Chapter 28
GINA
What the heck is going on?
I can barely keep up as Dante practically drags me through the marble lobby of our building, his fingers digging into my wrist.
“Why are you angry?” I ask, stumbling after him in my heels as he jabs the elevator button.
Once inside, he doesn’t answer. He just glares at the numbers lighting up.
When we finally reach the penthouse, I hope to see Ciro’s smiling face waiting to greet us. I’d feel more comfortable knowing someone else is in the apartment now that Dante’s in the blackest of moods.
But no such luck.
As I remove my coat, one look at the dim lights tells me we’re completely alone.
I feel a flash of fear, though I’m not sure it’s warranted.
Maybe this is nothing. Dante radiates danger as a matter of course.
It was one of the many characteristics that first drew me to him. Yet today I worry I’ll experience his darker side more personally.
“Follow me,” Dante says, yanking me by the hand.
He pulls me down the hallway. I try to calm my racing nerves by telling myself he’s taking me to my room. But we pass it.
We pass Mary’s room as well.
We even pass his bedroom. Finally, he stops at an unfamiliar door tucked away at the end of the corridor.
When he turns to face me, his eyes are black pools of rage, his jaw clenched tight.
Dante pulls out a heavy gold key. It’s ornate and oversized, like something from a medieval castle rather than a luxury high-rise built in the last decade.
When he turns it in the lock, the door releases with a deep, resonant creak.
“What is this place?” I ask as I step inside, though the answer is already revealing itself before me.
Leather-bound books line the walls, their ancient spines releasing a sharp, musky scent.
A desk dominates the room. It’s a massive slab of ebony wood elevated on a platform. It forces anyone seated across from it to look upward like a supplicant.
Behind it stands what can only be described as a throne rather than a chair. It’s upholstered in rich, dark hide that adds another layer to the room’s overwhelming leather and pipe aroma.
“This is my office,” Dante says, pinning me with his black eyes.
Though his gaze makes me feel like I should ask permission to move, I defy him by walking toward his desk.
It’s empty aside from a fountain pen resting in an elaborate gold stand.
Then I notice a rectangular piece of blackened wood that almost blends in with the desk.
“And this?” I ask.
“A souvenir from Salvatore’s bootlegging days.”
“Interesting that you have it in your office,” I say, picking it up. It still smells faintly of rum. “Why?”
Instead of answering, Dante moves to stand behind his throne-like chair.
“We need to talk.”
“Sure,” I say, forcing my usual bright tone.
I move towards a chair.
“You will remain standing.”
I feel like a child summoned to visit the principal’s office. “What’s this about, Dante?”
“You are not to ask me questions,” he barks. “You are to respond to mine.”
I bite my lip to keep from asking another question and simply nod.
Dante removes his jacket with deliberate slowness, folding it with military precision before placing it on the chair’s edge.
His fingers work methodically at his cufflinks, never once breaking his gaze from mine as he rolls up each sleeve.
Under his unwavering stare, I’m frozen in place. A specimen captured and displayed for his examination.
The silence in the office presses against my eardrums.
“Tell me your name,” Dante says, his tone so low I strain to hear it.
“Gina Ricci,” I reply, my throat suddenly dry.
“Mrs. Dante Ricci,” he corrects, emphasizing each syllable. “My wife. Did that fact slip your mind today when you flaunted yourself at that real estate agent?”
“What? I never—”
“You disrespected me,” he cuts in, leaning forward. “In front of my own brothers.”
I shake my head.
“I wasn’t flirting with him, Dante. He was simply being friendly, and I responded in kind.” I take a half-step forward, keeping my voice steady despite my racing heart.
“I didn’t mean anything by it, and neither did he. We were just passing time while waiting for you to finish signing those contracts.”
He leans forward, his eyes darkening to obsidian.
“As my wife, I respect you too much to use a vulgar but appropriate word that describes your behavior today,” he says, his voice coiled tight.
“But make no mistake, anyone watching your little performance today would have seen a woman making a mockery of her wedding vows.”
“Dante!” I gasp. “No. You’re reading it all wrong.”
“Approach me.”
I step toward him.
“Remove your blouse.”
Why? But based on the fire in his eyes, I know not to ask questions.
Removing the garment will take time as I’m wearing that white camisole with endless buttons down the front.
My fingers fumble with the first tiny pearl button, then the second, the fabric resisting as I work.
Gradually something shifts in the air and my nipples harden. I’m curious about what he’s planning and fearful of it at the same time.
By the time I reach the fourth button, just where the fabric strains across my chest, I catch his gaze dropping lower. The thin silk of his trousers betrays his arousal.
“Enough,” he commands, his voice dropping. “Now your jeans.”
I slide the button through its hole and ease the jeans over my hips, letting them fall past my thighs.
The wide-cut denim drops easily over my stilettos to pool at my feet.
Half-dressed before him, I’m left in my partially unbuttoned camisole that barely reaches my navel, my delicate white silk panties, and my stilettos.
When I bend to remove my shoes, his sharp “No” freezes my fingers mid-reach.
There’s no mirror in Dante’s office, but I must look completely exposed and vulnerable.
“Approach,” he commands.
My body responds and my clit throbs before my mind can process his words.
The leather-scented air feels thick, oppressive.
I can’t tear my eyes from Dante’s forearms, exposed by his methodically rolled sleeves. I notice his corded muscles tensing as he grips the armrests of his chair.
Heat blooms across my skin despite the cool air of the office.
When I don’t move fast enough, Dante’s hands lift me by the waist. He spins me around and pulls me down onto his lap. Then he positions me so my bare stomach presses against the hard ridge straining against his expensive trousers.
The heat of him burns through the fabric, making my breath catch.
His cedar cologne mixed with the aroma of his arousal fills my nostrils as he leans close to my ear.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” he whispers, his voice thick and rough like he’s been drinking whiskey.
I feel his hand slide down my back, fingers dipping beneath the intricate lace edge of my panties.
His touch is torturously light as he traces slow circles over the curve of my ass, making heat rise across my skin.
He kneads the flesh possessively, his touch growing rougher with each squeeze. His fingertips dig into my skin hard enough to leave marks.
I feel his middle finger trace between my cheeks, the pad of his finger pressing against my forbidden hole. I gasp aloud, my body tensing against his lap.
What is he planning to do to me?
At the same time, the fingers of his other hand work the delicate bow at my right hip, then the left.
The silk falls away, leaving my bottom completely exposed.
As he continues to claim me with his fingers, my body betrays me with a pulse of desire.
“You’ve been a naughty girl,” he says, his finger pressing deeper into me.
I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The intrusion doesn’t hurt exactly, but the unfamiliarity of it scares me.
His lips are hot against my ear when he whispers, “A very naughty girl.”
Before I can process his words, his palm connects with my bare skin with a crack that seems to echo through the office.
The sting spreads across my flesh like wildfire.
“Oh!” The sound escapes my lips before I can stop it.
My skin barely has time to cool before his hand comes down again, harder this time, the impact jolting through my body.
The pain explodes across my skin like white-hot lightning, radiating outward from where his palm connected with my flesh.
Tears spring to my eyes.
When the third strike lands, even harder than before, I cry out.
“Dante, no!” My voice sounds pathetic even to my own ears. He doesn’t care.
“Silence,” he commands, and I bite my lip so hard I taste blood.
He grips my hair, forcing my head back.
“My wife is not a slut,” he growls, his voice cutting through me like a blade of ice. “You are never to give anyone the possibility of saying anything like that about you. Do you understand?”
I nod frantically, desperate for this to end. “Yes, Dante, yes.”
His grip on my hair loosens slightly. “Good,” he says.
For a single second, I feel a wave of relief wash over me. Then he reaches for something on his desk. I can’t see what it is. But I smell a whiff of rum in the air.
“Do you understand me?” he rasps.
His breathing has turned ragged against my ear, each exhale hot and damp on my neck.
I can’t tell if it’s from the effort of striking me or something darker.
Every time I shift even slightly, I feel him throb beneath me.
My skin burns everywhere—from the spanking, from his touch, from the humiliation of being exposed like this across his lap.
“Promise me you’ll remember to conduct yourself properly as Mrs. Dante Ricci in all social situations.”
“I promise, Dante. I promise.” My stomach drops and twists as I again catch that now-familiar aroma of rum filling the air.
I glance up just in time to see him lifting something from the desk. My skin goes cold despite the heat of his body beneath me.
“No, Dante! No!” I scream, my voice breaking.
In slow motion, I imagine the muscles in his forearm flexing as he heaves something in a downward arc toward me.
“No!”