Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
My breath hitches painfully in my chest, adrenaline pumping through my veins like an insidious toxin. He’s here. The man I have fervently hoped to never lay eyes on again in this god-forsaken life of mine. But here he was, standing right in front of me, a detached look in his eyes. Cold perspiration prickles along the back of my neck, and I clench my trembling fists in my lap.
I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
I’m not there. I’m not there.
Breathe in. Breath out.
My mind stutters still for one agonizing moment before it is hammered back into merciless reality. Another surge of bile creeps up my throat. My pulse thunders loud and clear, echoing off the hollow walls of my skull. Everything around me starts to blur, plunging me into a whirlpool of chaotic colors and shapes. All except his menacing figure that remains as a clear violation to my already impaired sanity.
I need to get out. Now.
Every instinct screams at me to bolt, but my body refuses to obey. I stand rooted to the spot like prey ensnared by a predator’s gaze, trapped in this perverse gaze that cools with sick satisfaction. I can hear the pathetic whimpers caught in the back of my throat—a telltale sign of weakness that surely amuses him further.
“Gia.” The monster speaks, his tone deceptively gentle. Soothing. I won’t fall for it. I know what he is capable of. What his men are capable of doing at his orders.
My breath hitches in my throat as flashbacks rattle through me like an untamed tornado tearing through the flimsy structure of my sanity. His ice-cold eyes stare down at me, his gaze like iron chains… I can feel his presence even from here, a wild beast within the cage of carefully cultivated social propriety.
I’m fine. Everything’s fine.
Something warm and heavy bands around me, and I scream, fighting to get away. To run. I need to run.
“Someone better tell me what the hell is going on right now!”
On instinct, my body stills. A whimper falls from my lips, and I curl in on myself in an attempt to appear smaller.
“Jesus,” someone whispers, their voice smooth and rich, reminiscent of honey infused with spice. Vitaly . “I’ve got you, mia piccola cerva . Breathe for me.”
His voice is a steady anchor as he guides the rhythm of breath, counting out in fours with a gentle assurance. Inhale deeply for four beats. Hold that breath for four. Exhale slowly for four. Pause in stillness for another four.
He repeats this soothing mantra until the rhythm of my breath finds its natural cadence and the frantic, desperate gasps for air subside. The tightness in my chest begins to ease, and a calmness settles over me as the suffocating urgency dissolves, leaving me grounded and steady.
“Does someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on?” Liam’s question isn’t as loud as before, his voice slightly softer but still firm. Silence falls over the room, but I don’t move from where my head is buried in Vitali’s warm, muscular chest.
What has my life come to that I am seeking comfort from the man who kidnapped me and is forcing me to marry him? A therapist would have a field day with my thoughts right now.
“I’ve never met Miss Nardoni in person.” Tomas’s voice causes me to shrink further into Vitali. “But she was a guest of my men several years ago. She was about fifteen if I am not mistaken.”
“A guest?” Vitali growls, the words vibrating through his chest so hard I can feel it. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“It means—” Tomas takes a deep breath. “—that her father stepped outside his territory here and needed some incentive to get back in his lane.”
“So, you took his daughter?” Ava’s voice is laced with disbelief, her eyes widening at the audacity of the head of the east coast Bratva to snatch an innocent girl as a pawn in his dangerous game. It’s a ruthless move, yet not entirely unexpected in a world where most mafia families are known to employ such merciless tactics to get what they want. The room seems to tense around them, the weight of unspoken rules and cold strategies hanging heavily in the air. Tomas is not the only person to do exactly what he did.
“I instructed my men not to harm her.” The casualness of his tone pisses me off. As does the blatant lie. “They assured me she wasn’t.”
“Bullshit,” I murmur, the words barely audible, slipping into the air like a secret. Vitali’s strong arms gently roll me away from his chest. He peers down at me, his eyes etched with deep concern .
“What do you mean?” he asks softly in Italian, his voice a soothing melody. I shake my head, attempting to brush off the question, but he doesn’t let me escape. Instead, he carefully takes my chin in his hand, tilting my face up to meet his steady gaze. “Tell me what you mean, Gia,” he insists, his voice gentle.
Swallowing back the dark memories that threaten to engulf me, I take a long, deliberate breath, releasing it slowly, as if exhaling a storm. “His men beat me. Mocked me. Tormented me,” I whisper, my voice quivering with shame, like a fragile leaf in the wind. “I still carry the scars,” I add, the words heavy with the weight of past pain.
“They did what?” Tomas’s voice drips with venom, causing me to snap my head in his direction. His eyes blaze with intensity, and his jaw is clenched tightly. The air around us is charged with his fury, sending a shiver down my spine. ‘Show me.”
The Bratva king speaks Italian. That is somewhat of a surprise.
Adjusting myself in Vitali’s lap, I manage to lift the back of my shirt, showcasing a myriad of light scars that crisscross my back. A constant reminder of what I survived. Tomas crouches to my eye level to get a better look.
“They used a pocketknife,” I murmur, my jaw trembling as I recount the horrors to the man I’ve always feared. “It started with a beating right after your first call,” I continue, uneasily. “They left me tied to that cold, hard chair for two days, leaving me no choice but to piss and shit on myself as the room filled with the stench of my own filth. When they finally returned, they flipped me over onto my stomach, and I felt the sharp point of the pocketknife pressing into my skin. It carved into my back, each stroke a burning reminder of every call my father chose to ignore. Thirty-six in total.”
A shadow creeps across Tomas’s face, his eyes darkening with a storm of emotions, prompting me to turn back toward Vitali.
“I’m sorry, little one,” the Bratva king murmurs in Italian, his voice a soft balm against the tension in the room. “They were never meant to harm you. That was my explicit instruction. This should have never happened, and they will pay for this transgression with their life.”
Tomas’s words are like a quiet promise, though they carry the weight of steel.
Vitali barks something in Russian I don’t understand. Tomas’s jaw tightens, the muscles bunching under his skin, but he inclines his head in acknowledgment.
“It will be done,” he responds, his voice a low rumble of agreement.
After a moment, Vitali carefully moves me from his lap. His hands are steady and reassuring as he gracefully stands, never once releasing his hold on me. When he takes his seat at the table, he draws me back onto his lap, his hand tracing gentle, comforting circles on my back, each motion a silent promise of protection.
“Let’s resume, shall we?” Liam suggests, his voice steady and commanding, as he draws us back into the intricate details of the plan.
For the next several hours, we delve into every conceivable aspect of what lies ahead, dissecting each possibility with meticulous precision. The room buzzes with focused energy as we discuss strategies, anticipate challenges, and map out contingencies, leaving no stone unturned.
Once every imaginable scenario has been thoroughly examined and documented, we finally break apart, ready to put our preparations into action. However, just as we’re about to leave, Vitali approaches me with a serious expression and a quiet urgency in his voice.
“There is still one thing left we need to do.”
What the hell am I doing?
The satin dress clings to my body with an almost mocking precision, each seam and curve highlighting my form. The pure white fabric, smooth and lustrous, drapes over me like a shroud of cruel irony, contrasting sharply with the dark reality of the blood-soaked vows I am being forced to recite. Its pristine hue stands in stark opposition to the grim commitments I am being compelled to embrace, adding a bitter layer of contradiction to the moment.
The off-off-the-shoulder neckline daringly reveals my collarbones, delicate and vulnerable, like a silent pledge to the tempest swirling within me. The gown features long, modest sleeves, and the flared skirt extends just enough to create a small, elegant train that trails behind me. Ava assisted me in pinning my hair into a tousled, artful bun at the nape of my neck. I’d watched in silence as she painstakingly transformed me into the image of a perfect, compliant wife.
Exactly what Vitali desires.
Now, thirty minutes later, I find myself standing before him, the priest’s monotonous voice droning on about the sanctity of marriage. I feel trapped within layers of smooth satin, while Vitali’s presence coils around me like an enveloping shadow—dark, possessive, and impossible to escape. This is the man who abducted me, held me captive, and claimed me as his own .
His hand reaches out, capturing mine, as he solemnly recites the vows and slides an unfamiliar wedding band onto my finger. His touch is searing, leaving an indelible mark, and despite the fierce fire of defiance coursing through my veins, a shiver races through me when his gaze locks onto mine.
When he gazes at me in this dress, it’s not just the gleam of possession that ignites in his eyes; it’s a ravenous hunger that makes my stomach whirl and sends a searing, direct line of fire to my core. His intense stare is both thrilling and overwhelming, causing my breath to catch in my throat.
“Gia Nardoni.” The priest’s voice breaks through the haze, pulling my attention sharply back to the present. “Do you take Vitali De Luca as your husband?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy with the promise of forever. Until death do us part…will it be my demise or his?
“I do,” I respond, my voice steady despite the turmoil raging within.
The priest offers a gentle smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Vitali steps forward, his presence commanding and assured. One hand slides to the back of my neck, drawing me closer with a firm grip. His lips crash onto mine, hot and unyielding, setting my senses ablaze. He seems utterly indifferent to the small audience of his friends as he presses me against his solid form, his kiss a consuming force. His tongue explores, claiming every inch of my mouth with fervor. When he finally pulls back, there’s a flicker of something indefinable in his gaze, a spark that leaves me breathless.
He turns us to face his friends, a victorious smile playing on his lips, his confidence radiating as if he has won a coveted prize.
Holy shit.
A wave of disbelief crashes over me.
I just pledged my life to Vitali De Luca, the very man my father despises more than anyone else in the world. As the weight of the vows I recited settles in, I can almost feel the cold shadow of danger looming, whispering that this union might very well lead to my downfall.
Till death do us part…
The question is: is it going to my death or his?