Chapter 2
Marco thinks this marriage will settle me down.
As if a ring could stop Alessandro Rosetti from being exactly who he is. I'll play the husband in public, but my nature doesn't change just because I said 'I do.' Though I have to admit, the irony of fucking other women while married to a woman I'm not touching appeals to my sense of humor.
My bride trembles like a trapped bird, and I find myself unexpectedly fascinated by the flutter of her pulse beneath porcelain skin.
She stands before me in the chapel, drowning in white silk and my mother's lace veil.
The morning light through stained glass paints her in shades of gold and crimson, but it's the way she grips her bouquet—knuckles white, stems crushing under pressure—that holds my attention.
Three exits from the chapel. Two guards at each.
She's traced every one with her eyes. Smart little bird.
"Dearly beloved," Father Molina begins, his voice echoing off marble walls that have witnessed three generations of Rosetti unions. Most of them happier than this will be.
Frances Hewson looks nothing like her photograph.
The girl in that candid shot seemed mousy, forgettable.
This woman vibrating with barely contained panic is something else entirely.
Her dark hair is styled in an elegant twist that exposes the graceful line of her neck, where I can see her pulse hammering against translucent skin.
I've collected beautiful things my whole life.
Women, cars, art—I've had them all. The supermodel who left her billionaire husband for one night with me.
The senator's daughter who still sends letters begging for another chance.
But none of them vibrated with secrets quite like this terrified bride approaching my altar.
The Morettis sent representatives. The Irish are here too, filling the back pews like wolves at a sheep auction. Everyone watching this alliance, measuring our new weakness or strength. Let them look. They'll see exactly what I want them to see.
I study her profile while the priest drones through the ceremonial opening. High cheekbones, delicate jaw, lips that tremble despite her visible effort to still them. Pretty enough, though that hardly matters. What matters is the alliance, the patents, the power her name brings to our family.
But those hands…
When she shifts the bouquet, I notice them properly. Soft, yes, but not pampered. There's a faint callus on her right thumb, the ghost of old blisters across her palm. Strange for a girl who spent years in Swiss finishing schools.
Marco stands as my witness, his presence a silent reminder of what this union means.
Behind us, my family fills the first three rows.
Dante's dark eyes track everything despite his silence, Sofia's blonde perfection masks whatever calculations run through her mind, Nico at attention like the soldier he'll always be.
The chapel smells of incense and candle wax, old wood and older promises. Her silk dress rustles with each tremor that runs through her, a whispered symphony of fear. I've seen enough terror to be immune. But hers tastes different somehow, sharper.
"The rings, please," Father Molina intones.
She extends her left hand, and there it is again, that tremble that runs through her whole body. I catch her wrist, ostensibly to steady her, but really to feel the rabbit-quick beat of her pulse against my fingers.
"With this ring," I begin, sliding the shiny new emerald onto her finger slowly, deliberately, "I claim you as my wife."
The traditional vows say 'take thee,' but Rosettis have always preferred accuracy.
"Do you, Frances Hewson, take Alessandro Rosetti as your lawfully wedded husband?"
She opens her mouth, and for one suspended moment, I see raw panic flash across her face. Her lips form the beginning of a different sound before she catches herself with visible effort.
"I… Frances…" She stops, swallows hard, tries again. "I, Frances Hewson…"
The hesitation stretches too long. Every person in this chapel notices it, though most will attribute it to virginal nerves. But I've negotiated too many deals, interrogated too many liars, not to recognize something off when it's trembling in front of me in designer white.
"Take your time, princess," I murmur, low enough that only she can hear, letting my thumb stroke across her wrist. Comfort to any observer, but we both know it's a warning. "We have all day."
Her eyes snap to mine, wide with an emotion I can't quite place. Terror, certainly, but something else too. Whatever the Hewsons haven't told me about their daughter, it's written in the way she flinches at her own name.
"I, Frances Hewson," she finally manages, voice threadier than silk, "take Alessandro Rosetti as my lawfully wedded husband."
The words come out mechanical, rehearsed. She's not what I expected. Years away at boarding school have changed her more than her photo suggested. A business transaction. But the way she carries secrets already makes me want to crack her open like a safe.
At least she's prettier than I expected. The photo made her look like a librarian. This version… well, I've ended engagements for less appealing prospects. Maybe I won't need to visit my usual haunts as often as I'd planned.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest announces, and her whole body goes rigid.
Interesting. Most brides fake enthusiasm at this part, playing the romance for the audience. This one looks like she's preparing for an execution. Time to give her something real to fear.
I cup her face with both hands, tilting it up toward mine. Her skin is fever-warm against my palms, and I can feel the fine tremor that runs through her. My cologne makes her nostrils flare slightly.
"Mine," I whisper against her lips, quiet enough that only she can hear it. "And if you run, I'll find you. The Rosettis always collect what belongs to them."
Then I claim her mouth with mine.
The kiss is supposed to be ceremonial, a quick press of lips to seal the contract.
But the moment I taste her, something shifts.
She tastes like fear and vanilla, like secrets and reluctant surrender.
Her lips are soft, pliant under mine, but I can feel the tension thrumming through her body like a live wire.
I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding to tangle in her carefully styled hair. Several pins scatter to the marble floor with tiny metallic sounds. She makes a small noise, protest or surrender, I can't tell, and her hands come up to grip my jacket like she's drowning.
For one insane second, I want to be her life raft instead of her anchor.
My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she parts them with a shuddering breath.
Her body molds against mine despite her fear, soft curves pressing through the silk.
My cock stirs with interest I didn't expect from what should be a business arrangement.
The kiss becomes something else then, something that has nothing to do with ceremony and everything to do with establishing ownership in front of Chicago's most dangerous families.
Her lipstick tastes like strawberries, her fear-sweat mixing with expensive perfume the Hewsons must have doused her in. Every witness in this chapel is watching me mark my territory, seeing exactly what kind of possession this marriage represents.
When I finally pull back, her lips are swollen, her carefully applied lipstick smudged. She stares up at me with eyes that have gone dark with something that isn't quite fear anymore.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Father Molina announces, clearly eager to be done with us, "I present Mr. and Mrs. Alessandro Rosetti."
The words strike her hard. Whatever mysteries surround Frances Hewson, she belongs to me now in front of every witness that matters. The knowledge settles in my chest, warm and satisfying.
My hand finds the small of her back as we turn to face our guests. "Smile, wife," I murmur against her ear. "You're under Rosetti protection now. That means you're untouchable. Except by me."
She manages something that might pass for happiness if you don't look too close. But I'm looking very close, and what I see is a woman holding herself together through sheer force of will.
The receiving line forms quickly. My family knows how to move through ceremony efficiently. I keep her pressed against my side, preventing escape while maintaining the image of newlywed affection.
"Marco," I say as my brother approaches, "meet my wife."
The words taste strange but not unpleasant. My wife. Mine.
Marco kisses her on both cheeks, and I notice how she freezes before remembering to respond. "Welcome to the family, Frances," he says, though his eyes find mine with unspoken questions.
"Please, call me…" she starts, then stops, swallowing whatever she was about to say. "Thank you."
One by one, they pay respects. Dante nods silently, his scarred throat hidden by his high collar. Sofia air-kisses with perfect feminine warmth that doesn't reach her blue eyes. Nico gives his soldier's handshake.
Through it all, I note her reactions. Her terror is there, but there's intelligence beneath it, calculation mixed with desperation.
Mrs. Hewson approaches, flustered and slightly out of breath. "Darling!" she exclaims, reaching for Frances with something that looks almost like desperation.
My bride goes rigid at her mother's embrace, and neither woman seems quite sure how to interact. Like actresses who've forgotten their choreography.
"Our chariot awaits, princess," I announce, cutting short this awkward performance. "Try not to turn into a pumpkin before midnight."
The defiance that flashes in her eyes burns unexpected and smooth. For a second, I see steel beneath the silk.
"I thought you'd prefer a compliant wife," she says, so quietly only I can hear.
"Oh, I do," I reply, guiding her toward the chapel's private entrance. "But you're not compliant, are you? You're something else entirely. And I'm going to enjoy finding out what."
The chapel doors close behind the last of our guests, leaving us alone in the vestibule. She sags slightly before catching herself, and I find myself oddly pleased that she's still fighting.
"You look ready to faint, wife. Should I carry you over the threshold, or would you prefer to walk to your doom with dignity?"
"I can walk," she says, lifting that chin again in a way that makes me want to bite it.
"Good." I key in the code for the private entrance. "The bridal suite awaits, and we have so much to discuss."
"What kind of discussion?"
I stop walking, turning her to face me fully. "The kind where we get to know each other. After all, you've been away at that Swiss boarding school for so long, I feel like I'm meeting a stranger."
The color drains from her face, but she holds my gaze. "I'm a Hewson. Isn't that enough?"
"Not even close." I brush a strand of hair from her face, noting how she fights not to recoil. "But don't worry. I have all night to learn everything about you. I promise to make it… memorable."
The bridal suite door looms ahead. King bed draped in ivory silk, champagne cooling in silver, roses everywhere because someone thought this was a real wedding night. The irony isn't lost on me. This is a wedding night, just not the kind anyone imagined.
"After you, Mrs. Rosetti." I gesture her inside with mock gallantry.
She enters on unsteady legs, each step measured like she's walking to her execution. The white silk of her dress catches the light from the suite's windows, making her look ethereal, untouchable. But she's very touchable now. Legally mine to do with as I please.
I follow her in, and the lock engages with a click that makes her whole body go rigid. The sound echoes in the silence between us, final as a coffin closing. She knows what it means. No escape. No interruptions. Just the two of us and whatever truths I can extract from that trembling mouth.
"Turn around, wife." My voice drops to something darker than the promise I made at the altar. The playful mask I wear for the world slides away, revealing something hungrier beneath. "Let me see what the Hewsons really sent me."
She turns slowly, hands fisted in her skirts.
The afternoon light streaming through the windows backlights her, turning the white silk translucent.
I can see the outline of her body beneath.
The curve of her waist, the shadow between her breasts where the corset pushes them together.
My cock hardens at the sight, at the knowledge that she's mine to unwrap like a gift I never asked for but suddenly want very badly.
"Every." I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Single." Another step, and now I can smell her. That mix of expensive perfume and fear-sweat that's more intoxicating than it has any right to be. "Inch."