8. Bianca
Bianca
The stench of alcohol chases my every step, silently censuring my loss of patience.
I don’t want to treat Marco like a child, but training a man is like training a dog.
When they misbehave, you have to teach them a swift lesson.
Otherwise, they’ll continue to act up. I let the spanking in the office slide, but I draw the line at humiliating me with his sloppy drunkenness in front of a Councilor.
Clambering up onto the kitchen counter in my low heels, I discover wine glasses of every imaginable shape and size in the cabinet. An entire shelf dedicated to shot glasses coordinated by color and bar logo, lovingly aligned in rows.
I stare at them, breathing heavily.
Behind me, Marco Argento laughs. “Go ahead, principessa. Have your little tantrum. Let loose.” When I swivel my head enough to meet his feral gaze, he winks. “I dare you.”
Something in me snaps.
My hard work, my obedience, my sacrifices…have all brought me here. Married to a wannabe frat boy instead of performing my duties as capo.
I thrust my arm into the cabinet and sweep the row of shot glasses off the shelf. They hit the ground like tiny bombs. The wine glasses follow as Marco watches in shock. Luckily, he’s easy enough to ignore.
“Dammit, Bianca, not the Baccarat crystal! Those were a wedding gift from—”
Smash.
The overpriced glasses strike near his feet. He seethes, but it’s not my fault the big idiot isn’t wearing shoes.
Every time he attempts to get close enough to stop me, another cup arcs through the air, so he maintains his distance.
Once I run out of barware, I hop down, tiny projectiles crunching beneath my heels, and head to the wine cabinet built into the wall by the doorway.
Made of glass and climate-controlled, the display is filled with some of the most expensive bottles of alcohol in the world.
“Bianca fucking Conti, don’t you even think about it.”
Fuming, his head snaps toward the entrance of the kitchen, likely calculating how fast he can grab shoes before I destroy every drop of his precious vice.
I hum dismissively, jerking open the cabinet with gusto.
I’ve done my research.
The silver bottle in the corner, valued at three point seven million dollars, was filtered using diamonds.
Marco owns four of them. At the top, the D’Amalfi Limoncello Supreme he won in an auction a few years ago takes center stage.
According to Zo, only two bottles in the world exist, both selling for almost forty-four million dollars.
Row after row of absurdly expensive alcohol that Marco will never drink, all tucked behind protective glass and handled with more care than he’ll ever treat me.
Using a bottle opener in the shape of a dragon biting its own tail, I open the D’Amlafi and down a healthy sip.
My nose immediately scrunches. “Ew.” That shit tastes awful.
Marco paces near the minefield of shattered glass, snarling like a rabid hound.
I lower the bottle, and this time when Marco meets my gaze, his eyes blacken with rage.
He bares his teeth and points a warning finger at me. “Don’t you dare.”
“Go to hell.”
D’Amalfi still in hand, I lob a beautifully designed bottle of Clase Azul across the room instead. The tequila smashes into the wall, spilling the pungent liquid all over the floor. Marco whimpers like I’ve shot him, and I grin in satisfaction.
Thanks to the icy facade I maintain and my fear of my father’s retribution, I’ve never broken anything in my life on purpose.
Yet bottle after bottle of Marco’s cherished liquor shatters at my feet as if it’s a sport I’ve been training for my entire life.
For days now, I’ve combed through this place in search of the book but have yet to stumble across anything of significance.
What I have found is a seemingly endless supply of booze.
With a firm hold on the multi-million dollar vintage, I race through the kitchen’s staff entrance and up the back stairs, leaving Marco to take the long way if he wants to catch me. I toe off my heels and speed through the house like a dervish, seeking all the alcohol I can get my hands on.
A two-million-dollar bottle of cognac should have been part of the collection he kept protected behind reinforced glass, but my husband stuck it behind the dryer sheets in the laundry room because, apparently, he’s a psychopath.
Making a mental note to clean up before the staff finds the mess, I upend the amber-colored contents into the washing machine and toss the bottle into the dryer just as Marco slides into view. His fingers dive into his black curls as he surveys the growing destruction in horror.
Gritting his teeth, he whirls on me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Me?” My face is hot, my chest is tight, and every inch of me burns. I want to strangle him, but I instead crawl from atop the dryer, wielding a lint roller like a sword in one hand while clutching the neck of the D’Amalfi with the other.
“What’s wrong with me? You talked about me with Zanni as if you were discussing some whore you bought rather than your wife, and now you have the nerve to ask what’s wrong with me?
Are you really that much of an ignorant drunk?
” When he opens his mouth to answer, I snap my fingers like I’m training a mutt to heel.
“Trick question. We both know the answer.”
Marco roars like an angry bull and charges me. I hurl the lint roller like a knife, and it flies into his temple with a thwack.
He reels back with a curse, giving me just enough time to slip past him and out of the laundry room. “Dammit, Bianca. Get your ass back here!”
A twisted, sizeable part of me delights in provoking the so-called easygoing party boy into losing his ever-loving mind. At least this outburst seems honest, unlike some of the bullshit he spews.
Ignoring his ranting, I bolt up the stairs to Marco’s bedroom, the decades-old wallpaper a yellow blur as I rush down the hall ahead of him. Throwing open the door, I head for his closet, where one of my previous investigations revealed that he stores an emergency flask of bourbon.
This should be the last of it.
This booze isn’t as expensive as the others, but he tucks it into the breast pocket of a black suit jacket. The suit itself is hidden in the back of the walk-in, and I extract the flask with a victorious shout.
A massive hand captures my wrist. Spinning me around, he slams me against the closet wall. His clothes shield me from the impact, though several hangers get knocked loose. An avalanche of clothes cascades around us, and in the struggle, Marco manages to snatch the flask from my hands.
“Ha!” He glances down at me with a smug expression.
Holding his eyes, I watch his triumph drain as I dump the last of the D’Amalfi onto the floor, dousing the clothes scattered at our feet.
“Ha.” I echo him with a flat, sarcastic bite as the scent of sunshine and very, very expensive lemons permeates the space.
Silence reigns as he stares at the destruction for several interminable moments. When his attention shifts to me, his eyes contain a strange glint. His chuckle is terrifying, and a sudden influx of dread has me scrambling backward, but he’s too close.
Ice continues pooling in my stomach, and blood whooshes in my ears.
Marco may have exhibited patience so far, but he will never let this insult go unpunished.
My eyes fall to his clenched fists and the slim white scars that decorate his knuckles.
It’s all too easy to imagine my new husband directing his physical wrath toward me.
Even if he doesn’t hurt me, what will I do if Marco goes to Aldo and demands compensation for damages? Livia’s face flashes in my mind, and I forget how to breathe as my stomach performs a sickening cartwheel.
How could I get carried away like this? This isn’t like me at all. I know better.
“Go on, principessa, destroy something else.” Marco opens the flask with a flourish and slugs a long drink before spiking it against the wall. “Destroy everything.”
He corrals me deeper within the closet where all the shadows live, his fingers pinching my chin as he arches over me.
Even now, his touch isn’t painful, even as his threats skate over my skin. “Shatter me, my name, my everything. Just know you married a fucking Argento, and I will collect your debt before I let you get away.”
I open my mouth to respond, to rectify this in some way, but, for once, words fail me. What can I say to undo the harm?
Fix this.
With Aldo’s voice in my head, I reach for Marco with shaking hands.
Capitulating burns my pride, especially after the spanking the other day, but I can’t see a better way to handle this.
My lips part, and I suck his thumb into my mouth.
Marco’s lashes flutter, his green eyes darkening instantly.
His jaw is still taut with anger, and the muscle seems to throb in time with my heart.
I fumble for the waistband of his sweatpants, and he captures my wrist again, squeezing tighter than before as suspicion twists his expression.
“You don’t want to play this game with me, Bianca.” His rasp echoes in the small space, and my body thrums with electricity and a traitorous craving.
Unable to meet his gaze for a second longer, I stare at the hand on my wrist. For a moment, I’m sure he’ll reject me.
His deep rumble drags my attention back to his face. “What are you doing?”
The corner of my mouth lifts in a bitter smile. “You said you would collect my debts. So, I’m making my first payment.”
His pupils dilate, and a chest-deep grumble of satisfaction rolls off him as he releases me. Just like that, nothing remains between us but hatred, lust, and future regret. Sinking to my knees and folding my skirt under me, I drag my nails down his torso until they tease his waistband.
I dip my hands beneath the soft material, hating myself for the spark of anticipation as I free him.
He’s beautiful.
Of course he is.
Irrefutable proof that there is no god and no such thing as karma, because if either existed, his dick would be unimpressive and bent seven different ways to Sunday.
Instead, it’s long and thick with purple veins running down the length and a silky head shiny with pre-cum. My core clenches as I think about how he would feel inside of me, and I grasp the base, owning it—owning him—and shoving my impulses aside until I retain only desire and loathing.
No more losing control. Contempt is a weapon I know how to wield.
I lick the droplet away, and Marco grunts, his hips jerking forward.
“So responsive,” I croon, swirling my tongue around the swollen head and applying pressure to the sensitive underside.
He groans. “Don’t tease me, Bianca. You’re toeing a dangerous line.”
Good thing I love a challenge.
I swallow him in one go, and his cry is shameless enough to cause my thighs to contract violently. His entirely unscripted reaction is a stark contrast to the exaggerated noises of the escorts I’ve paid in the past.
There’s intimacy in giving my husband a blow job, and the act elicits a foreign sensation in my chest.
You’re just giving him pleasure, trying to atone for wrecking his high-dollar booze collection. No feelings are involved.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
When I pull back, I quirk a brow. He grabs my bun in one hand, pushing my head down his throbbing length. Gagging, I come up for air, scraping my teeth across his flesh in silent warning.
I might be on my knees, but I’m the one with the power.
My head bobs again. Any other man would have yanked me off, but Marco’s fingers find their way beneath my bun to massage my scalp and urge me faster, snapping his hips with each thrust. He strikes the back of my mouth and slips past my tonsils into the upper part of my throat.
Shifting onto my knees, I push my backside into the air, shivering as I imagine him pounding into me from behind.
I relax my throat so he can fill me and dance my tongue up and down his shaft.
“Fuck, that feels—”
When I cup his balls, my husband’s head tips back. He traps my mouth on his length, and the first hot, salty spurts spill into my mouth.
I feel his gaze piercing me from above as I milk him of every last drop. His taste, his smell, it’s everywhere, sinking into my pores and overpowering my senses. I swallow because it’s cleaner that way. I swallow because I’m a pawn who’s tasked with making my new husband happy.
And maybe I also swallow because I want to keep this part of him for myself.
Marco untangles his fingers from my hair, releasing me.
I can’t look at him. I’ve crossed a threshold I can’t walk back across, and my resulting vulnerability nearly suffocates me.
I’m bracing for his mockery, but the true terror is that I’ll glance up and discover pity.
If he pities me for losing control, he wins and I lose.
And I never lose.
“Get out.” The teasing, flirtatious man I’ve come to both desire and despise has vanished, and in his place sits someone darker, someone haunted and willing to commit sins and cause tragedies.
My mouth forms a tight line as self-loathing oozes in my chest. “Gladly.”
Honestly, this is for the best. I can’t afford to allow someone like Marco to chip away my hard-won discipline.