21. I Dare You #2
“Of course you do.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the mirrored wall as the doors closed.
I gripped the metal bar and perched against it as I pressed the button for the penthouse.
She was trying so hard to look anywhere but at me, yet I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
There was still an underlying thrum of fury beneath my skin at the fact that she had nearly married another man today.
Having her in my sight, no matter how much hatred filled her eyes, kept it contained.
My gaze travelled over her with possessive hunger, enjoying how she fidgeted and how her skin pebbled under my phantom touch.
Whether it was fear, excitement, or desire, I wasn’t sure.
Probably all three simultaneously. Her body was so receptive to me, even when she refused to acknowledge it or tried so hard to fight our chemistry.
“Stop staring.” Her voice was a breathless whisper away from a moan as I leaned my head back against the wall, keeping my gaze pinned on her.
“Does it make you uncomfortable… how I look at you?” I husked, clenching my jaw as she squirmed again.
Her eyes finally snapped to mine, and I saw it. Desire disguised as hate. “Yes. You make me uncomfortable.”
I tilted my head a fraction, holding her gaze as the sexual tension between us became so intense it infected the air. “Why?”
She swallowed and broke our gaze to save herself. “Because…”
I could see her fighting her own thoughts, searching for a plausible lie rather than the truth we both knew. I pushed off the wall and crowded her, running my hand along her jaw to force her to look at me. Fuck, those eyes. So wide and vulnerable, filled with fear and fury, but mostly just longing.
I lowered my face to hers, letting my deep voice caress her lips. “Because? I make you want things you know you shouldn’t want, Bella Ribelle.”
Her next breath stuttered through parted lips, her sweet breath mingling with mine, and I was so close to kissing her. But beneath the desire, there was too much seething anger. She was fighting her own feelings as well as me.
“I don’t want you,” she snarled, placing her hands on my chest and pushing me back. I let her. The doors opened, and I smirked, showing her I could see right through her lie.
She followed me into my penthouse as I sorted the security system.
I leaned against the wall and watched her take in the space, her curious eyes sweeping over every detail as if it might give her some clue as to who the hell she’d just married.
Surprise was the most dominant expression, and I knew why.
My mamma and Elle had designed and styled this place a few years ago.
They both had a flair for interior design, and Mamma’s love of neutral tones, contrasting with Elle’s vibrant paintings and furnishings, shouldn’t work so well, but it did.
“What were you expecting?” I asked, kicking off my polished shoes, slipping off my tuxedo jacket, and undoing my bow tie, leaving it hanging around my neck. She wandered a little further into the space. “Let me guess. A bachelor pad with a stripper pole in the living room and a rotating bed?”
“More like a torture chamber and a display of skulls.”
“That’s in the basement.”
Her head whipped around to me, trying to decide whether I was joking. I was. That’s what my sanctuary was for.
“Let me give you a tour.” I strode past her, grabbing her hand while she was too frozen to react.
“Where I sit and relax.” I showed her the open-plan living room, which had a massive terrace with a hot tub and an outdoor bar, before turning to the kitchen and the dining table on the other side of the room.
“Where I eat.” I pulled her along the corridor, opening the doors to the guest bedrooms. “Where my family stays when they visit.” I pointed to my office door.
“Where I work.” Then took her past the gym and cosy cinema room.
“Where this god-like body is made. Where I fall asleep ten minutes into every film.” When we finally reached my bedroom, our bedroom, I opened the door and let her walk in first. “And my church, where I plan on worshipping you every night.”
Her cheeks turned an adorable shade as she ran her hand along the edge of the enormous bed. She turned towards the walk-in dressing room, already half full of her clothes. She froze and all the colour drained from her rosy cheeks.
She swallowed and slumped on the edge of the bed.
Unexpected tears shone in her eyes, and my chest tightened.
Fuck, I really couldn’t handle seeing her cry.
Especially when I knew I was the one who’d caused them.
I was the villain in her story, but so be it.
Something didn’t sit right about Callum D'Ardenzi, and until I knew what or who I was dealing with, I wouldn’t let her out of my sight.
I stepped closer, every instinct in my body urging me to comfort her. But with her rage back in place, she shot to her feet and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door in my face. I closed my eyes and exhaled.
Pulling out my phone, I marched back towards the living room and called Nero to check whether he’d found any more dirt on D'Ardenzi.
“Nothing we don’t already know. Callum D'Ardenzi, thirty-two years old, was born in the UK. His father was British and a wealthy London stockbroker worth millions. His mother was originally from Italy but moved to the UK a few years before Callum was born. He lived in London with his parents until his father fell ill and died. He moved to Italy in his early twenties, using his father’s inheritance, and set up his real estate empire in Rome.
His mother stayed in the UK. He became one of Piero’s key backers in his mayoral campaign and seems to have the mayor’s ear. It all checks out.”
I groaned, running my hand through my hair. “And Damiano. There has to be a link. I’m convinced Callum was the one who pushed Damiano into Piero’s sights.”
“Damiano applied for the security job just as all the others had. But someone helped cover up his past. He’d lied on his application, claiming military experience, when he’d actually been bouncing around the underground scene for the last ten years, taking hit jobs, dealing, fighting, and betting.
Piero may have unknowingly hired him without any input from D'Ardenzi, though.”
I shook my head, clenching my fist around the phone. I didn’t believe that for a second. Damiano implied he had a deal with someone. He’d be allowed to do whatever he liked to Aria after she married Callum. If the deal wasn’t with Callum, then who?
“Just keep digging. Have them followed. Don’t stop until you find something.”
“Si, Boss.”
I hung up and threw the phone onto the kitchen counter, hanging my head between my arms. I had to figure this shit out, fast. I’d just lit a fire under my ass by marrying Aria.
Piero and Callum would ramp up their hate club against me now.
This wasn’t just about business anymore.
I’d made it personal. But fuck them. The traitor dockworker, Simone, was still in a coma in Naples.
Damiano would never be found. The shipment investigation was likely to collapse any day, and no fucker they questioned who knew anything important would talk to them, because they valued their lives. They had nothing on me.
My biggest problem? Making my wife fall madly in love with me.
There was no doubting her attraction to me.
She wanted me physically, though she hated it.
I’d heard the words from her lips, with God as our witness in that confessional.
And I could work with that. Her body and desires were already mine.
But it was her trust and her heart that I needed to earn.
That would take time, and patience had never been a strength of mine.
I opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of champagne, and grabbed two glasses. Then I strolled back to the bedroom. The bathroom door was still shut, so I shoved it open without knocking.
I found her lying in the unfilled, standalone bathtub, her glowering face submerged in a cloud of lace and tulle.
“Ever heard of knocking?” she snapped as I closed the door behind me and padded barefoot to the bath. “Why isn’t there a lock on the bathroom door?”
“My home. My rules.” I popped open the champagne and poured us both a glass each, ignoring her adorable glare, which I presumed was supposed to scare me away.
“I want to be alone. Are you telling me there is no room in this house with a deadbolt where I can avoid you?”
“Not one,” I said, offering her the glass. She narrowed her eyes, but the alcohol was too tempting, and she took it from my hand. I lifted one leg into the bath, shifting the puffy skirt out of the way as I climbed in.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, shuffling back from me as I sat on the opposite side of the tub, forcing my legs around her hips and relaxing back. “What part of ‘I want to be alone’ don’t you understand?”
“Boundaries aren’t part of my vocabulary,” I said, balancing my arms on the sides and smirking at her flustered face.
“It’s our wedding night. Taking a romantic bath together is expected, no?
Though we should probably take off our clothes, add some water, and feed each other chocolate-coated strawberries before we make sweet love. ”
“Read the room. Nothing about this is romantic, Santino. It’s psychotic. And so are you.”
“Psychopaths tend to be emotionally detached and cold, feeling no guilt or empathy for anyone. They are highly calculated, but they hide behind their charm and charisma. Does that sound like me?”
“Yes, it does.”
I chuckled, shaking my head.
“Alright, you’re a sociopath, then. An emotionally reactive, impulsive, and erratic person with limited empathy for specific people?”
“That sounds more likely.”
“I want a divorce.”
“No, you don't.”