38. Azra
Azra
Even though we’ve left them behind, the heat of the ballroom lights blisters on my skin. The echo of applause and murmured congratulations clings to me like static. My head spins, and my hands sweat so badly that I’m surprised Matteo hasn’t commented on it yet.
I’m married.
To Matteo Caruso.
What the—
My anger folded so fast it’s humiliating, but seriously, how could it not? He kneeled in front of the who’s who of the mafia world.
My mother could hold a gun to my father’s head, and he still wouldn’t kneel.
But Matteo did for me.
He dropped to his knees as if pride doesn’t count and his reputation is worthless. He made it seem as if the world could collapse around him and he’d still crawl to me.
It was a declaration of love so massive that it cracked through my worry that I was selfishly sacrificing my morals for a flame that could snuff out faster than it ignited.
That’s why I’m so nervous. My thighs haven’t quit shaking for sixty floors, and I’ve dragged my teeth over my lip so often I am confident I’m one rake away from drawing blood.
I thought walking down the aisle as the bride of a man I despise would be the most terrifying thing I would face.
This could be worse.
Two dozen guests didn’t get the hint. Even with Vivienne closing the bar service, they lingered in the hotel foyer and ballroom, ready to party the night away. I could barely hear Matteo over the ruckus, so I suggested we take our conversation somewhere else.
The honeymoon suite made sense. I can’t go back to my room. Another guest received my room, and we require the privacy that only a honeymoon suite provides.
The further we walk down the corridor hand in hand, the more my palms slick with sweat.
Matteo notices immediately. “We’re going to the room to talk. That’s it. We don’t have to do anything until you’re ready. If that’s not for a year,” he says, “we’ll wait a year.”
“What if I’m not ready for five years?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “Then we’ll wait five years.”
My nerves vanish like smoke.
We reach the suite, and when Matteo unlocks the door, everything inside me freezes. We don’t walk into an empty room. Four men stand in each corner. Silent, still, yet gawking in a way that makes my skin crawl.
Matteo instantly reacts. Protectively, he pulls me behind him, his body tense and ready to fight, even without his gun on his hip.
The priest only had one rule when my father changed grooms. Matteo and his family couldn’t enter the chapel armed.
Their weapons had to be checked in with the hotel’s security personnel.
Before Matteo can throw a single punch, a fifth man joins the fight.
I don’t scream, move, or breathe. As my father steps out of the shadows, I just stare.
I should have known this was him.
He only ever appears when the knife is already at my throat, and although the coldness of the gun pressed against my temple seconds later is just as chilling as a knife, the sharp smell of gunpowder can’t be mistaken.
“Azra, Matteo,” he greets, as if welcoming us home after our honeymoon instead of watching a goon paid to kill pull away his only daughter from her husband. “Although the route to matrimony was curvier than your mother’s naturally dried hair, traditions must take place.”
My stomach gurgles. I completely forgot about the tradition I assumed I’d skip since no one in my family knew about my plans to marry. Even their attendance at my vows didn’t remind me.
Nobody from my family attended the reception, so I thought I’d be in the clear.
It was foolish of me. My father sees the sheet-staining ritual as a more vital part of a wedding than giving away his only daughter. It’s a symbolic test of unity and legitimacy—the ultimate test of loyalty.
My father’s favorite kind of trial.
I force my voice to stay steady. “Why? If you believe Matteo’s claim that we broke the non-penetration clause, why do we need to stain the sheets? It’s pointless if I am no longer a virgin.”
He ignores me completely.
He only focuses on Matteo.
“There are no ill feelings,” he says, smiling like a snake. “But we’ve been deceived before. Without proof that this coupling is legitimate, I have no reason not to ignore the utter disrespect spat in my face today.” His first words are for Matteo, but his final sneered ones are for me.
Hearing the threat in his tone in the same manner as me, Matteo stiffens but holds his ground. “We’re not doing anything—”
“You will complete the bloody-sheets ritual,” my father says, cutting him off. “In front of these men.”
Matteo’s jaw clenches. “No.”
My father’s smile widens. “Henry isn’t my boss, son.
I do not answer to him. Which means I can dispose of you both without consequence.
” My lower lip quivers. “Though her death will be a little more delayed since I promised these men time with her to do with as they pleased if you did not follow my order.”
“Fucking touch her and I will kill you.” Matteo’s threat isn’t solely for my father. It’s also for the men circling us like sharks.
“If only you could,” my father says, voice mocking. “Do you not recognize the faces of the men around you? They’re part of the Cosa Nostra, which means you can’t touch them.”
“If they touch my wife, I am well within my rights to kill them.”
“That will be a little hard to do when you’re choking on your last breath,” my father snaps back, his anger rising. He is not used to barking orders and not having them followed. Matteo is the first man I’ve seen go against him.
“Baba,” I murmur, silently pleading. “Please.”
I know my father.
He doesn’t bluff.
He doesn’t threaten.
He only issues promises he plans to keep.
And that is the sole reason I say, “We’ll do it.”
Matteo whips around. “No. You don’t need to do this.”
“It’s fine,” I say quietly. “I want to.”
I don’t, but I need him to leave this room breathing, and this is the only way I can guarantee that.
My father steps aside, revealing a white ceremonial cloth laid out across the foot of the mattress. “A simple smear of blood will prove your unity, and no one will question it again.”
Matteo looks at me, eyes burning. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I whisper, pulling away from the man holding me captive.
He lets me go, but I hear his throat work hard to swallow when Matteo glares at him. My father was smart to seek the help of Matteo’s rivals for this. If Matteo loses his temper, he’ll be dead.
This is a lose-lose situation for him.
The remembrance of how he instantly backed down when I placed my body on the line sees me snatching up his hand and guiding him into the hub of the room.
Although I haven’t seen my mother in hours, there are signs she has been here.
Oils perfect for perineal repair sit on the bedside table, alongside a bottle of lubricant.
Matteo’s steps taper when he spots the same products. “Fuck, micina. I don’t think I can do this.”
One man cocks his gun, and my throat dries enough for my words to come out clear. “Why? I don’t know about you, but I’ve been dying for this since you drove me to Lombardo’s.”
Matteo steps ahead of me again, fury radiating off him. “This isn’t right. I will not disrespect you like this. I can take them.”
His last words are whispers, but my father still hears them.
“And she will be dead before you spin around.” I plead for my father to pretend for even a second that he loves me when he lines up the scope of his weapon with the crinkle between my brows.
“This also isn’t about disrespecting her.
It’s tradition. You married into our world, so you will respect our traditions. ”
Matteo’s voice is low and dangerous. “I’ll respect her… and only her.”
Over Matteo’s shoulder, my father’s eyes narrow before he shifts the direction of his gun to Matteo’s head.
As his finger hugs the trigger, I fall onto the mattress, taking Matteo with me.
“Azra—”
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “They can’t see me. You know this.”
He does, because that’s the only reason he showed him the footage from the nightclub office.
“Once we do this, they’ll leave.”
The world narrows to just us when he asks, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Nodding, I whisper, “Yes.”
Matteo curses when I move my shaky hand to the zipper in his trousers, but he doesn’t stop me. When I remove his cock from his boxer shorts, it falls heavily into my palm. It’s thick and veiny but nowhere near as girthy and long as I’ve seen it before.
This is messing with his head more than any drug could.
“It’s just us,” I tell him. “There’s no one in the room with us.”
He must hear the prayer in my words as readily as I do. “I won’t let anyone see you,” he murmurs. “I promise.”
My throat tightens when he slides my panties to the side and notches the head of his cock at the opening of my pussy. Mercifully, it is so thought-stealing that I only scarcely register my father telling the men to bring him proof of our union, before he leaves.
This is embarrassing enough, but it would have been worse if he had stayed.
“Look at me,” Matteo demands, returning my focus to him. When he gets my eyes, he says, “I need you to loosen up for me. I don’t want to tear you.”
“I think that’s the point of the ritual. I’m meant to bleed.”
He grunts, unappreciative of my humor. It’s a pity his cock announces an opposing viewpoint. He hardens enough for my pulse to ascend to my vagina, and to make me forget we’re being eyeballed like freaks in a circus tent.
“Ready?”
I nod. With his body shielding me and blocking the view of the men, he thrusts into me with one ardent thrust.
Fuck.
Pain blisters through me as tears sting my eyes.
This hurts way more than I imagined.
It burns—badly.
“Oww…”
“Look at me,” Matteo repeats, voice thick with anarchy.
I do because if I don’t distract my eyes from how drenched they are, my tears will spill over.
It dawns on me that I’m already crying when Matteo wipes away my tears with the back of his fingers with such tenderness that I barely perceive his touch.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. The bad part is over.”
I only wish that were true.
“We need proof that penetration has occurred,” a snarky voice from behind says. “Don’t know about the rest of you, but I can’t see shit.”
A collective hum of agreement fills the room, and Matteo’s jaw tics.
“You need proof?” He pulls out more carefully than his anger should allow.
Then he clears a smear of my virginal blood off his cock with the lace-trimmed cloth under my ass and tosses it at the closest man’s feet.
“Now get the fuck out before I prioritize removing your intestines via your fucking nose over making sure my wife is okay.”
Feet scramble in all directions for a fleeting instant before the door to our suite closes, and I can finally breathe through the pain without an audience.