Chapter 3 #2
I looked up at him. Really looked. Past the intimidation, the cold exterior, the man who'd threatened me at the altar.
His face was stunning in a brutal sort of way—sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, that scar through his eyebrow that made him look dangerous. Gray eyes that missed nothing, analyzed everything.
He was looking at me too.
For a moment, the performance fell away. Just two people caught in something neither of us had chosen.
Something passed between us. Recognition? Curiosity? The acknowledgment that we were both trapped now, bound together by forces beyond our control?
His thumb traced another circle. Definitely deliberate this time.
My breath caught.
This was insane. I should be planning escape, not noticing how attractive my captor was. Not responding to his proximity, his scent, his heat.
But my body didn't care about logic. About the situation. About anything except the way his hand felt on my waist, the way he moved, the raw magnetism he radiated like heat from a furnace.
The song ended. Applause erupted.
Cesare stepped back. The moment shattered. His face went impassive again—all business, no warmth.
"Time for dinner. You'll sit beside me. Eat—you look pale. I don't need you fainting."
Was that concern? No. Probably practical. Can't have his new wife collapsing in public.
He led me to the head table—elevated, on display, everyone still watching.
Dinner was seven courses. I tasted none of it. Couldn't taste anything past the knot in my stomach.
Cesare made small talk with the guests at our table—business associates, family members. He was charming when he wanted to be. Warm, even.
Another mask. Another performance.
Piero stood for the best man speech.
He was witty, enthusiastic, told embarrassing stories about young Cesare getting caught stealing sfogliatelle from the kitchen, about pranks that ended with both brothers grounded for weeks.
The room laughed. Even Cesare smiled—genuine, unguarded for just a moment.
"My brother has always known what he wanted and gone after it with single-minded determination," Piero concluded. "And now he has found a woman who is his perfect match—strong, intelligent, beautiful. Salute to the happy couple!"
Everyone drank. I forced champagne past my lips because it was expected.
But the speech felt like a piece of clothing that felt wrong.
I’d never thought of myself as strong, intelligent, or beautiful.
That was always Bianca. I was the quiet sister; a hard worker, competent and creative, but happy to blend into my surroundings.
Cesare stood for his groom's speech. He placed his hand on my shoulder—possessive, claiming.
"I'm not a man of many words," he began.
The room chuckled—they knew this about him.
"But I'll say this: today I married the most unexpected woman. She's already proven to be... full of surprises." He looked down at me, gray eyes unreadable. "To my wife. May we have many more surprises ahead."
That felt more accurate; unexpected. Full of surprises. But was it a threat or acknowledgment? Both?
Everyone applauded. Cesare sat, his hand slipping from my shoulder to my wrist, his fingers wrapping it like a manacle.
The reception dragged on. More courses, more speeches, more toasts. I was introduced to countless people whose names evaporated from my memory the moment they walked away.
Everyone called me "Bianca." Every single time, it was a knife twist of wrongness.
I watched Cesare navigate his world—men approached him with deference that bordered on fear, quiet conversations stopped when I got too close, everyone orbited him like he was the sun and they were just planets hoping for warmth.
This was a man who wielded enormous power. Real power, not just money.
And I was legally bound to him.
The full weight hit me: I was married to a mafia Don. This wasn't temporary. This wasn't fixable with lawyers or annulments or running back to my old life.
My old life was gone. Burned to ash the moment I said "I do."
Unless I ran. But run where? My father had made it clear—I was on my own, and there would be consequences if anything went wrong. Bianca had abandoned me. I had no allies, no resources, no plan.
I had nothing except this ring and this dress and this man who owned me now by law and custom.
Finally, mercifully, the reception wound down.
It was just after 10 p.m. I swayed with exhaustion and stress, the cumulative weight of the longest day of my life. A dozen or so guests lingered, chatting quietly over their last drinks and enjoying the now dimly lit room.
Cesare appeared at my side. "Time to go."
Go where? Then I remembered.
The wedding night. They were supposed to—we were supposed to—
No. No no no.
But guests were applauding. Rice pelted us as we walked toward the entrance. Someone had decorated another limousine with "JUST MARRIED" and tin cans.
Piero hugged me goodbye—pulled me close, whispered: "He's not as bad as he seems. Give him a chance."
What did that mean? I didn't have time to ask.
Cesare helped me into the limo. The door closed.
We were alone again.
The vehicle pulled away from the mansion, Manhattan-bound.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I was still in the wedding dress—massive, uncomfortable, a costume for a role I'd never auditioned for.
Cesare was on his phone, speaking rapid Italian.
Business. Always business, apparently, even on a day that normal people considered sacred.
I stared out the window and watched the Hamptons give way to highways, highways to city streets.
Despite the two hour drive, the exhaustion I’d felt surrounded by strangers never pulled me into sleep.
Now that it was just the mafia Don and I, an edge of paranoia kept my blood pounding and my eyes glancing his way.
When we hit the city, familiar territory turned foreign and threatening.
The limo pulled up to a gleaming high-rise in Midtown. Doormen rushed to open doors.
"Welcome home, Mr. Monti, Mrs. Monti."
Mrs. Monti. That's who I was now.
We entered a private elevator that required a key. It shot upward. My ears popped.
Floor numbers climbed: 60... 70... 80... 90.
The doors opened directly into the penthouse.
The space stole my breath.
Floor-to-ceiling windows on every wall—Manhattan glittered below like a sea of captured stars. Modern Italian design: dark woods, black leather, chrome accents. Expensive art on the walls—I recognized a Caravaggio, a Rothko. Originals, not prints, I realized when I hesitantly stepped toward them.
Everything was masculine. Controlled. Cold.
No warmth, no softness, no compromise.
This was Cesare's domain. His kingdom. And I'd been brought here as... what? Wife? Prisoner?
Both.
Cesare tossed his jacket over a chair, loosened his tie. "Would you like a drink?"
The mundane question in this surreal situation almost made me laugh hysterically.
"No. I want to understand what happens now."
He poured scotch—expensive, amber, three fingers. Took a drink before answering.
Set down his glass. Turned to face me fully.
His gray eyes swept over me—still in the wedding dress, hair falling from its elaborate style, makeup smudged, exhausted and terrified but still standing.
"What happens now," he said slowly, "is you become my wife in every sense of the word."
He crossed the obscenely large room to me. I wanted to back away but there was nowhere to go—windows behind me, Cesare in front.
He reached up and began removing my veil—the final barrier between us.
His fingers brushed my cheek. I shivered.
"Strip," he said quietly.
Not a request. A command.
My eyes went wide. "What?"
"The dress. Take it off. Now."
My voice shook. For the first time all day, the last thing I wanted was to be out of this dress.
"No."
Cesare's expression didn't change. "You're my wife, Paola. Tonight, that means something. You can make this easy, or you can make this difficult. But it's happening either way."
He stepped back slightly. Gave me space, but not escape.
My throat went completely dry. The single word hung in the air between us—strip—and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but stare at this man who was my husband, my captor, my judge and executioner all rolled into one.
The penthouse suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in despite the floor-to-ceiling windows that should have made everything feel open, endless.
But there was no escape. Just Cesare, watching me with those unreadable gray eyes, waiting for my compliance like it was already a foregone conclusion.
My hands twisted in the silk of my wedding dress—Bianca's dress, really, because nothing about this day had been mine. Not the ceremony, not the vows, not even my own name when the priest declared us husband and wife. And now he wants this too.
My body. My submission.
The last piece of myself I have any control over.