Chapter 3
Chapter Three
NICO
Rosalia seems quiet and contained as she speaks with me. Her voice reminds me of someone who has been screaming too much, yet what would a spoiled Italian mafia princess possibly have to scream about?
Her father clearly gives her everything she could possibly want, and even sent someone out to bring her water and a cup of tea. My betrothed ignored the tea for the sealed bottle placed in front of her, and it makes me wonder why.
I don’t like all of the questions sitting before me. Not having all the answers has bitten me in the ass before, and I can’t afford to fuck up again.
“What’s your view of marriage?” I ask her, searching for a shred of truth. “Are you excited for our wedding?”
Getting married is simply a means to an end for me.
I’m really hoping she’ll be happy organizing shit for charity, and I’ll only have to fuck her ocasionally so that she’ll have my babies.
She’s pretty enough, but my type is an Adam’s apple, pouty lips surrounded by a goatee, and a nice, thick cock to fist.
Women are a pain in the ass, and not in a good way. Though…she does smell nice.
Ugh, honestly, all I can smell is fresh chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven. I can practically taste the chocolate melting on my tongue, because I’m not a patient man, and typically end up burning it. There my problem ultimately: I am not patient.
“I’m happy to do my duty for my family.”
Her eyes flick up to the trees nervously, making me wonder if we’re being watched. Don Accetta has a reputation for being a paranoid old man, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even trust his daughter to say and do the right thing.
“That’s not much of an answer, is it, piccola?”
She looks like I could stick her in my pocket. Her pouty lips purse for a moment, because I’m sure she’s used to people making comments about her height. It only lasts a second, and then her features smooth out again until she reminds me of a robot.
No emotions, no personality.
“It’s the only answer.”
Rosalia takes a small sip of her water, wincing slightly as the cool liquid slides down her throat. While she smells incredible, and it tugs at something deep inside of me, I don’t feel anything else. I can’t feel anything other than a sense of responsibility for her.
I suppose it would be too much for me to find my scent match in my betrothed. Fairytales never seem to happen to those who wish for it the most. This is a transaction, and nothing more. We’re exchanging money, protection, and resources in our marriage contract instead of anything real.
It’s for the best.
“Tell me one real thing,” I hiss, my eyes moving over her perfect posture, calm exterior, and sad dark eyes.
I think the sadness may be the real deal, but everything else is contrived.
“We’re being monitored,” she replies, her voice barely a whisper. “Stop pushing, I don’t want to be beaten again.”
It takes everything inside of me not to respond. I don’t see a single bruise on her olive skin. Wouldn’t I be able to tell if she’s hurting? Don’t people have more of a reaction to a severe beating?
Why is she sitting here like the perfect doll, her lashes brushing against her cheeks as she takes a small breath as if she’s shoring up her strength.
“When is the wedding? Papa hasn’t had the time to tell me.”
Rosalia doesn’t meet my gaze again, her eyes glued to the table we’re sitting at.
“Take a walk with me?” I suggest. “It’s a beautiful night, I want to see the neighborhood.”
She doesn’t respond, and someone’s expensive shoes scrape against the flagstones seconds after my request. I’d prefer to get away from any prying eyes so I can get a real response from Rosalia, but that doesn’t seem possible.
“Don Accetta would prefer if you stayed on property for now,” a man with dark hair, thick lips, and deep lines around his eyes says.
“Of course, Uncle,” my betrothed murmurs prettily.
My mind begins to race, wondering what’s real. What the fuck am I getting myself into, when the omega I’m marrying can play polite word games so well? She told me one thing, but is acting like a princess unable to do any wrong.
Who is Rosalia Accetta really?
“May we go for a walk around the garden, Uncle? I need to stretch my legs.”
Even as she says this, she shifts in her seat, her hair sliding forward to hide the wince of pain. Something tells me this is just for me to see, and it makes me even more concerned.
“I’m not your keeper,” the man grumbles. “You have about another hour before this little meet up is over.”
Rosalia remains seated as he disappears, and I watch as she stands ever so slowly, as if testing the mettle of her muscles. It’s the way someone in pain responds, making sure their body won’t betray them and dump them on their ass.
“I don’t suggest sparring without stretching properly,” she says lightly.
“Hmm. Of course, piccola.”
I follow her down the walkway, my eyes clocking the video cameras as we walk. They’re fucking everywhere, following us as we cross into a large area of roses. The scent completely overtakes Rosalia’s and I find I miss it.
Dude, what the fuck? This is a means to an end and nothing more. I need to marry someone so my damn father doesn’t get the last laugh in his will. I’m the first to admit that arranged marriages are medieval, but I have no other choice.
It doesn’t matter that my actions are going to piss people off, I will not allow my pack to fall to ruin. I require money to keep us safe, and I’ll be damned if I lose everything over a doe eyed girl with too many secrets.
My eyes dart around the high walls of the rose bushes, finding there aren’t any video cameras hidden here.
Rosalia’s hips roll as she takes small steps, her eyes closed as she breathes in the sweetly scented air.
The hem of her dress flutters around her calves, the breeze playing with it but never exposing her.
She’s so at peace in nature. Between her dress and how pretty she is, she reminds me of a fanciful princess. That’s the thing, she’s not a person to me, not yet.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to hold her up on an impossible pedestal, a reminder that she’s a means to an end. I can’t get attached.
I’m more of a use and abuse type of person. It’s so much easier not to get caught up in other people’s drama.
My hand wraps around Rosalia’s throat almost against my will, pushing her against the pretty pink roses as my knife comes out to press against her perky breasts. I swear, they’re almost pushed up to her chin. There is no way that’s normal.
“What— Fuck.”
“No thank you, I’d much rather not,” she drawls. The cool steel of the barrel of her gun presses against my forehead, and instead of fear, I feel an overwhelming sense of attraction.
My cock swells beneath my pants, a reminder that a part of me enjoys fucked up sex games, even if it comes from a female omega I don’t understand.
“Do you always meet with men who are courting you with a gun underneath your dress?” I ask, smirking as I allow my knife to nick her chest. A bead of blood bubbles up, but doesn’t slide down her skin.
I keep eye contact with her as I rub my thumb along her throat. Her pulse doesn’t speed up, it simply thumps along at a normal pace. All it does is increase my curiosity for this dark haired princess.
Who the fuck is she?
“I always have a gun under my dress.” It feels like a lie as she raises her brow at me.
“Hmm. Are you going to pull the tri— Goddamn, piccola. I think the pretty little dove may have claws.”
Rosalia smirks without mirth, the safety off on her weapon as her finger caresses the trigger.
“There are no cameras in the rose bushes. Ask your questions and be quick about it. Papa will come looking if we dawdle. He always does.”
“Who hurt you?” I ask, not expecting those words to escape my lips.
“Everyone. It seems to be a running joke at this point. Even you seem intent on making me bleed.”
“I don’t enjoy being played as the fool. What don’t I know?” I ask, my eyes narrowing.
“Too much,” she shrugs. “At this point, even if you call off the wedding, I’ll just be sold to someone else or killed. I don’t really care either way.”
“You’re being dramatic,” I snort. “This garden alone is a dream. You live an extravagant lifestyle, Rosalia. What could possibly be wrong with your life. Where are the bruises? You claimed you were being abused.”
“I said no such thing,” she lies. “Sometimes, pain is invisible. My life will never be mine. I’ll be lucky to survive our wedding.”
“Again, why the theatrics?” I scoff. “Speak plainly.”
“You don’t deserve my truths, dramatic or not. We don’t need to talk,” she says, a cough wracking her body as her voice becomes strained.
She allows the gun to drop to her side, and I remove the knife as I hold her in place with my hand necklace, feeling every shudder as she lifts her arm to her mouth as she coughs. It’s a deep, painful hacking sound, and I watch her closely to see if it's contrived or not.
“Are you ill?” I ask, frowning.
“If you,” she gasps, resting her head back on the bush, “keep your face like that, it’ll stay that way.”
“I’m not worried about how pretty I look, principessa. I want to know why you sound as if you smoke two packs a day.”
“Maybe I do.” Her delicate shoulder lifts and falls without care, and I find myself becoming invested in this woman.
“My health doesn’t matter, Nicolai. You simply need me for my ability to walk down an aisle while appearing beautiful and my cunt to bear you children.
Everything else is window dressing. I suggest you not look too closely, for none of it is particularly pretty. ”
Her language is odd as I continue to frown at her. I despise the way she weaves as she struggles to breathe, and I have no idea what could cause this. Her eyes are glassy with pain, though they’re determined to get through whatever other bullshit tonight might bring.
“It’s just Nico,” I groan. “Please don’t fuck with my name.”
“I plan to fuck with you as little as possible.”