.
She pauses, looking back at me.
"The articles, the scandal, I'll handle it. You have my word."
She studies my face for a long moment. "Why?" she asks quietly. "Why does it matter to you what happens to me?"
The question catches me off guard. I'm not sure I have an answer, at least not one I'm ready to voice.
"Because you're going to be my wife," I say finally. "And I protect what's mine."
Something shifts in her expression—disappointment, maybe. "Right," she says softly. "Of course."
She leaves without another word, and I'm left standing in my study, hard as a rock and confused as hell about what just happened between us.
I pour another scotch, trying to make sense of my reaction to her. This was supposed to be simple; a business arrangement, nothing more. But Vittoria is getting under my skin in ways I didn't expect.
The way she challenged me, stood up to me, no one has done that in years. Most people are too afraid. But she looked me in the eye and called me weak, called my family weak.
And instead of being furious, I found myself aroused.
What the fuck is happening to me?
My phone buzzes with a text from Rocco: Meeting in an hour. Damage control.
I finish my drink and straighten my tie. Time to clean up this mess before it destroys everything we've built.
But first, I need to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about my complicated feelings for my bride-to-be.
The emergency meeting with the family heads is brutal. Domenico is furious, threatening to pull out entirely. The Russians are questioning our competency. The Irish are making snide comments about our security.
"This is unacceptable," Domenico snarls across the conference table. "My daughter's reputation is being destroyed because of your family's incompetence."
"Your daughter's reputation is intact," I reply coolly, though my hands are clenched under the table. "She handled herself perfectly at the party. The problem is whoever leaked information to begin with."
"The problem," Vincent Torrino interjects, "is that your house isn't secure. First, Valentina talks to reporters, now this. How can we trust you to protect our interests?"
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: More photos coming tomorrow. Much worse ones.
My blood turns cold. There are more photos? Worse ones?
"Cesare?" Rocco's voice cuts through my panic. "Everything alright?"
I show him the text. His face darkens as he reads it.
"Gentlemen," I say, standing slowly. "It appears this situation just became more complicated."
As I explain the threat, watching the faces around the table grow increasingly grim, one thought dominates my mind:
Someone wants to destroy this alliance. The question is who, and how far they're willing to go to succeed.