2. Alessio
Alessio
The crystal chandeliers of the hotel ballroom cast a fractured, prismatic light over the apex of my victory.
I keep my hand clamped firmly around the narrow curve of Caterina’s waist, steering my newly minted wife through the sprawling sea of expensive silk and tailored charcoal suits.
She is a magnificent masterpiece of barely contained violence, radiating a visceral, scorching anger that I find infinitely more intoxicating than the compliant, boring submission I am accustomed to receiving from the women in our world.
Every muscle in her spine is locked in rigid defiance.
She glides across the polished marble floor beside me, acknowledging the hesitant congratulations of the remaining Falco loyalists with a frigid, regal nod that simultaneously dismisses their existence and demands their respect.
She wears her hatred like a second skin, a lethal armor woven from the ashes of her father’s incinerated empire, and the hostility vibrating from her frame sends a rush of wicked, undeniable heat straight to my groin.
Dante and Silvio, my most trusted Capos, step into our path near the champagne tower.
Silvio offers a respectful incline of his head, his sharp eyes evaluating the furious woman strapped to my side, while Dante raises a crystal flute in a mocking toast to the union.
Caterina looks at the glass as though it contains poison, her lips parting to deliver a venomous insult that will undoubtedly cause a scene.
I squeeze her hip, a bruising warning pressing through the layers of her ivory gown, forcing her to swallow the insubordination.
"Drink the champagne, Caterina," I murmur against her ear, letting my breath brush the sensitive skin of her neck. "Play the gracious host, or I will pour the vintage down your throat myself."
She snatches the flute from Dante’s hand, downing the expensive liquor in one ungraceful swallow before slamming the crystal back onto his serving tray.
Silvio chuckles, exchanging a knowing glance with Dante, fully aware of the feral wildcat I just chained to my side.
They respect the violence required to tame a woman bred for war, and they know I am the only enforcer capable of breaking a Falco.
The jazz band strikes up a slow, rhythmic melody, signaling the customary first dance.
Caterina tries to step backward, her brown eyes flashing with a wild, cornered panic, but I refuse to grant her an inch of mercy.
I pull her flush against my chest, sliding my hand down the sweeping curve of her spine, pressing her hips explicitly against my groin.
We glide onto the center of the dance floor, surrounded by a ring of spectators waiting to see the Severato Underboss conquer his prize.
She holds herself incredibly stiff, refusing to mold her body to mine, utilizing the stiff corset of her dress as a physical barricade.
"Relax your shoulders, Caterina," I instruct, keeping my voice low so the surrounding soldiers cannot hear the command. "You are putting on a pathetic performance for men who came here expecting to see a united front. Do not make me embarrass you in front of the Commission."
She tilts her chin up, her breath hitching as my fingers trace the intricate lace covering her ribs.
"I do not care about the Commission," she spits back.
"I do not care about your fabricated united front, and I certainly do not care about your fragile ego.
You can force a ring onto my finger, Alessio, but you cannot force me to pretend I am enjoying the experience of dancing with the man who burned my life to the ground. "
I chuckle, spinning her effortlessly across the polished floor, ensuring the massive skirt of her gown flares out in a beautiful, dramatic display of wealth.
"I do not need you to enjoy it," I reply smoothly, dipping her low enough to expose the plunging neckline of her corset, my gaze tracking the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "I only need you to submit to it.
You are a Severato now. You wear my name, you wear my diamonds, and you will dance with me until I decide the music stops. "
Niccolò approaches the edge of the dance floor the moment the song concludes, his presence parting the crowded room like a scythe cutting through wheat.
Livia stands beside him, resting her hand elegantly on his forearm.
My brother evaluates my posture, his obsidian eyes scanning the friction crackling between Caterina and me.
He is a man who calculates every variable, searching for a vulnerability in my armor, but I offer him nothing but the arrogant smirk of a conqueror.
"The traditionalists are pacified for the evening," Niccolò states smoothly. "You secured the treaty, Alessio. See to it that your bride understands the permanence of this arrangement. We cannot afford a splinter faction forming behind our backs."
Livia offers a softer, far more complicated smile, attempting to bridge the massive chasm separating our families.
She understands the horror of being trapped in a cage, though her cage was eventually transformed by love.
"The gown is breathtaking, Caterina," Livia offers gracefully, extending an olive branch wrapped in genuine kindness.
Caterina stiffens, her knuckles turning stark white as she clutches the folds of her dress, refusing to acknowledge the compliment from the woman who wears the crown she always believed would belong to her.
She views Livia as a civilian interloper, a maid who somehow bewitched the most dangerous man in Boston.
"Save your pity," Caterina whispers, her voice shaking with unmitigated rage, staring right past Livia’s shoulder.
I cut the interaction short, wrapping my arm tighter around her waist and offering my brother a brief nod. "We are leaving," I declare, steering her away from the syndicate heads and charting a direct course for the exit. "She has performed enough parlor tricks for one night."
The freezing Boston air bites at our skin the moment we step out of the opulent venue.
A line of armored SUVs idles at the curb, the exhaust pluming into the night sky.
I open the reinforced door of the lead Maybach, practically shoving her inside before climbing in behind her.
The door shuts with a solid, isolating thud, cutting off the noise of the paparazzi and the remaining syndicate guards.
Caterina immediately presses herself against the opposite door, putting as much physical distance between us as the leather bench allows.
She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at the partition separating us from the driver.
"I suppose this is the part where you drag me back to your brother's fortress," she bites out, her voice dripping with a caustic, sweeping bitterness.
"You lock me in a guest room in the Severato compound, surround the perimeter with your armed thugs, and expect me to rot quietly while you parade around the city pretending you earned this victory. "
I lean back against the plush leather, unbuttoning the jacket of my tuxedo, thoroughly amused by her predictable assumptions.
She thinks she understands the parameters of her new prison.
She believes she is merely transferring from one cell to another, resigning herself to a life under Niccolò's roof, suffocated by the presence of his Capos and his pregnant queen.
"Take the coastal highway," I instruct the driver, pressing the intercom button on the center console. "Bypass the northern gates completely. We are heading to the Falco estate."
Caterina’s head snaps toward me, her brown eyes widening in shock. "What did you just say?" she demands, her voice cracking as the reality of my command registers in her brain. "You have no business going to my family's compound."
I offer her a slow, vicious smirk, reaching across the console to trail a single finger down the exposed slope of her collarbone, enjoying the involuntary shiver that wrecks her frame.
"It is not your family's compound anymore, sweetheart," I inform her smoothly, watching the furious color drain from her cheeks.
"It belongs to the Severato syndicate now.
And since I am the man who secured the treaty, Niccolò granted me the territory as a wedding gift.
We are not living in my brother's shadow. We are living in your house."
The drive along the coastline is consumed by a suffocating, hostile silence.
Caterina stares out the tinted window, her chest rising and falling in erratic, frantic bursts as she struggles to process the magnitude of the psychological warfare I am waging against her.
I do not just want her physical compliance, I want to dismantle every single foundation she relies upon, stripping away her sanctuary and claiming it as my own.
The armored Maybach turns onto the sprawling, manicured driveway of the Falco estate.
The towering wrought-iron gates, bearing the ornate crest of her ancestors, swing open without a moment of hesitation.
They do not open because her loyal men are manning the security booth, they open because my enforcers took control of the perimeter three hours ago, replacing every single Falco guard with soldiers wearing the Severato crest.
The vehicle glides up the circular driveway, crunching to a halt at the base of the grand marble steps.
I step out into the freezing night, ignoring the armed men flanking the entrance, and walk around to her side of the vehicle.
I yank the door open, offering my hand in a mocking gesture of chivalry.
Caterina refuses to take it. She gathers the massive layers of her ivory gown and steps out onto the pavement unassisted, her chin tilted up in a desperate attempt to maintain her shattered dignity.
I grasp her elbow anyway, a firm, unrelenting grip that forces her to walk exactly at my pace.