5. Marco
Marco
The door to the manor practically snaps off its hinges. I’ve always wanted to kick the heavy oak in, especially after particularly nasty arguments with Papà, but never experienced the satisfaction until now. I suppose I should thank her.
“Bianca Conti, where the fuck…” My voice trails off as soon as I enter the foyer.
The place is buzzing with activity. Movers in brown uniforms brush past me with Mamma’s furniture in hand, stationing an oak bookcase, kitchen barstools, and the worn leather recliner from the family room next to the door I just busted through.
The smell of fresh paint hits first, intensifying the pounding in my head.
The sharp scent cuts through the almost-faded remnants of my mother’s floral perfume. For years, I caught the faint aroma of gardenia whenever I walked through the front door. Now that comfort has disappeared from the place I’ve called home since my father’s death.
Workers dressed in white body suits with ventilation masks appear from the hall leading to the kitchen, none of them sparing me a glance as they haul heavy buckets up the stairs.
My wife surveys them from the landing above with her hands on her hips, supervising the chaos like some kind of evil overlord.
“’Scuse me, chief.” A mover tries to slip past me with Mamma’s favorite side table, the one she set by the garden window so she could drink her tea and read while enjoying fresh air.
Nope. Not happening.
Spurred on by the lingering adrenaline from whatever I consumed last night still rushing through my veins, I lash out and catch the man by the throat. “Put. That. Down.”
I manage to grit out the words, and the dumbfuck has enough sense to obey, likely realizing he’s a hairsbreadth from death.
The mover drops the table at my feet and waits for the tyrant at the top of the stairs to dismiss him before scuttling away, leaving Bianca and me to face off.
I woke up alone in the honeymoon suite at the Bennett this morning, feeling like I took a sledgehammer to the head.
I barely reached the bathroom before I puked up my guts.
I can’t remember having a hangover this bad in a long time…
and I’ve had a lot of them. Only then did I suspect my ailments weren’t only due to alcohol consumption. Bourbon would never do me so wrong.
This woman, on the other hand…
My wife finally addresses me, her velvet-wrapped voice echoing through the foyer as she approaches. “You woke up. How fortuitous for me.” Her gaze strips me bare, noting my wrinkled dress shirt and open collar, my suit jacket thrown over one arm, and…my missing shoe.
I toss my suit jacket onto a box of Bianca’s belongings that sits by a freshly mounted floor-length mirror. “Don’t act so disappointed.”
She tsks in a deeply patronizing and irritating manner. Her tennis skirt and simple white blouse, buttoned up to her throat, give her a rich and spoiled appearance. Wholly on brand. In another life, on another planet, I might have even said she looked beautiful.
She descends the last step and sniffs, and the grimace that distorts her features causes me to bristle. No one gets to judge me. Least of all the frigid Bianca fucking Conti.
Is she really frigid, though? Most of what happened after we walked into the honeymoon suite is fuzzy, but the sensation of her hands on me, the way molten heat radiated from her center as she ground her pussy over my cock…all of that is permanently ingrained in my psyche.
Get your head out of your dick, Argento.
If I’m going to find out what happened at SilverTech and the truth behind my father’s murder, then I have to keep my wits about me and play my hand close to my chest. I’m not going to let the Ice Princess throw me off-kilter just because the Council’s forced us together.
Bianca cocks her head to one side as if she can glimpse the conflict roiling in my mind, but she must think twice about prying, lest it come off too much like she actually cares.
Instead, a cold, knowing smirk twists those full, luscious lips. “Did you have a good night’s sleep, husband?”
I flash a predatory grin and prowl closer until we’re practically chest-to-chest. Two painters materialize on the landing above us, rollers in hand, so I lower my voice.
“Do you really want to talk about last night, wife? Because whatever the fuck you put in my drink wasn’t enough to wipe the memory of that sweet little pussy grinding against my cock. ”
Bianca’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she reschools her expression into an impassive one and examines her perfectly manicured nails. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Then, as if I were no more than a squashed bug under her shoe, she twists away to start back up the stairs and snaps her fingers at one of the painters.
“Make sure you tape everything off properly. If I see even a drop of paint on these baseboards, you’re starting over again, and I won’t be paying for the extra time. ”
Dismissed. Just like that. Just like Papà used to do.
Without even raising her voice, Bianca somehow manages to make me feel like a twelve-year-old again.
Rage clings to me, muggy and sticky. While my fury manifests differently than Dante’s volcanic explosions, it’s no less dangerous. I’m the don of this family now, and I won’t let anyone, least of all my wife, discard me.
Before she slips too far out of reach, I scale the stairs two at a time, snatch her by the elbow, and haul her the rest of the way up to the second floor, past the gaping painters, to my father’s study.
Like the rest of the house, Giovanni’s office hasn’t changed since I was a kid. Tarnished gold picture frames scattered around the room display snapshots of my life and everyone I’ve ever loved. Built-ins line one wall, crammed with sun-bleached books.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Vianello, is dusting the bookcase when I burst through the door, dragging Bianca behind me.
As far as I can tell, Mrs. Vianello came with the house when Papà first bought it nearly thirty years ago.
Her gray hair rests just below her ears, and once a week, she goes to the salon to get it styled into a helmet of tight curls.
“Mr. Argento?” Folding the dust rag over, she glances between Bianca and me with unabashed curiosity. I love this woman, but she’s nosy as hell and too old to pretend otherwise. “Is everything all—”
“I need a few minutes alone with my wife.” I flash the older woman a too-wide smile, and she eyes me with suspicion.
Mrs. Vianello has never put up with my bullshit, but she’s also the only person who ever treated me with softness after my mother died. Grumbling in Italian beneath her breath, she packs up her cleaning caddy and marches out.
As soon as she’s gone, I whip Bianca into the center of the room and shut the door behind us. I straighten to my full height, looming over her in a way that demonstrates how easily I can physically overpower her. “Did you think I was too stupid to notice?”
Bianca angles her head to one side, studying me without a word. “I think you’re too stupid to notice a lot of things. Care to elaborate?”
I plant my palms on the desk by her hips, trapping her.
Bianca’s the daughter and niece of men who may have killed my mother, and yet all I can think about is devouring her.
I fight to ignore her seductive scent and those lush curves pressed against me, but relentless desire continues raging through my veins.
“You drugged me.” I duck my head until we’re eye level.
She draws back far enough to shoot me a glare of pure derision. “Right, because that’s more believable than you over-imbibing and passing out. Maybe try not blaming others for your lack of self-control.”
Despite the fact that I intentionally lean into that caricature, the reminder that everyone thinks of me as a drunken idiot burns.
“Enough. You drugged me, Bianca. I have your pretty baby sister on camera, slipping some substance into the champagne the two of you gave me last night. Wonder what the Council would do with Livia if they found that out?”
Bianca pales, and a twisted part of me relishes in her discomfort.
Okay, so maybe I’m a shameless liar too. I don’t actually have Livia on camera.
But I clearly hit my target because my wife freezes. I thought the photo and video of Bianca with the male escort provided solid leverage, but Livia appears to be an even better bargaining chip.
I run my tongue along Bianca’s jaw, and she lashes out, grabbing a handful of hair and jerking my head back until my neck arches. Her nails dig into my scalp, and the deliciously sharp sting shoots straight to my dick. “If you touch her—”
One corner of my lip hikes up. “That meek thing? I have no interest in your sister. Too breakable. I’d rather play with you. I prefer my toys to have more spirit, and you have plenty of bite, don’t you?”
Bianca curls her fingers into a fist and winds her arm back. She must forget that I’m a boxer and can read her intention within a heartbeat.
After dodging her right hook, I scoop her into my arms. With a yelp, she squirms, stopping short when her tennis skirt flips up and exposes a pair of white cotton panties. I barely catch a glimpse before she tugs the material back in place, but what I do spy boils my blood even more.
Stiff as a rail, she stares up at the ceiling. “Put me down.” She speaks with bone-chilling articulation. “Right. Now.”
Rounding the desk, I drop into Papà’s desk chair and settle Bianca across my lap, right atop my rigid cock. I pin her upper thigh, dipping my fingers under her skirt hem and inching them toward the warm, hidden flesh. “Do you know why I hate you?”
She goes still in my lap. I wonder if she just realized that my hatred and resentment are every bit as strong as hers. “Why?”
My tone darkens. “Because you’re related to the men who killed my mother. And that makes you just as guilty as if you’d pulled the fucking trigger yourself.”