Tormented Diamonds (Marchesi Empire #3)

Chapter One

BECCA

Montclair, New Jersey

I stare at myself in the mirror, and my stomach lurches. In less than an hour, I’ll become Becca Marchesi—a mafia don’s wife.

What have I done?

I close my eyes. The answer is everything.

I’ve given everything I am for revenge. While saving my father’s life and securing my own was a driving factor in accepting Gianni’s proposal, it wasn’t what made me sell my soul.

That came with the chance to look my mother’s killer in the eye and even the score.

And that’s what has had me tucked away in this bedroom all day. I’m not hiding from Gianni. I’m not even hiding from my obligation. I’m hiding from me … from the person I’ve become. There are two Beccas at war inside me, and one has the clear advantage.

There’s a click at the door, and I jump as it swings open. A thousand warning bells ring all at once as flashbacks of Henry cause me to stagger back. I squint across the room, trying to force my blurry eyesight into submission when I see Anton peer through the opening and clear his throat.

“Hi, Becca.” He gives me an awkward smile that’s infuriatingly endearing. His obvious discomfort throws me off balance. Where’s the insufferable hard ass from last night? The one who literally dragged me out of the estate, kicking and screaming.

“What do you want?” My gaze narrows as he steps inside, and I take another step back. “Who are you, really?”

Two questions I fully expect not to be answered. However, I’m more than a little knocked off guard when that steel mask shifts, and he invades the space I put between us.

“Anton Altieri, underboss of the Marchesi family.” He lets a hesitant pause fall before adding, “The one who sent word to Providence that Gianni was being set up by his father again.”

His admission hits like a sledgehammer to the chest. I glance from him to the door, a confusing rush of hope and panic flooding my veins. “Is he…?”

“Here?” He shakes his head. “No, but he sent me, along with this…” He gestures to the garment bag draped over his arm.

I twist away to hide the tears in my eyes. I don’t know why I’m upset. Why would he come? It’s not like I gave him any reason to after storming up the stairs like a child.

Anton approaches and hovers his hand uncertainly over my back before lowering it by his side. “Are you okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

He doesn’t answer. I don’t blame him. I’m bruised, beaten, and battered. I’m as “okay” as I am free. But it’s not his fault, and I’m a bitch for taking my morality crisis out on him.

I drop my chin with a heavy exhale. “I’m sorry. I’m just … not myself.”

“Don’t apologize.”

There’s another weighted pause, and I look up to find him holding the garment bag out in front of him like it’s a threaded bomb. “No, thanks.”

He chuckles. “Gianni said you were stubborn.”

“Did he also tell you I’m a hypocrite who sold my future for a chance at doing the very thing I condemn him for?”

“No. He said you were one of the smartest women he’d ever met and a survivor who’d been through hell and came back stronger than any man ever could. Is he wrong?”

I meet his stare. “No.”

“Then prove it.” He gives the bag a shake. “Survivors don’t self-sabotage.”

As much as I hate to admit it … he’s right.

I can throw out all the insults I want, but it won’t change the fact that I agreed to this.

Gianni may have presented it as a forced marriage, but we both know better.

That whole production downstairs wasn’t to make me submissive to his demands. It was to make me an accomplice.

I take the offered bag, only getting it halfway unzipped when my hand stills.

Oh, God. It’s beautiful.

It’s not just a wedding dress. It’s the wedding dress, sultry and romantic with a beaded illusion corset that cinches at the waist. I don’t have to look to know the rest is sleek, form-fitting, and understated. Only one person knows me this well.

“Gianni gave me guidelines, and I grabbed one that checked most of them,” he explains. “I don’t know shit about women’s clothing, so I hope you like it.”

It’s so perfect it feels like a dull knife to the chest. I run my fingers down the front, the last of my walls crumbling. I wish the situation were different and that I was marrying Gianni for love instead of obligation.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“Why do you care?” I’m not lashing out. I truly need to know.

“Because Gianni does. Besides, I understand what you’re feeling.”

“I doubt that.”

He frowns. “Marriage should never be contractual or negotiated as blood pay. Fear has no place next to vows.” I don’t respond, prompting Anton to end the strained silence with a side-eyed scan from my tangled hair to my bare feet.

“You should get dressed. The ceremony starts in an hour. I even got some makeup from one of our captain’s wives,” he adds, gesturing proudly to a small pouch at the bottom of the garment bag.

“Thanks.” I chuckle dryly. “I’ll look great when they find my body.”

“Gianni won’t let that happen.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Yeah, he did. Want to know what else he told me?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“He said he didn’t care if he walked out of his father’s house as long as you did,” he says, ignoring the weak barb. “He risked his life to save you, Becca, and while he’ll never admit it, I think a part of him hopes you’ll save him back.”

God, I want to … more than I should.

“He doesn’t want to be saved,” I choke out, my grip on the bag tightening.

“Sometimes, the ones who are drowning are the least likely to ask for help,” he counters, his face going slack. “I know yours and Gianni’s pasts tangle in the worst way, but don’t punish him for his father’s sins.”

“I’m not punishing him. I just…” The garment bag crinkles as I hu g it to my chest. “This wasn’t supposed to be so complicated. It wasn’t supposed to hurt so much.”

That tight smile returns, only this time, there’s an underlying sadness soaking up all the warmth. “You love him.”

I open my mouth, then snap it shut. This isn’t the time for a confession. All that matters is getting through the ceremony. I have an entire lifetime to pray for the fate of my tortured heart.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m fully dressed, with my hair and makeup done, pacing my room like a caged tiger.

My gown crunches with each step, the constant swish of the beaded skirt fueling my anxiety.

I glance down at the shimmering satin and lace, warning lining my gut while the same silver-plated hope coats my heart.

It’s a dangerous combination.

Curling my fists, I turn to the mirror. “This isn’t real,” I tell my reflection. “It’s a ‘negotiated blood payment’ like Anton said. He doesn’t love you. He’s trying to keep from having another woman’s death on his conscience.”

“ Mio Dio, Becca. Sei la creatura piú straordinaria che sia mai esistita in terra .”

His voice always hits me like a clap of thunder—deep, rough, commanding, and as intoxicating as it is deadly.

I stare at the doorway where Gianni stands drenched in black from his tailored suit to his shirt and tie.

I can’t translate what he said, but I have no problem reading the one word reflected in that dark, lethal gaze.

Mine.

I can’t take my eyes off him. Pieces of dark hair fall over his forehead, ending in inky arrows that point to icy, steel-plated eyes. His presence consumes the room, powerfully and regally, like a Roman god with the world at his feet.

I clear my throat. “What happened to not seeing the bride before the wedding?”

Gianni drags that half-lidded gaze up my throat to my face.

“That’s an outdated superstition.” My feet remain welded to the floor as he closes the door, then turns to face me, his expression turning feral.

I blink, and then he’s in front of me, cupping my cheek and dragging his thumb roughly across my bottom lip. “You’re wearing red lipstick.”

There’s a vicious energy surrounding him, a dangerous hairpin trigger held in place by a thread of control. Normal, sane women would back away from the beast, not poke a stick at it.

Obviously, I’m neither.

“Fire Queen. I believe you know the shade.”

A last-minute addition I found in the makeup bag. A shade that ignites a memory powerful enough to drown out the voices in my head telling me what a bad idea it was to put it on. I’m still trying to figure out why I didn’t listen.

That’s a lie.

I know exactly why. As angry as I am, there’s a piece of me that wants the man I fell for to be a part of this wedding. Red lipstick was ours. I may say “I do” to Gianni Marchesi, but that first kiss will belong to Johnny Malone.

His other hand dips into my hair, destroying the loose chignon I pinned at my nape. The moment I feel his grip wind around the newly freed strands, I release a soft breath. But it’s the dominant tug that forces my head back and my eyes on him that steals it.

“You know what red lipstick does to me, don’t you, Becca?”

“No,” I whisper.

“I think you do,” he challenges, walking me backward until my legs hit the bed.

The hand on my face slides down to my hip, then curls possessively around my waist. “I believe the last time you did this I was very clear about it. And just like last time, I don’t know whether to lick that damn color off your lips for wanting to please me, or bite it off for being a fucking cock tease.

” He lowers his head, his breath warming my ear as his hold on me tightens.

“I know which one I’d rather do. What about you, cara mia ? Do you prefer tongue or teeth?”

Christ, this man…

My eyes drift closed, my willpower drowning in an ocean of lust. I’ve never been the type of woman who loses all her brain cells at a few smooth lines and filthy words, but every moment with Gianni turns me into someone I don’t recognize.

I can’t decide if it’s made me powerfully liberated or recklessly dependent, but one thing is clear…

It’s made my body my worst enemy.

“Teeth,” I murmur, tipping my head back.

The thread on Gianni’s trigger snaps. “You’re a dangerous woman, Doc. But I’m an even more dangerous man, and you’re about to know why.”

The world blurs as I’m spun around, then I feel Gianni’s hand between my shoulder blades pushing me onto the mattress. I turn my head to the side just in time to see him flip the skirt of my wedding gown over my ass. I hold my breath as he traces the thin, lacy string of my thong.

Surely, he won’t destroy another pair of panties, not on our wedding day.

He wraps it around his finger, then the hand on my back slides lower…

Lower.

Lower.

Riiiiiip.

I guess so.

My cheek burns against the mattress at being so on display.

However, I don’t have time to dwell on it.

Two fingers invade my pussy, and I cry out, my mind exploding into a kaleidoscope of colors as he pumps them in and out at a maddeningly unhurried pace.

My spine bows in protest, and the pressure on my back returns, keeping me bent over the bed and my face pressed into the mattress.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he announces, adding a third finger with a force that has me clawing the comforter. “Even monsters honor tradition, and taking my wife on our wedding night is something I will have.”

I want to argue, but his fingers curl inside me, and I lose the ability to form words.

“You’re not marrying Johnny Malone, Becca.

You’re marrying Gianni Marchesi. I need you to understand we’re not the same.

While we both worship the ground you walk on, the one with his fingers in your cunt is a violent and savage man.

You think you’ve seen the worst, but you haven’t, Doc, not even close. ”

I hear a rustling noise behind me, but I’m too frantic to care.

I can’t catch my breath. My whole body is shaking, tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I’m dangerously close to begging.

The bastard is withholding my orgasm on purpose.

I feel like I’m rushing toward the ground at breakneck speed only to be yanked back up and dropped all over again.

“P-please…” I whimper. “I need … I need…”

He slowly pulls his fingers out, then leans over me, a wicked smile on his lips. “Does my bride need to come?”

All I can do is nod.

“Unfortunately, you won’t be doing it on my cock. But don’t worry, beloved. I have something for you just as hard and lethal.”

Relieved, I wait for him to put his fingers back in. Instead, I feel something cold and metal invade me. I stiffen, which only causes my inner walls to clench around it and draw it inside even more. It’s only then I realize the true depth of his depravity.

“Gianni,” I whisper, fear creeping into my voice. “What are you doing?”

“Giving you a glimpse into my world, Dr. Brennan. Your new world.” He pumps his gun in and out of me slowly, his breath growing heavier and more labored with every thrust. “If you’re going to survive it, then you have to trust me, even when I have your life in my hands.

” His voice drops almost to a growl as his cock hardens against my ass.

“One wrong move could end it all. So what are you going to do, Becca … pull away, or trust me to not pull the trigger?”

He’s not just talking about the gun, and we both know it.

It’s one hundred percent certifiable for me to lie here and let this man fuck me with a loaded gun, but I’m not sure sanity is part of the equation anymore. This dirty, insanely dangerous act of his calls to the darkest, most depraved part of me.

He wants to know if I’m brave enough to join the most vulnerable part of me with the most violent part of him. Is it sick? Probably, but not enough to stop it.

I give him my sultriest look. “What are you waiting for?”

His eyes flash, the demons behind them flaring to life. He leans closer, his lips dusting my cheek before I feel them spread in a wide smile. “Scream for me.”

Then, once again, he sinks his teeth deep into my shoulder, and the monster I accused him of being emerges, fucking me with a loaded gun until I shatter into a million pieces.