Chapter 2
Gemma
Night two starts the same way night one ended.
The bedroom door opens around eleven. I'm already in bed, wearing the silk nightgown someone laid out for me.
Probably Lyla.
Saint walks in, already loosening his tie. He doesn't say hello. Doesn't ask how my day was. Tells me nothing about himself. He just starts undressing with the mechanical efficiency of someone performing a chore.
I watch him from the bed, noting the blood on his collar.
It’s still red, not yet brown, so I know it’s fresh.
He doesn't explain it. I don't ask.
"Same as last night," he says, shucking off his pants. "Though, you might want to...I don't know...fake a moan, touch your clit, something."
He looks pale in the moonlight, and I can tell this bothers him. His words lack their usual cruelty.
Good.
This should be painful for someone other than me. For once, I shouldn’t be the only one who suffers.
He's already hard this time, and I suspect he prepared himself before he came in here.
I lie back without being told. I don't respond to his words. I'm not going to make this easier on him, even if it means I suffer.
There will be no clit touching.
He can fuck me dry.
He groans, rolls his eyes, and pushes my nightgown up.
His thrust is hard and dry. No preamble. No checking if I'm ready. Just—in.
I bite my lip against the burn. Saint doesn't seem inclined to try and make it easier—probably punishing me for not finger-fucking myself in preparation.
Oh well.
He fucks me with the same detached efficiency he uses for everything else. Long, deep strokes. Chasing his release. Using me.
There's a lovely floral wallpaper on the ceiling. I count the orchids. Dissociating.
Forty-seven. Forty-eight. Forty-nine.
He finishes with a grunt. I shiver at the warmth of his spill and barely notice when he rolls off.
"Until tomorrow," he says, already rolling off the bed and buckling his pants.
I go to the bathroom, shower, and when I come back, he's gone. He'll slip in at some point, sleep, and then leave.
It takes three days for me to leave the bedroom.
Lyla brings meals, which I appreciate.
Today, she’s realized I function on carbs and coffee, and she’s brought me a croissant, fruit, and a carafe of thick, black Columbia roast.
I hold onto my cup as I slip out of the room.
I don't go far. Mostly because I don't know where the hell I'm going. I'd been too in my head when Saint gave me the "tour," and I'm too scared to venture far from my room. Lord knows who I could run into.
But the room feels smaller by the minute, and I need to get out.
I don't know how Sera did this, played this part.
It's been two days, and I feel like I'm drowning.
I miss school, my apartment. Hell, I miss my mother. My relationship with Bianca was fraught, but there were times when I felt like she was the only person who’d ever seen me.
Walking through the halls, I notice they are mostly bare. Unlike the Nero family mansion, the Marinis' has little art. It's not cold, but it lacks that kind of ode to high society that my family home always had.
Which is funny since the Marinis came up around the same time as the Neros. It makes me curious about my new family.
Not curious enough to seek anyone out and ask these question, but enough that I examine the three other rooms on my floor—a formal sitting room and a small office—before I scurry back to my space.
I learned exactly zero, but it was nice to escape my self-imposed prison.
The day crawls, and by eleven, Saint returns.
The routine is identical.
He walks in. Already hard. I lie down. He fucks me.
This time, he finishes faster and says nothing.
If he didn’t avoid looking me in the eyes the whole time, I would think he was getting off on this. But I know he’s not. He’s clinical about fucking. I’ve had hotter gynecological exams.
"You should probably elevate your hips or something," he says, not looking at me as he cleans up. "Helps with conception."
I snort and roll my eyes.
He says it like he's giving me advice about dry cleaning.
I don't respond. Just lie there, feeling him leak out of me, hating everything.
This time he leaves and doesn't come back.
I'm awake for hours.
Day four brings the same, except this time I travel to a second floor. No one is in this house, which I find weird because it feels like I’m constantly being watched.
Saint comes. He fucks me. Leaves.
Day five brings the first intrusion into my self-imposed isolation.
A knock at the door, mid-afternoon. Not Lyla's gentle tap. Something more authoritative.
I sit up immediately, straightening my back the way I was taught in cotilion.
"Gemma." Antonio's voice. "May I come in?"
I'm sitting by the window in leggings and an oversized sweater, hair in a messy bun, no makeup. Not fit for company. My mother would roll in her grave if she saw me, and I wince.
"Yes."
Antonio enters, and I'm struck again by how different he is from Saint. Older, obviously, with silver hair and kind eyes. I know he's not Saint's father, but it's hard to see a single drop of resemblance between the two.
Saint is menacing, like a snake waiting to strike.
Antonio is like a panther, sleek and timed.
He moves with the quiet authority of someone who's been in power for decades.
He's got a fatherly presence about him, and as much as I want to hate him for tying me to his psychotic nephew, there's something warm and paternal that draws me to him.
A therapist would have a fucking field day with me, I think.
"I wanted to check on you," he sits on one of the overstuffed armchairs. "Make sure you're settling in."
"I'm fine," I say. "Your staff has been very helpful."
His eyes sweep the room, landing on the untouched lunch tray. "Have they? You haven't left this room in almost a week."
"I leave," I say. "I've seen most of the house."
"You act like you are a prisoner, sneaking out.
" He is being kind, but I can hear the undercurrent in his voice. He’s not happy "No family breakfasts or dinner.
No walks in the garden. No outings." His smile is predatory.
The panther showing me his power. "One would think my nephew is keeping you prisoner. "
Ah, there it is.
It’s not me he’s irritated with.
It’s Saint.
I contemplate playing into that but decide against it. I trust Antonio less than Saint. After all, he’s the reason I’m here, and as shitty as Saint is, I can’t deny that he was a pawn as well.
"I'm adjusting,” I give him a small smile.
"Adjusting." He repeats the word like he's tasting it. "I am aware that you were not pleased about this marriage, but your brother assured me—"
My jaw tightens in anger. "My brother doesn't speak for me.”
Antonio leans back, studying me. I expect him to scold me, remind me he's in charge, and that my brother is head of my family. My mother would have. She would have reminded me that I only have so much autonomy.
Instead, Antonio gives me a warm smile, which somehow makes me feel more nervous. I don’t know how to understand him.
"Did you know I was illegitimate?" Antonio asks.
My mouth drops, and he chuckles. "I suppose you didn't," he says. "Not polite conversation."
"It's also the twenty-first century,” I remind him. "Does anyone care anymore?"
This makes him laugh. "You and I both know the families are steeped in tradition." He closes his eyes, and I can see pain there. "I was born from my father's mistress. My brother, Saint's father, was born to my father's third wife. He was set to inherit."
I stay quiet, though I'm dying to ask questions.
"When he and his wife died, Saint was just a boy. Ten, barely out of nappies."
I bite back a remark. Ten is hardly a child, but sure.
"I took over the family. Something I never wanted. I saw what it looked like to have to make hard choices, and well..." He trails off. "I did not want to be responsible for such things." Antonio smiles sadly. "Now, I've been in charge longer than anyone ever imagined."
I don't know what to say to that, so I say nothing.
"I didn't want it," he continues. "The responsibility. The violence. The weight of all those lives depending on my decisions. But I did it anyway. Because family is everything."
"Is this supposed to make me feel better about what you are asking of me?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
He smiles, but it's sad. "No. I suppose not. But I wanted you to understand why your mother and I made this match."
"My mother wanted power for Adrian, and for me to be out of her hair."
Antonio's brow furrows. He disagrees, but he doesn't say it.
"And my brother wants to be tied to you and Saint through blood." I can understand Adrian's desire, even though I hate him for it. "This alliance protects his son."
Antonio nods. His lips harden, and I can see the mafia Don under his fatherly persona. "The Morozovs want war. The Neros need allies. And I need an heir to ensure my family's legacy continues. This marriage benefits us all."
"Except me and Saint." As much as it pains me to admit, he's also a victim in this. "He didn't want a wife, and he definitely doesn't want a child."
"Saint fancies himself a weapon, but he's an heir, a prince. He will do his duty."
"And this is you telling me it's time to do mine?" I turn back to the window, not in the mood. "Was there something specific you needed from me?" Other than what he's already taken?
"Yes." He stands. "Dinner. Tonight. Seven o'clock. I expect both you and Saint to join me."
It's not a request, and I don't treat it as such.
"Of course."
He moves toward the door, then pauses. "Gemma. I'm not a monster. I want you to be happy here. But happiness is a luxury that sometimes comes after duty."
He leaves before I can respond.
I wonder if he has ever been happy.
I close my eyes, thinking about a picture I saw. Antonio, a lovely woman, and a gaggle of boys.
Yes, Antonio has known happiness.
Bastard.