Chapter 6
6
NICOLAS
The memories of the docks won’t let me rest.
Every time I close my eyes, it all comes rushing back in sharp, jagged pieces. Ken’s face is always first. I see it so vividly—down to the smallest details. The sweat on his brow, the way his mouth twitches, the flash of shock in his eyes as the bullet tears through him.
Then come the others. My men. Falling one by one.
It’s too real. The deafening crack of gunfire, the gut-wrenching screams, the dull, sickening thuds of bodies hitting the ground. My ears ring with it even now.
I try to move in the memory, scream, and stop it. But I can’t. I’m frozen, paralyzed by the chaos and carnage. My legs refuse to obey, my voice is locked in my throat.
And then, like the fucking coward I am, I turn and run. I sprint to my car, leaving my men behind to face their slaughter alone.
I wake up drenched in sweat, gasping for air as if I’d been drowning. The sound of my ragged breathing echoes in the empty bedroom. My tongue throbs, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood fills my mouth. I’ve bitten it again.
With the number of times this nightmare has replayed, it’s a miracle there’s anything left of my tongue at all.
I roll onto my side, staring at the shadows stretching across the walls. The sun is already setting.
I drag a hand over my face, trying to steady myself. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to break free from my chest. I force a deep breath. Then another.
The room is dark, the faint scent of leather and wood polish grounding me, pulling me back to the present. I’m not at the docks. I’m here, in my room. Safe.
My eyes flick to the clock on the nightstand. 6:02 AM.
The wedding is in a few hours.
The thought nearly makes me laugh, but the sound that escapes is bitter and hollow. This isn’t a wedding. Not really. It’s a business deal wrapped in white satin and vows.
I push the sheets aside and get up, moving mechanically around the room. My sweat-drenched shirt clings to me, and the cold air bites at my skin. Each step toward the bathroom sends a chill down my spine.
I flip the light switch, and the harsh fluorescent glow floods the room, illuminating the dark shadows etched beneath my eyes. I lean over the sink, splashing cold water on my face, the icy sting jolting me fully awake.
When I finally meet my reflection, disgust tightens my chest. The man staring back is a stranger, worn and hollow.
Aria’s voice cuts through my mind like a blade.
And I’m sure in the face of real danger, you scram and hide behind those armed men who follow you around.
Her words replay, sharp and relentless. For a moment, I let self-loathing sink its claws into me. I feel it all—pity, regret, anger, even fear. It’s a bitter cocktail, and I drink it down.
But only for a moment.
When I’ve had enough, I gather every shred of emotion and shove it behind the red door in my mind—the place where useless feelings go to die.
There’s no time for this. I have a wedding to attend.
I step back into the room, letting the fluorescent lights buzz quietly in my absence. After freshening up, I head to the wardrobe, where my suit awaits.
The black hand-stitched jacket with intricate gold embroidery along the collar gleams faintly in the dim light. Nothing ostentatious—it’s subtle, understated. The kind of detail only the sharpest eye would notice.
Piece by piece, I assemble myself. Crisp white shirt. Silk tie. Polished shoes. When the jacket buttons slide into place, I glance at my reflection once more.
The man staring back at me now is unrecognizable—cold, controlled, unyielding. Exactly who he needs to be.
I step into the hallway, and the mansion greets me with silence. A suffocating, unnatural quiet. It feels hollow without the men who were here just days ago.
The men who fought beside me.
The men who gave me advice, shared stories, and even managed to make me laugh. The closest thing to family someone like me could ever hope for.
A flicker of something stirs behind the red door in my mind. Grief? It doesn’t matter. I shove it back into the void, locking it down like I’ve done so many times before.
This isn’t the time to mourn. There are scores to settle. Blood to spill.
I make my way downstairs to the large drawing room where the ceremony is set to take place. The scent of flowers greets me as I enter, catching me off guard. It’s the first feminine touch this house has ever known, and the realization stirs something unfamiliar within me. I’ll have to get used to it.
The chairs are arranged in neat rows, and every detail is painstakingly prepared to lend an air of decorum to the occasion. At the front, a makeshift altar stands adorned with white lilies—simple yet striking.
The priest arrives a few moments after me, an older man with weary eyes and a face that speaks of years of burdens he’s learned not to voice. He offers a brief, polite nod before moving to his place at the altar. His gaze barely lingers on me.
I scan the room, taking in the faces. No one dares meet my eyes for too long. A scattering of extended Paolo family members, a few business partners, and—fittingly—a couple of the town’s most notorious whores. Their presence isn’t an accident; their job is to ensure word of this ‘alliance’ spreads to every ear that matters.
One of the women, tall and confident, sashays to a seat beside one of my business partners. She leans in, flashing a practiced smile, and he doesn’t waste a second. His hand slides to her bare thigh, fingers grazing her skin as she giggles softly.
I suppose more than just news will be spread today.
The room falls silent.
Aria has arrived.
She moves with deliberate grace, her back straight, chin high as if daring anyone to pity her. Her dress is simple—stark white with no lace, glitter, or frivolous adornments. The fabric clings enough to hint at her figure but remains modest, understated. Her dark hair is swept back, a few loose strands curling around her face like they’ve escaped on purpose. She doesn’t look like a bride. She looks like an offering.
And yet, she’s stunning.
The word angel flashes through my mind before I can stop it. It tightens something in my chest, a part of me I’ve kept locked away for years. I despise the way her presence seems to soften the sharp edges I’ve worked so hard to maintain.
Marco trails behind her, dressed in a garish green suit that’s almost painful to look at. He takes his seat in the front row, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips.
Stronzo .
Aria halts in front of me, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that feels like a dare. There’s a fire in her gaze—a defiance with no business being there, not in her position. My pulse quickens, an unwelcome response I immediately despise.
“You look…” The words slip out before I can stop them. Beautiful . The thought is sharp and intrusive, but it tastes bitter on my tongue. This is a game, nothing more—a calculated move in Marco’s plan to weaken me. She must’ve spent hours perfecting this look, knowing it would be a distraction.
I smirk instead, letting the venom seep in. “You look like you’ll play the ornament role perfectly.”
Her expression falters, just for an instant. Her lips tighten, and something flashes in her eyes—hurt, maybe. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. She lifts her chin higher, the fire in her gaze burning hotter, daring me to go further.
That fire. It should annoy me. It doesn’t.
“And you look good too, Nicolas. Black is really your color.”
The comment catches me off guard. Before I can decipher what she means by it, the priest clears his throat, dragging our attention to him.
The ceremony begins. His words drone on, meaningless and distant, but I don’t care. My focus stays on her—the tight grip on her bouquet, the faint rise and fall of her chest with every steady breath. When it’s time, I say the words I’m expected to say. So does she.
The priest declares us husband and wife.
For the sake of appearances, I don’t hesitate. I step closer and press a brief, perfunctory kiss on her lips. They’re warm—softer than I expected—but there’s no response, no flinch. Even so, I can feel the tension coiled tightly in her shoulders.
Muted applause ripples through the room as I step back.
My eyes dart to Marco, and the smug satisfaction on his face nearly undoes me. He’s basking in the glow of this arrangement, already calculating the power shift the union represents. He hasn’t spared his sister a glance. No, his focus is on the room, on the stares and whispers that confirm his elevated status. In-laws with a Paolo .
And Aria? She hasn’t looked away from him. Her gaze clings to him like a lifeline because he’s the only person here she recognizes. Strangers surround her—people who, days ago, were her family’s enemies. The one person she does know, her own brother, doesn’t care about her.
“Come with me,” I say, my voice cutting through the low hum of conversation as I turn and stride toward the door.
It takes a few seconds before I hear her footsteps behind me. Someone mutters congratulations, but after one look from me, no one else in the room dares to speak up.
I lead her through the halls, our steps echoing against the marble floors. When we reach the base of the staircase, I stop.
“Wait,” I say.
She looks at me, confusion flickering in her eyes.
I don’t give her a chance to argue. In one swift motion, I scoop her into my arms, holding her bridal style.
“What… what are you doing?” she snaps, squirming in my arms.
Her movements don’t even budge me one inch. “Carrying my bride,” I say, my tone laced with mockery. “It’s tradition, isn’t it?”
“Put me down!” she demands, pushing against my chest with frantic force. I know it probably feels like she’s shoving a wall, but she tries again and again.
I lean closer, our faces inches apart. “Or I could take you back to that room and let you socialize with the men and women in there. Isn’t that your specialty?”
Her movements are still. I feel her breath catch, her body stiffening in my arms.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and her cheeks flush.
Probably from anger.
I carry her up the stairs, her weight barely registering. She should smell like fire and danger, but I catch a faint whiff of that tempting vanilla scent again. My cock twitches, but I try to ignore the damn thing.
However, every step I take to the room stretches longer than it should. She doesn’t look at me. Her head is turned away, her body rigid like she’s bracing for some invisible attack.
But the softness of her body is making me feel all sorts of things. That day on the balcony, I never thought I’d get to be this close to her. And now? Now she’s my wife. If I wanted to, I could drop her on this staircase, spread her legs as wide as they can go, and fuck her till that fire in her eyes burns out.
I kick the door open when we reach the room and step inside. The space is dimly lit, the bedside lamp's soft glow illuminating the silk sheets' sheen. I move to the bed and lower her down carefully.
She sits up immediately, her back straight, her hands clutching the edge of the mattress. Yet, she doesn’t speak. Her silence is unnerving.
“Come on now, Bambina ,” I say, crossing my arms, “That’s no way to look at your husband. Didn’t mummy teach you any manners?”
Even that doesn’t elicit a response. She looks down, her lashes shadowing her expression.
Her chest rises and falls in steady breaths, but her hands betray her—they tremble slightly, even as she grips the fabric of her dress. Her hair has begun to come loose from the elegant style she had earlier. She appears smaller like this—not fragile but contained. Like she’s holding every part of herself together with sheer will.
“You okay?” I ask after a pause.
Her head snaps up, and she glares at me. She still doesn’t speak, she just stares as if she wants to burn a hole through me.
“ Adattati a te stesso ,” I mutter under my breath, telling her to suit herself, as I start unbuttoning my shirt.
My shoulders ache, and the day's tension is catching up to me. Plus, I haven’t fully healed from my gunshot wound. All I want is to get out of these clothes and rest.
But she moves.
The second my hands go to unbutton my shirt, she bolts. She’s fast, but I’m quicker. Before she reaches the door, I catch her arm and pull her back.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I say, holding her firm enough to leave a mark.
She twists in my hold. “Let me go!”
“Go where exactly, Bambina ,” I ask, genuinely confused. “Do you think if you walk out of here and run to your brother, he’ll take you home?”
She struggles against me, and I tighten my grip on her hand, not even concerned if it leaves a bruise. It’s just a little pain compared to the life her brother thrust her into. “No, Aria,” I reply to myself, “He’d bring you back here himself because, to him, you’re nothing but a beautiful whore with nice tits that gets him the information he wants. And you’ve played your role well so far. So what the fuck is your problem now?”
Aria stops struggling.
Then, she spits in my face.
It lands on my cheek, hot and wet. For a moment, I’m too stunned to react. “You’ll never be my husband,” she says, her voice sharp with venom. “I’d rather die.”
I let out a slow breath, swipe the spit from my face with my thumb, and deliberately press it into my mouth. Her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets, and her lips part in shock.
I step closer, leaning down until we’re almost eye to eye. Then I smile. “You will be my wife. In every way that matters.”
Her eyes widen slightly again, but she doesn’t back down. We hold the intense gaze, neither of us yielding. The footsteps echo faintly outside the door—a maid, perhaps, or someone passing by.
I realize then that I hadn’t properly closed the door.
Without thinking. I act.
I grab her chin, tilting her face upward, and press my lips to hers. Her hands fly up to my chest, pushing against me with all her strength, but I don’t move.
I hope whoever is passing by doesn’t see her struggling. I pull her closer, limiting her space to maneuver. For a moment, I expect her to bite me, to scream, anything.
But she doesn’t.
She softens and stops struggling.
Her lips part slightly, and I feel her hesitate before she kisses me back. Then something shifts. Her hands curl into my shirt, and she presses closer.
Fuck.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen, and she’s breathing unevenly. Her eyes are wide, her expression torn between anger and confusion.
I smirk, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly. “So much for ‘I’d rather die.’”
Her hand flies up, but I catch her wrist before she can slap me. I push aside any thought of whoever might be outside the door. I lean in and kiss her again—just because I want to.