3. Arabella
Chapter 3
Arabella
“ S tefano,” I hear my husband roar from somewhere in the distance.
My husband!
I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m married to him , of all people. A carbon copy of my father, who is a man I hate.
On the surface, Dante appears flawless. Insanely handsome, with dark hair, piercing brown eyes, smooth olive skin, and features so sharp they could cut glass. He’s got charisma in spades and a disarming smile that could melt anyone. But beneath all that beauty is something far darker.
I’m eternally bound to a thug … a criminal.
The truth of it hits again like a tidal wave, and I’m so overwhelmed by it all that I bury my face in my hands and sob.
He’s everything I despise, embodying a life I’ve been running from for as long as I can remember.
Is this how my poor, sweet mother felt on her wedding day? Am I condemned to face the same fate as her? Her murder is a day I’ve tried so hard to forget, but the agonising shrill of her screams still haunts me.
“Leave us,” I hear Dante growl from just outside the door.
I’m impressed by how he stands up to Papa. The way he threatened his life at the church if he manhandled me again was something else. I’ve seen countless men lose their lives for far less.
Nobody has ever stuck up for me like that before, which was very gallant of him, but his words also confirmed everything I feared … he’s more than capable of ending a life.
“Get her under control,” my father snaps, his voice as icy as his heart. “Or I will.”
“Leave her to me,” Dante replies, and his response sends a chill up my spine.
I should’ve let my father shoot me this morning when I refused to leave my bedroom. The car was waiting to escort us to the church, but the fear of the unknown paralysed me. It’s better, the devil, you know. I ended up being marched downstairs at gunpoint.
I’ve spent my entire life being forced into submission, and witnessing what he did to my mother was more than enough to break me. But there was something about today—the finality of it—that made me fight back, even if just a little. I was playing with fire … literally.
Deep down, I knew Papa was counting on this union between me and Dante. It’s probably the reason I’m still breathing.
It’s not just the idea of being married to a man I have no respect for. It’s the thought of moving to a foreign country where I don’t know a single person and being entirely at his mercy. But leaving my little sister behind is what terrifies me the most.
She’s always been stronger than me, but what will become of her when I’m gone? Will she push Papa too far? I’ve always been the one to shield her, the buffer between the two of them.
I eventually hear the heavy stomp of my father’s footsteps echoing against the marble floor as he stalks away, but I make no move to leave the safety of the bathroom.
I inhale sharply and hold my breath when I hear a soft knock on the door a minute later. “Arabella,” Dante says in a smooth, warm, and reassuring voice, but I ignore him. I’m no fool. This man is a gangster … a murderer. Is he trying to lull me into a false sense of security? “Please open up.”
“No! Go away.”
“You can’t stay in there forever.”
He’s right, but I still reply with a sarcastic, “Can’t I?”
“Do I need to go and get your father?” he threatens.
When I don’t respond, and he says nothing more, I rise from the side of the bathtub where I’ve been sitting for the past hour and creep towards the door.
I place my flattened palms against the wood, pressing my ear to it. “I thought I was your problem now?” I say.
“Unfortunately, that’s true,” I hear him mumble, which is followed by a deep sigh. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way … your choice, Bellezza .”
Bellezza
That word lingers in the air. It’s the second time he’s called me beauty. It’s not the word itself that upsets me, but the way he says it feels like a command, an observation, and a warning all rolled into one.
I stay silent, my ear still pressed to the door, praying the hard way doesn’t involve him kicking it in. If it does, I’m bound to go flying across the room.
“Lucia told me you’re concerned about the ritual.”
My eyes widen in shock … how could she? “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lie.
That stupid tradition has backed me into a corner. If I go through with consummating my marriage—which is the last thing I want to do—my father will see that I am indeed pure. If I don’t, and the sheets remain white, I’m a dead woman walking.
“I have a plan.”
“You do?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I grew up with his type, so I don’t trust this man as far as I can kick him, but somehow, I find myself opening the door anyway. I narrow my eyes the moment they lock with his. “What’s your plan?”
He flashes that too-casual smile of his, and even though a part of me likes it, I’m on high alert.
“Come,” he says, holding his hand out for mine.
Every instinct in me screams don’t do it , but my body doesn’t seem to care. My fingers move of their own accord, sliding into his, and I can’t ignore the electric jolt that shoots up my arm the moment our skin touches.
It’s the same feeling I got earlier when we exchanged our vows and also the day we met. It’s why I was forced to rub my hand against my dress. It was something I’d never experienced before.
I walk with him down the long corridor towards the grand ballroom, where the reception is being held.
Despite my trembling insides, I hold my head high. “What is your plan?”
“Don’t worry, Bellezza … I’ve got you . ”
Those words should offer me comfort, but they don’t. I have no idea what this smiling assassin is truly capable of.
Is this a trap?
Is he setting me up, disarming me with his charming smile, only to strike when I least expect it?
When we reach the doors, he stops, but instead of entering, he pulls out the pristine white handkerchief from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
He shakes it out and lifts it towards my face, gently skimming it underneath my eyes. “I can’t have my wife facing all our guests looking like a panda bear,” he murmurs.
His wife .
As much as I despise that I’m now married to this man, his words still send a small, involuntary thrill through my body. If only my new husband were anyone but him.
His touch is unexpectedly tender … almost loving, which feels like a cruel contradiction to the ruthless Mafia Don I know him to be.
When he’s done, he balls up his handkerchief and shoves it into his trouser pocket. His eyes briefly flicker over my face. He’s too close … too damn close.
I purse my lips when he winces slightly, then mutters, “That will have to do.”
Stronzo (Arsehole) .
He reaches for my hand, tightening his grip when I try to pull away. “If we have any chance of pulling this off, you’re going to need to smile, Arabella.”
Why does my name melt like silk on his tongue, every syllable softened and stretched by that easy Australian drawl?
“Pull what off? And stop calling me that.”
“Would you rather me call you Bruttezza (Ugliness)?”
“No, but maybe I can start calling you that.”
That stupid grin on his face grows. “You and I both know that ugliness is the last word anyone would use to describe me.”
“Unless they were describing your heart.”
He barks out a deep laugh. “Fair call.”
“You never answered my question. What are we trying to pull off?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
What an idiotic reply. That’s something a child would say, not the head of the Famiglia (Family) .
I let out a frustrated growl at his response, and he chuckles as his eyes gleam with amusement. This man knows how to push my buttons, and I can tell he enjoys it.
With a smirk, he opens the door to the ballroom and steps inside. I have no choice but to put my faith in him and follow .
He strides to the centre of the room with effortless confidence, the kind that draws eyes without trying. Reaching the nearest table, he picks up a wine glass and a piece of silverware, his movements deliberate and unhurried.
Lifting the crystal high, he taps the fork against its rim, clear, sharp notes ring out, slicing through the low hum of conversation until every head turns his way.
Once he has everyone’s attention, he sets down what he’s holding and takes my hand, lifting it to his mouth. I bite back a cringe as his lips press against my knuckles. He feels my repulsion, and his eyes sparkle with laughter as he clearly enjoys his effect on me.
When his gaze returns to our guests, he says, “My wife and I want to thank you all for coming today … it’s been a momentous occasion for us both, so we’ll be retiring to our room for the night.”
“ Evvivi i sposi (Long live the newlyweds)!” everyone shouts.
Glasses are raised high as the room fills with cheers. I can’t help but feel the heaviness of this moment. Celebrating this union feels more like a trap than a triumph.
Some of our guests follow us out of the ballroom, so my hand remains clutched in Dante’s to keep up the pretence. I turn towards the small crowd and force out a smile. It’s barbaric that these people seem almost excited that I’m about to have my hymen obliterated by this ruthless monster.
My eyes briefly lock with my sister’s, and the look she gives me in return causes a lump to form in my throat. It’s one of worry and regret, the kind of understanding only sisters can share in a moment like this.
The knot in my stomach is so tight as we ascend the stairs that I genuinely feel like I might vomit. This is his plan? I thought following his lead would give me an out, not him an in .
I was a fool to trust him. We haven’t even been married a full day, and his true colours are already showing.
When we reach the landing and head down the long corridor to the room specially made up for our wedding night, I feel like I’m being marched to the gallows.
Is he going to stick his dick up my arse as he threatened the day he told me we would be married?
Once we arrive at our room, he uses his free hand to open the door, gesturing for me to enter first. Since there’s no escape, I swallow thickly and step forward.
As soon as we are inside, Dante drops my hand and closes the door. The distinct click of the lock has my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach.
He turns to face me, and when his eyes lock with mine, he arches an eyebrow. “You look utterly terrified.”
“D-do you blame me?” I stutter.
“I told you I had a plan.”
“Does that involve you sticking your thing in my backside?”
“My thing?” he asks as that damn disarming smile of his resurfaces. “You mean my cock?”
I feel my cheeks heat as I turn my face to the side. “Yes … that.”
“ Bellezza ,” he whispers as he grasps my chin between his forefinger and thumb, bringing my gaze back to his. His eyes flicker back and forth between mine, studying me momentarily. His face is so close that I can see the specks of gold surrounding his brown irises. I can also feel the warmth of his breath as it skates across my skin. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“Cock.” His thumb moves from my chin to skim along my bottom lip, dragging it down as he goes. “I want to hear that word fall from your pretty mouth.”
The air around us crackles, and I’m struck with a weird sensation. I’m unsure if I want to lean in and kiss him or raise my leg and knee him in the balls.
“No.”
“Say it, Arabella.” He rolls his lips to hide his smile when I vigorously shake my head. “Do you want me to put my cock in your arse?”
I gasp. “Of course not.”
“Then tell me not to, and I won’t.”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what, Bellezza ?”
I blow out a frustrated puff of air. He isn’t going to quit until he gets what he wants.
Straightening my spine, I lift my chin slightly and narrow my eyes. “Please do not put your cock in my arse or anywhere for that matter, you … you stronzo (Arsehole).”
He throws his head back and laughs, and I hate how beautiful he looks when he does that. It’s maddening how his laughter lights up his face.
He’s still chuckling as he turns and crosses the room, removing his tuxedo jacket and tossing it over a chair as he goes. His bowtie is next.
My gaze moves over his broad back. The fabric of his white dress shirt is pulled tight across his muscles. That’s when I spot the handle of a gun sticking out from the waistband of his trousers. The sight hits me like a cold wave, snapping me back to the harsh reality of the danger that shadows this man.
He opens the top drawer of the dresser, retrieves something, and tosses it onto the bed. “There you go.”
I hesitate, still standing by the doorway. “What is that?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.
“A vial of blood.”
“Whose blood?”
“Does it matter?” he asks, glancing at me over his shoulder .
“What’s it for?”
“The pristine white sheets,” he answers, jutting his chin towards the bed. “Did you forget that I told you I had a plan?”
“So you’re not going to have sex with me?”
“I don’t waste my time on women who aren’t interested,” he scoffs, his voice laced with a quiet dismissal.
With that, he strides into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
I’m left standing here, completely stunned … and a little embarrassed.