Chapter 4
Cesare
Her face drained of color—every drop of blood fled south, leaving her pale as the dress.
I watched carefully. Catalogued every micro-expression, every tell, every unconscious signal.
This was a test.
Not just of compliance, but of who she was beneath the fear and exhaustion.
Nothing about today made sense. The switch. The timing. The precision. Was Paola an accomplice? Part of some scheme I hadn't figured out?
Or truly a victim, drugged and forced into this role?
Her response would tell me everything.
She didn't move. Didn't reach for zippers or buttons. Just stared with those wide green eyes—so different from Bianca's calculated coldness.
"No." Quieter than before, but definitive.
Interesting.
Most people didn’t tell Cesare Monti “no.” Especially not when I issued a direct command in my own home with no witnesses.
I took a step closer. "No?"
She lifted her chin—terrified but defiant. The contradiction fascinated me.
"You didn't marry me. You married my sister. I'm just the replacement. So don't pretend this is real."
The words hit harder than she knew.
She was right—I didn't choose her. I hadn’t chosen her sister, either, not really; not in the way that mattered. This entire day had been fraud, a performance with the wrong lead actress.
But she was wrong about one thing: the marriage was real. Legal And binding. Witnessed and registered.
And her defiance...
It did something to me.
I'd spent my adult life surrounded by people who feared me, who obeyed without question, who said yes Don Monti and of course Don Monti. Paola Lombardo was clearly scared—I could see it in her shaking hands, hear it in her breathing, smell it cutting through her perfume.
But she was still saying no. Still fighting.
Most would have broken by now. Stripped, submitted to me, and accepted the inevitable.
She was stronger than she looked.
The realization shifted something in me. I was… intrigued. And there was something darker—desire kindled by resistance.
"You're right," I said. "I didn't marry you. I married Bianca Lombardo."
I paced before her slowly. She turned to keep me in sight—smart. Never let the threat move behind you.
"But Bianca isn't here. You are. You said the vows. You wear my ring. The law says you're mine."
Her breathing quickened—rapid, shallow pulls that made her chest rise and fall beneath silk and lace. She'd backed against the window. Nowhere to go. Ninety floors of nothing behind her, me in front.
Trapped.
"I won't—"
"You won't what?" I interrupted. "Fight me? Run? Refuse?"
I stopped directly in front of her. Close enough to touch but not touching.
The anticipation was almost better than contact. I felt how badly I wanted her throb through my veins, rushing toward a tight knot of desire low in my gut.
"Let me explain your situation, Paola." I kept my voice level, reasonable.
"You have no money—everything you owned is in your old life.
You have no allies—your father sold you, your sister betrayed you.
You have no escape—this penthouse is ninety floors up, guarded, and even if you made it to the street, where would you go? "
I watched each word land like a physical blow.
"You are completely dependent on me. For food, shelter, safety. Your survival."
Tears gathered, but she blinked them back furiously.
Good. I didn't want her to break—just to understand reality.
"So when I give you a command, you have two choices: obey, or face the consequences."
She hesitated before asking in almost a whisper, "What consequences?"
I studied her—really looked for the first time.
The dress was wrinkled, makeup smudged, dark curly hair falling from its elaborate prison. She looked exhausted and utterly vulnerable. It was just past midnight.
Something in my chest—conscience? Impossible—made me pause.
I could force this. Make her strip, take what I wanted, establish absolute dominance. Set the tone for our entire marriage.
But breaking her served no purpose.
I needed a wife who could function in my world. Who could smile at dinners, attend events without falling apart. Not a traumatized shell who flinched when I entered a room.
And something about her defiance made me want to earn her submission.
The realization surprised me.
"The consequences," I said finally, stepping back, "are that this marriage becomes much harder than it needs to be."
I moved to the bar, poured another scotch I didn't want. Gave her room to breathe.
The relief on her face was palpable—and oddly satisfying.
"I won't force you tonight."
She sagged against the window.
"But understand this," I continued. "We are married. That marriage needs to look real. Which means certain expectations must be met."
"What expectations?"
"My enemies will look for weakness. If they discover this marriage is a sham—if they find out you're not who you're supposed to be—we both become targets."
I took a drink. "There will be doctors. Medical examinations for insurance, prenuptial health screenings. Standard for families like ours."
I watched her process this.
Then I asked the question circling my mind. "Are you a virgin?"
She went very still. Color flooded her cheeks.
"That's none of your business."
"It's entirely my business. You're my wife." I set down my glass. "Answer the question, Paola."
A long pause.
Then, barely audible: "Yes."
A virgin. Completely untouched.
My body responded immediately—heat flooding south, possessiveness tightening my chest. She was mine in ways she didn't understand yet. No other man had touched her, tasted her, been inside her.
Only me.
I forced my voice level. "Then we have a problem."
"What problem?"
"A virgin bride after a week of marriage raises questions. Medical examinations will reveal you haven't been touched."
Fear bloomed fresh in her eyes.
"So we need to consummate this marriage," I continued. "But on one condition."
She looked wary. "What condition?"
I leaned against the bar. "You choose when. Not tonight, if you're not ready. But soon. Within the week."
"You're giving me a choice?"
"I'm giving you the illusion of control," I corrected, unwilling to admit that I was giving up even a sliver of my own. "Because ultimately, this has to happen. For both our safety. But I'd rather you come to me willingly."
It was more honesty than I usually offered anyone.
"And if I refuse entirely?"
My voice hardened. "Then I make the choice for you. And you won't like how that goes."
The threat hung between us. She knew I meant it.
"So choose, Paola. Make this easy. Or make it hard." I gestured toward the hallway. "The bedroom is through there. You'll find clothes in the closet—my assistant had them sent over."
"Whose clothes?"
"Yours now. I had your measurements taken from the wedding dress."
She wasn't used to this world yet, where information was currency and preparation was survival.
"You'll sleep in my bed," I continued. "My enemies are watching. The staff will talk. We need to maintain appearances."
"Sleep in your bed. But you said you wouldn't—"
"I said I wouldn't force you tonight. That doesn't mean we sleep separately."
I could see her mind working, calculating angles.
"Go. Change. Get comfortable. I have calls to make."
She didn't move immediately. "Can I ask you something?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You can ask. I may not answer."
"Why did you go through with it? When you realized I wasn't Bianca, why didn't you stop it?"
Honest question. Deserved an honest answer.
"Viktor Kozlov was watching. If I'd exposed the deception, I would have looked weak. Foolish. Not in control." I moved closer. "In my world, the appearance of weakness is death. Viktor would have moved against me within days. Blood would have been spilled. My men. Innocents."
Understanding dawned on her face. "So you sacrificed me to save face."
"I sacrificed both of us," I corrected. "You think I wanted this? A wife I didn't choose, can't trust, don't know?"
Silence fell—heavy, loaded.
We were both victims of this situation.
"I didn't ask for this either," Paola said quietly. "I was supposed to have brunch tomorrow. Go to work Monday. My life was normal. And now..."
"Now you're married to a monster," I finished.
She looked at me—really looked. "Are you? A monster?"
The question caught me off guard.
"Yes," I said simply. "I've done things that would give you nightmares. Killed people. Ordered deaths. Built an empire on blood and fear."
I expected her to flinch.
Instead, she just nodded. "At least you're honest about it."
For some reason, that response hit harder than fear would have.
Paola finally moved toward the bedroom. She stopped at the doorway.
"Which side of the bed do you sleep on?"
The mundane question in this insane situation almost made me smile. I had to think about it for a moment; it had been a long, long time since someone else was in my bed.
"Left. You take the right."
She nodded. Hesitated. "And you'll stay on your side?"
"Tonight, yes."
She caught the qualifier immediately. "Tonight?"
"You have a week, Paola. Use it wisely."
She disappeared into the bedroom. I heard the door close—not slam, just close. Testing boundaries.
I didn't follow. Let her have some privacy to change, to breathe. Alone, I topped off my scotch. Didn't drink it.
I'd had a plan: marry Bianca, secure the alliance, maintain the status quo. Simple. Clean. Transactional.
Instead I had Paola: complicated, unknown, challenging everything. She wasn't what I'd expected. Not the polished society wife I'd been prepared for, and surprisingly distanced from the mafia lifestyle, despite who her father was. She was real. Raw. Scared but not broken. Defiant even in surrender.
And that defiance... it did something to me I didn't want to examine.
My phone buzzed. Piero: How's married life?
I typed back: Complicated.
Piero: The good ones always are.
I didn't respond.
Twenty minutes passed. I finished calls, checked security reports, reviewed tomorrow's schedule. Stalled.
Finally, I couldn't delay any longer. It was past 1 a.m. and even I needed sleep.
I entered the bedroom quietly. The lights dimmed to almost nothing. Paola was already in bed—as far to the right as possible without falling off, covers pulled to her chin like armor.
Her eyes were closed but I knew she was awake. Her breathing was too controlled.
I moved through my routine: removed my tie, cufflinks, watch. Unbuttoned my shirt. I could feel her awareness of me. The air between us practically vibrated.
I left my undershirt on—a concession to her modesty—but removed my pants. I slept in boxer briefs normally.
When I slid into the bed, the mattress dipped and Paola went rigid. We lay in darkness, neither speaking. The space between us felt like an ocean.
I was hyperaware of her—the sound of her breathing, the warmth radiating across sheets, the subtle scent. Something floral, from the items my people picked up sometime between our wedding reception and the shower she’d taken. Not the heavy perfume Bianca had worn.
She was wearing one of the silk nightgowns my assistant had purchased.
This was absurd. I'd shared beds with countless women. Sex meant nothing—pleasure, release, transaction. No one ever stayed; what would have been the point?
But lying here next to my wife—a stranger—felt more intimate than any of those encounters.
The silence stretched. Then her voice, small in darkness: "Thank you."
My heart stuttered with her words. They weren’t ones I heard often. "For what?"
"For not... for giving me time."
I didn't know how to respond to gratitude for basic decency.
"Don't thank me yet. The week will pass quickly."
More silence. I thought she'd fallen asleep. Then I felt movement. Her fingertips brushed against my hip.
Accident? Intentional? I froze, remembering the heat of her body beneath her dress when I’d rubbed my thumb in small circles at her waist.
My hand moved almost of its own accord—found her hip through silk. She didn't pull away.
I could feel her heartbeat through the thin fabric—racing, fluttering like a trapped bird beneath my palm. The pulse point at her hip throbbed against my thumb, and the knowledge that I was causing that reaction sent dark satisfaction coiling through my chest.
"Are you scared?" My voice came out rough, graveled with want I couldn't quite suppress. The question hung between us in the darkness—honest, dangerous.
A pause. I felt her throat work as she swallowed. Then, barely a breath: "Yes."
"Good," I murmured, letting my thumb trace a slow, deliberate circle on the curve of her hip bone through silk that might as well have been nothing. She shivered—full body, involuntary. I felt every tremor. "You should be."
My cock was hard, straining against the fabric of my briefs. My entire body screamed at me to roll over, to cover her, to claim what was legally, contractually mine. The week suddenly seemed like an eternity. Like a torture I'd designed specifically for myself.
But something in her trembling, in that whispered yes, made me pull my hand back. Made me put distance between us again.
"Sleep, Paola," I said, my voice a low command that barely concealed the razor edge of my control. "While you still can."
Her fingers tightened on my hip, not letting go.