Chapter 13 #2
The drive back to Tribeca takes longer than it should.
Rush hour is hitting and I sit in traffic thinking about how to handle this.
Francesca is smart enough to see the strategic advantage and practical enough to understand the danger she's in.
But she's also stubborn enough to refuse just to maintain some illusion of control.
I'll break that illusion.
By the time I get back to the penthouse, the morning has burned away into late morning. The private elevator takes me up. The doors open. The smell of coffee hits me first. Then I hear movement in the kitchen.
She's awake.
Walking into the kitchen, I stop in the doorway. Francesca is standing at the counter dressed but her hair still messy from sleep. She's barefoot and the shirt barely covers her thighs. For a moment I just watch her move through my space like she belongs here.
She looks up when she senses my presence and goes very still. She's reading my face.
"What happened?" she asks.
I cross the kitchen and take the coffee pot from her hands. I set it down and turn her to face me.
"They know about you," I say. "All of them."
Her face pales. "The other families?"
"Yes. The Bratva sent that soldier last night as a message. Don Marco knows you're here. By tomorrow, everyone who matters in this city will know I have a woman." I keep my hands on her shoulders, holding her steady. "That makes you a target."
"So what now?" Her voice is quiet but controlled. She's scared but she's not panicking.
Good. I need her clear-headed for this.
"Now I make sure you're untouchable." I tighten my grip slightly. "By making you officially mine. My wife."
The words hang in the air between us.
She goes very still. Stops breathing for a moment. Then she takes a slow, deliberate breath. "Marriage." Not a question. Just the word, testing how it sounds. How it feels.
"You heard me. We're getting married."
"You're insane." She tries to pull away but I don't let her. "You can't just decide we're getting married."
"I just did."
"Luca, this is crazy. Marriage is supposed to be about love and choosing each other, not about mob politics and protection."
"This is both," I say flatly. "I'm choosing you. I chose you the moment I saw you in that ER. The protection is strategic. That doesn't make it less real."
"You're choosing me the way someone chooses a possession."
"You are my possession." I cup her face with both hands. "But you're also mine in every way that matters. And I protect what's mine. Always."
She tries to look away but I don't let her. "What if I say no?"
"Then I marry you anyway." I let the words land. "This isn't a negotiation, Francesca. This is me telling you what's going to happen. You can walk down the aisle willingly or I can carry you. Either way, you're becoming my wife."
The color drains from her face. "You're threatening me."
"I'm protecting you. There's a difference."
"Not from where I'm standing."
"Then let me explain it better." I step closer, backing her against the counter.
"Right now, you're just a woman I'm keeping in my penthouse.
No official status. No family protection.
If the Bratva wants to grab you off the street and put a bullet in your head to hurt me, there's nothing stopping them except my ability to get there first."
Her breath catches.
"But if you're my wife, you're a Santoro. You're under the family's protection. Touching you becomes an act of war, not just against me but against the entire Outfit. It changes the equation." I pause. "And there's another advantage. Spousal privilege. The cops can't make you testify against me."
"That's what this is about? Strategy and legal protection?"
"That's part of it. The other part is that I want you bound to me in every legal way possible. Married. Mine. Unable to leave even if you wanted to."
"You're unbelievable."
"I'm practical." I release her face and step back.
Not giving her space out of kindness—letting her feel the cage before I close it again.
"And before you argue that you can just disappear, let me save you the time.
You can't. I'll find you. And when I do, I'll drag you back here and we'll have this same conversation until you stop fighting the inevitable.
" I pause. "And if I can find you, so can the Bratva.
So can every other family in this city who now know you're my weakness.
Out there, you're a target with no protection. In here, you're mine. Choose."
She's shaking now with her hands gripping the edge of the counter behind her. I watch her cycle through options. Her eyes dart to the door—run. Impossible. Back to me—refuse. Pointless. She closes her eyes—fight. Exhausting.
When she opens them again, something has shifted. Not surrender. Calculation.
"When?"
The question catches me off guard. "When what?"
"When is this supposed to happen? This forced marriage?"
"Soon. This week. I'll make the arrangements."
"Do I get any say in this at all?"
"No." The word comes out hard. Final. "You stopped having a say the moment you saved my life in that ER. You became mine then. Everything since has just been making it official."
She stares at me for a long moment. I can see her mind working, trying to find the angle that makes this make sense, the loophole that lets her escape.
There isn't one.
Finally, she takes a shaky breath. "My parents are going to love this."
"You won't be inviting your parents."
"Of course not. Why would I want my family at my forced wedding to a mob enforcer?" She pushes past me, heading toward the living room. "This is insane. You're insane. I'm insane for even standing here listening to this."
"You're not insane." I follow her. "You're accepting reality. There's a difference."
She spins to face me. "You really think forcing me into marriage is going to make me fall in love with you?"
"I don't need you to love me. I need you safe. I need you mine. Love is optional."
The words hit her like a slap. I see it in the way her expression shifts, the way her eyes go bright with unshed tears.
"Then what's the point?" Her voice breaks. "What's the point of any of this if all you want is ownership?"
I close the distance between us. "The point is that I'd rather have you hating me and alive than loving someone else and dead. The point is that I will burn this entire city to the ground before I let anyone touch you. The point is that you're mine and I don't give back what's mine."
"That's not love."
"No. It's better. It's permanent."
She's crying now with tears streaming down her face. I hate it. I hate that I put that look on her face. But I don't take back a single word.
"I want to hate you," she whispers.
"Then do it."
"I should hate you."
"Probably."
"But I can't." The admission comes out raw and broken. "I can't hate you and I don't understand why."
I pull her against my chest. She fights for a moment, then collapses into me with her whole body shaking. I hold her while she cries, my hands moving over her back, anchoring her to me.
"You're mine," I say against her hair. "And I don't let go of what's mine."
"This is wrong."
"Wrong is relative."
"You're ruining my life."
"I'm saving it." I tilt her face up to mine. "And one day you'll understand the difference."
She doesn't argue. Just stands there in my arms, broken and beautiful and mine.
I lean down and kiss her. Hard. Claiming. She kisses me back like she's drowning and I'm air. Like she hates me and needs me and can't decide which feeling is stronger.
When I pull back, her eyes are still wet but clearer.
"I don't even have a dress."
"I'll get you a dress. I'll decide what you wear, what you say, how this happens." I brush my thumb across her cheekbone, wiping away tears. "All you have to do is show up and say yes."
"And if I say no?"
"I'll assume you meant yes and proceed accordingly." I kiss her forehead. "This is happening, Francesca. You can fight it or you can accept it. Either way, by Friday night you'll be my wife."
She closes her eyes. "You're a monster."
"Yes," I agree. "But I'm your monster now."
I keep holding her. Her tears soak into my shirt. My phone is buzzing somewhere—Sal, probably, or one of the guys with updates on the Bratva situation. Fires that need putting out. Bodies that need burying. War that needs waging.
All of it can wait.
She's shaking in my arms, broken and furious and mine. In a few days she'll have my ring on her finger and my name attached to hers and every legal chain I can wrap around her to make sure she never escapes.
The Bratva want a war? They'll get one. But first I'm making sure they can never take what's mine.