14. Bianca
Bianca
I want to scream.
Of course this bastard would be out here rolling around in someone else’s bed.
It’s the only thing people like him know how to do.
My mother, Rosaria, was just the same. She was flighty, fun-loving, and completely unreliable.
She didn’t give a damn about the Contis, least of all her daughters.
Father suspected her of cheating, but he allowed her trysts to continue to protect our family’s reputation.
Growing up, my mother used to bear the brunt of Father’s abuse.
It wasn’t until I was an adult that I could admit she searched elsewhere for the love he seemed incapable of providing.
That knowledge never lessened my resentment, however.
We all shared the same hell. The only difference is that Livia and I would never have abandoned her.
Late at night, I lie awake thinking about Marco, imagining how I’d feel if he tore me apart and made me forget, if only for a few minutes, what being Aldo Conti’s daughter means.
I think he understands how sometimes, living in your own skin seems so unbearable that you welcome any escape.
I’m pretty sure that’s why he drinks—to lose himself—and I’ve found myself craving at least a tiny sliver of relief too.
His eyes flash with heat, and when the hand on my ankle tightens to the point of pain, I don’t attempt to escape.
I’m a pawn performing an unsanctioned move, but I can’t stop myself, not when he stares like he’d love nothing more than to devour me.
I widen my legs farther apart so he can see the wetness gathering at my center. “If it keeps you from humiliating me, I’ll make sure you forget her entirely.”
Marco lashes out, grabbing my other ankle and jerking me across the bed. He spreads my legs, and when my knees instinctively come together, he leans forward until they’re forced to part again around the breadth of his broad shoulders. “Deal.”
Before I can reconsider, Marco dips his head.
He doesn’t take my underwear off. Instead, he presses his mouth and nose flush against my panties and rumbles a low note of satisfaction.
It’s almost a purr, like a giant cat that’s captured something tasty to play with.
My hands tangle in his silken hair as he licks me through the cloth.
His wet tongue soaks through the thin fabric, stoking my excitement.
He licks me again, in that same agonizingly slow pace as before.
My back arches off the bed, and I release a silent cry.
He’s no better than my mother. The only reason he didn’t betray me is because I got here before he could.
I try to remind myself that I can’t depend on him, but with every swipe of his tongue, my thoughts become even more of a scrambled mess.
Marco embodies everything I despise. So what does it say about me that I want this man so desperately, so completely?
Is this weakness that lives in me the same weakness that gripped my mother?
A sin passed down and left to fester? I’ve always slaked my lust with escorts because I couldn’t imagine trusting someone with this side of myself.
Deep down, maybe I’m no better than Marco “the Man-Whore” Argento.
Marco presses closer and sinks deeper, forcing my panties between the lips of my sex while his nose rubs up and down along my sensitive clit.
He inhales my scent, exhaling with an obscene groan.
My fingers spasm in his hair, but I don’t push him away.
Allowing this keeps him in line and will hopefully prevent him from running off and screwing anything with a pulse.
A familiar pain settles in my chest. Mother cheated, but worse than that, worse than dragging the Conti name through the mud, was her choosing another man and a new life over her daughters.
Though he’d never admit it, my mother’s betrayal destroyed Aldo. I’ve taken every precaution to ensure I never end up like Rosaria, but the way I writhe beneath Marco’s touch proves I’m just as much a slave to my desires as she was.
“You’re thinking too much.” His voice is thick and husky. “Let’s do something about that.”
“Wai—” My voice dies in a gurgle as he hooks my panties with one finger and pulls them aside.
His mouth claims me, piercing the most intimate part of me with deep strokes that transform my legs into jelly. At this angle, with my weight so compressed, I can’t fight him off or complain or order that he release me. All I can do is gasp desperately as he fucks me with his mouth.
A blade appears between his fingers like magic, and a sickening recognition jolts my chest. The knife I left buried in the drywall after I flung it at his head and missed. He must have immediately removed it from the wall and carried it with him for days.
Marco flips the weapon until he’s holding the blade in his bare palm. The rounded handle is crafted from ivory and smooth as marble. The pommel is curled slightly so that it fits perfectly in my hand.
Marco’s heated gaze tracks my body. “One wrong move, principessa, and one of us bleeds.”
At first, I have no idea what he’s talking about. The icy shock of steel rattles a violent shiver straight up my spine. My vision blurs as I toss my head back, my teeth grinding while the pommel spreads me open.
I angle my head, my growl of protest weak, even to my own ears. “Argento—”
“Shhh. Be a good girl and shut the hell up for once.” He rotates the handle, letting my slickness coat the ivory before he starts to push in.
I instinctively clench against the intrusion.
“Ah, ah, principessa. Relax. Open up for me.”
Rational thought vacates my brain, a growing trend when I’m around this man. Marco utters a rough noise of praise as the pommel slides in with ease. If I twist or struggle, the blade still pressed against his palm will slice his skin wide open.
What would the Council do to me if Marco came to them bleeding from my blade?
He warned me that he would collect on the debt I owed, and as I connect the dots, my mind races.
He’s met my every dig, every transgression, with retribution.
This is no different. A reminder that whatever I throw at him—in this case literally—will only come back at me tenfold.
My muscles are too tense, and the handle stalls, the steel light in Marco’s palm. It’s no worse than a papercut, but my pulse jackhammers as the faint scent of blood wafts between us. I force myself to relax, to close my eyes and heart against the shame that leaves my body trembling and sick.
My husband doesn’t murmur a word about the injury, only inches closer between my spread legs as he continues working the handle.
The ivory chills me from within, until I feel every inch of length and every ridge. The curved surface rubs my G-spot, and my core contracts.
“Look at that.” Marco’s dark chuckle loops a noose around my neck. “I knew you’d warm up to me eventually.”
Rage and forbidden desire collide inside me, rendering me powerless against the sick satisfaction I gain from his touch. I release a combined snarl and moan as the knife picks up speed.
The coppery scent grows stronger, and when I open my eyes again, I discover a line of red curling down Marco’s fingers and dripping across my thighs. They’re like bombs exploding across my already-sensitive flesh.
Marco smears the red along my skin, painting his name across my stomach like a brand. Eying me greedily, he sinks his teeth into my upper thigh violently enough to hurt but not enough to break skin.
“You look perfect like this.” His voice is muffled, and I wonder if he even means for me to hear him.
He pulls away to study the imprint left behind, and his pupils dilate until the green blackens.
In that moment, he’s less a man and more like a predator with a fresh kill as he lowers his head again to give the opposite thigh the same treatment.
He bites higher and higher, the knife still pumping between my legs, his teeth penetrating further each time.
My body twists between pain and pleasure until tears prick behind my eyes.
“Marco…please. Oh, god. I need—”
He lifts his head, a wolfish smile tilting his lips. “I know what you need, Bianca. Let go. Come for me.”
Something about the way he says my name paired with the next knife thrust tumbles me over the edge.
My orgasm erupts from my core as I cinch around the handle, making it nearly impossible for him to continue.
Using every ounce of willpower I possess, I manage to prevent my legs from shaking and my hips from moving.
With a bloody hand and a self-satisfied expression, he withdraws the knife from me.
Holding my gaze as I return to earth, he runs his tongue along the handle, tasting me at my most vulnerable.
My dirtiest.
My weakest.
Self-loathing descends over me like a poison cloud, smothering the last tendrils of pleasure. I need to get out of here. Away from him. Now.
I shove Marco and roll off the bed. Every second at his mercy is a reminder of how he shattered my control.
“Where are you going, wife?” Marco makes an exaggerated sad face, propping himself on his side as he licks the last remnants of me off the handle. I try not to let myself linger on the swell of his erection pushing against his still-unbuttoned jeans.
Ignoring his taunt, I right my skirt and stumble out of the bedroom, racing down the stairs and bursting through the front door. In my hurry, I barely notice that the redheaded woman and the white SUV are gone.
I rush for my car, swallowing the scream clawing its way up my throat.
It wasn’t enough. What we did. Humiliation aside, what happened in that bed wasn’t nearly enough.
My body still craves something bigger, hotter, and infuriatingly Marco-shaped.
With a frustrated cry, I slam my palm against the driver’s side window.
The sting hardly registers.
I want to collapse to my knees, to rant and rave, but I won’t give Marco the satisfaction.
If he saw the fractures beneath the ice, he’d pry them open.
To a man like Marco, the tears streaming down my cheeks are a challenge.
A hint of vulnerability, inviting him to pounce and shred my flesh into pieces with his teeth.
I swipe at my face with the heel of my hand, furious that I can still feel him on me, that my body still throbs to the rhythm he coaxed from me.
I hate him. What’s more, I hate myself.
After climbing behind the wheel, I shift into reverse, my tires squealing as I peel out of the driveway. Marco’s officially dragged me somewhere I’ve spent my entire life fighting never to go.
Out of control.
The highway blurs past in streaks of black and white. Halfway back to the city, I contemplate not returning to Marco’s home. Would he even care? Or would he pour himself another drink and invite the redhead over?
I jerk the wheel abruptly, bouncing across a pothole as I swerve into the parking lot of a roadside gas station.
For several seconds, I just sit here, peering at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Aldo Conti’s oldest daughter stares back at me. The woman who’s expected to carry out his every whim. Who’s been molded into the Ice Princess everyone assumes I am.
The fissures in my frigid facade widen as my chest caves in.
A strangled cry escapes me, and I clap my hand over my mouth even though no one’s around to see me lose it. As another sob lets loose, I slump into my seat, resting my forehead against the chilled leather of the steering wheel.
I don’t know how much longer I can pretend I lead a perfect life—that I’m a frigid, unflappable capo—when in reality, I’m terrified of one simple mistake setting my father off. I allow myself to bask in self-pity for a few more minutes, then decide I’ve broken down enough for one day.
By the time a vehicle pulls into the space beside me, I’ve fixed my makeup and smoothed out my hair. I’ve rebuilt Bianca Conti, freezing over the cracks in my mask once again.
Still, I can’t help the little voice in my head that asks, What’s stopping you from continuing to drive? From grabbing your stash of emergency cash and choosing a destination Marco, your father, and the Council will never think to look for you?
Dante and Sara fled from this world. Why shouldn’t I? My life would certainly be simpler.
My hands strangle the wheel. One very important reason exists for why I can’t do any of that.
My sister.
When I manage to steady my breathing, I reach for my phone.
Livia answers after only three rings. “Bianca?” I don’t respond, my throat still too compressed for my vocal chords to function properly. “Hello? Are you all right?”
As much as I want to be vulnerable with my sister, I can’t be.
Not fully. Livia depends on me, and I can’t show her how weak I’ve become.
Instead, I spill about how Marco snapped Gabriel’s neck and our fighting.
About Marco’s absence from the manor and how I caught him in bed with another woman.
Even without the kidnapping and the knife fucking, it’s a lot.
“He’s an idiot, Bianca. We knew that already. Don’t let anything that man does or says get to you.”
Easier said than done.
I nod as if she can see me. “I know. I mean, I won’t.”
“You’ve got this.” Livia’s voice is strong and resolute, and just like on past occasions, I wonder who’s taking care of who. “I believe in you, okay? And don’t worry about me. I promise I’ll be all right. I don’t plan to live here forever.”
In another life, maybe her words would have brought me a modicum of peace.
They help some, but as I hang up, all I can think about is Marco and how my skin still tingles from his touch.
How alive he makes me feel, when for so long, I’ve merely gone through the motions.
I know better than to give a man that kind of power over me, but somehow he claimed it without me even noticing.
For the first time in a long time, I’m shaken to my core, and the urge to run as far away from him as possible settles deep into my bones, weighing me down.
I have to regroup and double down. Compartmentalize.
I can’t let Marco continue to rock my foundation because if I do, I might glance down one day to find nothing solid left to stand on.