Chapter 21
Present
Hamptons, New York
I GROANED SLEEPILY, BLINKING AWAY the sun peeking through the blinders. I tried to turn the other way, only to be met with a warm, hard surface.
My heart dropped to the floor.
With the hand that’d been resting close to my chest, I brought it up to my face and covered my eyes; taking a long minute to remember the way I’d acted the previous night, and realizing I’d woken up in the huge, powerful arms of Matteo Di’Ablo, my new husband for the foreseeable future.
Turning to look at him sleeping peacefully on the pillow above me, with his big arm thrown over me, keeping me trapped to him… All that body heat rubbing off on me… He felt like the sun.
I reeled my elbow back and hit him hard.
Matteo startled slightly, waking up confused and with a frown on his face. That was before his eyes found mine, and a slow smile took over. “Good morning, wife.”
“Call me that again in private, I’ll sucker-punch you in the throat.”
“Such sweet words from my corazón.”
I made a fist and went to hit him again, but he caught my hands and pressed them to his hard eight-pack.
“Why don’t you be a good wife and stroke my cock?”
“Yeah, right. In Hell.”
“But you were so eager last night. So excited you climbed on my lap and almost sat down on this big dick.”
I should’ve never told him he was big.
“You’re seriously going to rub it in my face?”
“No need. You rubbed it all over your face yourself last night.”
I groaned and tried pulling away.
“You couldn’t fucking get enough.”
Matteo pulled me back and got on top of me like it was the most normal thing for us, pinning me down in such an intimate way, it gave me flashbacks of last night. His erection rested against my pussy, making me unable to think about anything else but fucking him again.
His mouth was an inch away from mine as his hand wrapped around my throat. “You love how fucking big I am. You fucking loved chocking on it last night, didn’t you?”
An annoyed groan escaped my chest as I met his lips with a frustrated kiss.
It didn’t take long before we were gasping into it, needing more.
His hand descended down my body, until he cupped me between the legs.
Circling my clit in slow, big strokes, he got me all worked up, until I was grabbing onto his shoulders and biceps – anywhere I could reach – and pulling him closer.
He squeezed my throat once, making me open my eyes and focus on him again.
“Now, I woke up with a painful, hard cock from you grinding your ass back into me all night. Take care of it for me. What do you say?”
“I hate you–”
“Sure.”
“But I need this.” I grabbed his heavy length and gave him a harder tug, as payback.
He groaned back, squeezing my throat.
“I know you do. My wife doesn’t want anything else in the morning other than her husband’s cock. Ain’t that right, mi amor?”
I groaned in response again – half-frustrated, half-desperate to come – and pulled him down. Matteo dropped his weight on me, pressing me into the mattress as he wrapped one hand around my neck, and the other squeezed my breast. He pushed his hips down, spreading my knees apart to the mattress.
We both moaned into the kiss as we started moving against each other. His cock stroked against my clit in wave after wave, forcing me to wrap my legs around him for support. He kissed me through it – the slow, deep roll of our bodies moving together – until we both came at the same time.
We only kissed harder. Biting each other’s bottom lip. Digging our nails and fingers into the other’s skin. Neither slowed down.
A rough chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You need more, Donna?”
“I’ll suck you off in the shower if you go down on me after.”
“Deal.”
Five orgasms and a long shower later, we finally made our way out of the Suite and downstairs to meet everyone, as planned at noon.
The morning after our wedding tasted like salt in the air and the faint burn of too much champagne.
The DeMone’s Hamptons mansion glowed in the February afternoon.
White roses in elegant vases from last night filled the place, specs of glitter still scattered across the marble like fallen stars.
Sunlight poured through the towering windows in golden stripes.
My wife walked beside me through the corridor, spine straight, chin high.
A weird feeling ached in my chest. Something between excitement and contempt.
Last night replayed in my mind over and over again – her lips, her nails on my back, the way she’d breathed my name like a secret. And I knew exactly what was coming next.
The tradition. A barbaric relic of old-world honor – one she insisted she would handle.
“Let me deal with it,” she’d told me upstairs, slipping diamond earrings into place with unbothered grace, battling the rock on her ring-finger. “I don’t want you to cause a scene. Not today.”
I agreed, though every instinct in my body rebelled. I didn’t like anyone questioning her. She was the current Consigliere and future Underboss, and deserved to be treated as such.
We stepped into the grand ballroom, the tables set for brunch, white linens crisp, silver shining. Only the other Families remained now.
We took our seats at a long table as everyone greeted us, exchanging small talk. I didn’t participate, my anger threatening to spill.
Francesca’s thigh brushed mine before her hand came down to rest on my knee in reassurance. I felt it like a spark.
A moment later, a maid descended from the staircase carrying our folded sheets. My jaw locked. Francesca pretended not to stiffen beside me.
Whispers shifted in anticipation. I could feel eyes on us – on her. Everyone but the DeMone Family looked.
The maid hung them neatly over the back of a velvet couch.
The room soured instantly.
The white sheets remained untouched.
Brows raised. Murmurs sharpened. One of the older Philly Dons – gray hair slicked back, cigar lit – leaned forward.
“Tradition is tradition.” he said, voice heavy with disapproval
I felt my hand twitch under the table, fingers curling like they wanted to break something. Or someone.
Francesca slid her hand over mine – light, barely noticeable to anyone else. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were steel.
Conversations rippled – discontent, judgment.
They wanted proof. Proof she belonged to me last night.
My teeth ground together. I was one breath away from ending the entire conversation with force. I could feel blood rising in my veins like black fire. But I couldn’t risk Francesca’s business.
Then she squeezed my hand. Hard. Almost painful.
So I sat there. Silent. Coiled like a loaded gun at my wife’s side. My eyes tracked every Boss, every flicker of disrespect, and noted it down in the back of my mind for future reference.
They didn’t know her yet. But they would.
I looked at Francesca – red lipstick, diamonds on her throat, eyes like a blade. And beneath the rage…
The tension had been simmering for minutes – old men with old rules, staring at my wife like she was something to be examined and approved of. Like she didn’t already outrank half the room in brains and brutality.
Then the Boston Boss opened his mouth.
He leaned back in his chair, heavy gold rings glinting, cigar smoke coiling upward like rot.
“Tradition is tradition,” he repeated, louder this time, tone dripping condescension. “We need proof the marriage was properly sealed. Bloody sheets are necessary. Otherwise, how do we know the girl didn’t come to the altar damaged?”
My vision darkened as I went to stand up, but Francesca dug her nails into my thigh, right next to my dick, and forced me to calm down and remain seated. I couldn’t ruin this for her.
Francesca turned her head toward him, face empty of everything but calculation. No blush now. No embarrassment.
“You want bloody sheets?” she asked softly.
The room held its breath.
“There is no room for women in the Cosa Nostra,” He sneered, like he’d been waiting to say it. “Let alone whores.”
Francesca tilted her head, a soft hum escaping her, almost like she was considering his opinion.
Then, before anyone could blink, she pointed her gun at the Boss of Boston, and unloaded her magazine.
Shot after shot rang in the huge mansion, echoing with severity.
Blood popped from his neck, forehead, and chest, turning his white dress shirt red.
Blood splattered across the immaculate white sheets behind him – red blooming like rose petals in snow.
Some surprised screams escaped from some of the
But by the time Francesca’s gun cocked empty, the room was drowned in silence.
“There’s your goddamn bloody sheets,” she said, voice ringing like steel on marble.
Finally, the old bastard’s body slumped back into the chair, before he slid to the floor.
Francesca ejected the empty magazine, replaced it with a fresh one, movements calm – elegant even – and scanned the room.
“Anybody else got a fucking problem?!”
No one moved. Not a whisper. Not a blink.
She dropped her loaded weapon to the table with a definitive thud, and sat back down as if she hadn’t just painted the room in a man’s blood.
“Eat,” She commanded.
Forks lifted. Hands shook. Men who once ruled cities now stared at their plates like schoolchildren afraid of detention.
I wiped the smirk off my face. Still threatening to break across my mouth, I covered it with my hand. Pride and amusement burned through me, equal parts danger and devotion.
Francesca Vittoria DeMone…
My wife.
My beautiful, ruthless wife.
God help anyone who thought they could handle her.
Enzo sat at the head of the table, gold cufflinks gleaming, face unreadable. But I saw it – the flicker of annoyance, the calculating pause. He knew our marriage was business.
He didn’t know we had actually spent last night tangled in silk and breathless, her nails still carved faint crescents into my back.
He cleared his throat, eyes sharp as blades as they cut to me. A silent order.
Fix this.
I leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of Francesca’s chair, claiming her without touching. She glanced at me – jaw set but eyes betraying the smallest spark of worry. If the Bosses believed we hadn’t consummated the marriage… If they even suspected this marriage wasn’t real…
I nodded once at her, then addressed the room, voice deep and even.
“What I do with my wife,” I said, letting my gaze drag across every face at the table, “Is my business. Is that clear?”
No one spoke, but the dissatisfaction ran deep. They weren’t pleased. Not about the Boston Boss, but rather the
Francesca squeezed my thigh harder, urging me to fix this.
“Plus,” I added, letting a slow, wicked smile curve my mouth, “I think the bed is overrated.”
Francesca rolled her eyes – dramatic, maybe a little annoyed at my angle – but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. A tiny smirk. Almost a laugh. Like she was just as amused at the others’ naivety.
A couple of chuckles came from the men, some light laughter from the women. And then the conversation moved to another topic, completely separate from Francesca and I’s private life.
She reached for her champagne, the diamond on her finger a bright declaration under the chandelier. I watched her throat work as she swallowed, pulse fluttering.
She was fire. Violence. Venus with blood on her nails.
And she was mine.
Whether they knew it or not.
My gaze met Francesca’s, her beautiful eyes narrowing on me.
I smirked.
Because this strong, intimidating woman was my woman. My wife. And, fake or not, she’d grinded herself on me all night, telling me how much she needed me.
I ran a thumb over my bottom lip, remembering the way she’d bit it.
This was just the beginning.