Salvatore
CHAPTER SIX
There’s only one person I want to touch. One voice I want breaking beneath my hands. But tonight, I settle for blood.
Santoro’s screams bounce off the concrete walls of the warehouse, sharp and panicked, the sound of a man realizing—far too late—that begging doesn’t work here.
I crouch in front of him, rolling my cuffs back slowly.
“You should’ve run,” my voice is dangerously calm.
“I—I didn’t know,” he sobs. “I swear—”
“You knew enough.” I tilt my head, studying him the way I’d study a malfunctioning weapon. “Enough to skim. Enough to lie. Enough to think I wouldn’t notice.”
He shakes violently, tied to the chair, eyes wild.
I smile.
Fear makes men honest. Pain makes them useful.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “Do you know why you’re still breathing?”
He shakes his head frantically.
"Because I'm distracted." The admission comes easier than expected
His brow furrows in confusion.
“There’s a woman in my house,” I continue, almost conversational. “And she’s learning what it means to belong to me.”
“She’s beautiful,” I go on. “Smart. Defiant. She thinks she can fight me.”
My voice lowers slightly.
“I don’t punish traitors because I’m angry,” I tell him. “I punish them to remind the world who owns it.”
I stand, nod once.
Raffaele steps forward.
The scream that follows is… thorough.
I leave before it finishes.
The drive back to the estate is silent.
By the time I enter the house, it’s after midnight. The halls are quiet, dimly lit.
I don’t go to my office.
I go to her wing.
I don’t intend to see her.
I need to know she’s still there.
Still where I put her. Still exactly where she's meant to be. I pull up the video feed on my phone, and it flickers to life.
She’s not crying this time. She’s at the desk, laptop open, systematically researching.
She searches for information on the Vitale and Castellano families, but there isn’t much to find.
My family’s legitimate businesses span the country, and she combs through those public assets carefully.
What she’s really looking for is the syndicate that doesn’t exist on paper.
Our records are wiped clean as a matter of routine. There’s nothing there. There never is.
She’s not collapsing. She’s not giving up.
She’s learning.
I lean closer to the screen, fascinated.
She’s building a map. Trying to understand the world she’s been pulled into. Trying to find angles, leverage, ways to survive.
That’s Castellano blood. That instinct to strategize, to gather intelligence, to prepare.
Her face is pale but focused.
She’s not breaking down. She’s adapting.
There you are, I think. There’s the woman I knew you could be.
My phone is in my hand before I fully decide to do it.
I watch her on the screen as I type:
You’re researching.
She freezes. Looks around her room, confused. Then at her laptop.
Then at her phone when it buzzes.
She picks it up and reads my message.
Types back: How do you know what I’m doing?
I know everything that happens in my house.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
You’re watching me.
Yes.
That’s a violation of privacy.
You have no privacy. Not anymore. You signed that away.
Long pause. Then:
Why are you texting me?
Good question.
Why am I texting her? I have no reason to. No strategic advantage to gain.
I think about what Matteo said about her being nothing but a liability.
But I can’t seem to stop myself.
Because I wanted you to know I see you. I see you trying to understand this world. Trying to find your place in it.
Is that supposed to comfort me?
No. It’s supposed to prepare you.
For what?
For me.
I watch her on the screen. She’s staring at her phone, chewing her lower lip.
Finally, she types:
Remove the cameras. I want my privacy when I’m in the room.
No.
I’m not afraid of you.
I smile.
Sure you are. But you’re also curious. That’s why you haven’t run yet. Why you’re researching instead of collapsing. Why you signed that contract even though every instinct told you to refuse.
I signed because you threatened my family.
You signed because some part of you wants this. Wants to see what you’re capable of. Wants to know who you really are beneath the quiet librarian facade.
You don’t know me.
I know enough.
What do you know?
I lean back in my chair, consider my words carefully.
I know you take warm baths before bed with the lights dimmed.
I know you curl up with a glass of wine and a book every evening.
I know you thought about me the night I left the library, wondered what my hands would feel like on your skin.
And I know that pretty little cunt of yours is soaking wet right now, aching for something you won't admit you want.
The way she looks at the screen tells me I’m right, but I don’t push. I think maybe she’ll set the phone down and retreat to bed. She doesn’t.
Instead, she texts me back.
What else?
Fuck. My cock throbs at the thought of how wet she must be.
I know you haven't let anyone close in two years, not since your ex crashed his car racing to beg for another chance.
Did you hurt him?
No, he’s a lousy driver. Besides, he survived.
Not that it mattered right? You were waiting to feel something again.
That spark you felt in the library when I looked at you. When I saw you, all of you.. Like you were worth studying. Worth claiming.
Pause.
You don’t know what I was waiting for.
We both know what you were waiting for… me.
On screen, she stands. Paces her room.
Then a new message flashes across the screen:
Remove the cameras!
For a moment, I consider it. Only a moment. Just as quickly, the answer is no.
Goodnight, Bella.
I watch as she tosses the phone onto the nightstand before burrowing beneath the covers, pulling the sheets up like armor.
I end the feed, but she doesn’t leave my mind.
Then I do something foolish… I go to her room.
The door barely creaks open before her voice cuts through the darkness.
“How did I know you’d be coming to harass me?”
She’s still hidden beneath the blankets, speaking from somewhere under the sheets. Sharp. Awake. Not afraid.
“Come here, Valentina.”
She doesn’t move.
I wait.
“That wasn’t a request.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the covers shift. She sits up, then swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands. The gown clings to her in the low light as she walks toward me, her chin lifted in defiance even as her pulse flutters at her throat.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
I step closer, until she can feel the heat of me, until the air tightens between us. My gaze drags over her, unhurriedly.
"Take it off." The command is quiet but absolute
“Take what off?” she asks, playing games.
I slowly drag my hand up her arms, to the neckline of her gown, softly pulling the slim strap downward.
I close the last inch between us, letting her feel my hard length pressed against her stomach.
She inhales sharply, breath hitching, but she doesn’t look up. Doesn’t yield.
“See what you do to me, Bella?” I murmur.
“This. Take off your clothes, Valentina.”
Her spine straightens instantly.
“No.”
“Valentina.”
“No,” she continues evenly. “You said after the wedding, I belong to you. I’m not your wife yet.”
A smile curves my mouth, slow and dangerous. “You were mine the day I saw your pretty face, Valentina,” I murmur. “Let me show you how much I want you.”
She doesn’t back away. Doesn’t soften.
“You have all the power,” she says coolly. “Do as you wish. But I will not be taking my clothes off for you, Salvatore.”
Her hands stay at her sides. Her no remains intact.
I hold there for one charged second longer, then I bend and press a slow kiss to her forehead.
“Very well.”.
Then I step back and turn to leave, taking my want with me.
I reach for the door handle.
“Valentina?"
She doesn't respond, but I feel her attention.
"Next time I ask you to take off your clothes, you'll do it. Not because I'm forcing you. Because you'll want to."
"That will never happen."
I smile. "We'll see."
I leave even more wanting than I came. Craving her in ways I didn’t even know was possible.
I should have pushed harder.
Should have taken what I wanted.
I could have stripped her myself. Could have carried her to the bed. Could have held her despite her protests until exhaustion and adrenaline crash made her pliant.
Instead, I walked away.
Because she said no.
Because the fear in her eyes was real.
Because breaking her would be a waste of potential. I’ve never taken a woman against her will, and I’m not going to start now. Especially not her. I don’t even know what the fuck I was doing walking into her room so late. I had to know she’d say no.
But standing here taking yet another fucking shower, with my forehead pressed against the tile, cock hard and aching, I know the truth.
I walked away because I wanted her surrender to mean something.
I want her to choose this.
Choose me.
She didn’t choose to be my wife. That choice was mine.
But when I finally take her, when I strip away every last defense and make her feel exactly what she does to me, I don’t want it to be force that keeps her there.
I want it to be her choice. When I ruin her, I want her to want it.
The words echo in my head like a curse.
I turn the water to cold and stand there until my body gets the message.
Until the need dulls to something manageable.
Until I can think clearly again.
Then I dry off, pull on sleep pants, and head to bed.
Alone.
But I pull up the surveillance feed on my phone first.
Just to check.
Valentina is back at the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the darkness.
Not crying... standing. Processing. I watch her for five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Almost like I’m in the room with her.
Then she moves to the bed, climbs under the covers fully clothed, and turns off the light.
I close the feed and set my phone aside.
Tomorrow, I'll begin the process of transforming her from captive to wife.
Tomorrow, she'll meet my brothers and understand what world she's entered. But tonight... Tonight she gets to keep her pajamas.
Tonight she gets to say no.
Because the first time she says yes, I want it to be real.
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
But all I see is her face when she whispered, "I can't, I won't."
All I feel is the ghost of her skin under my fingers.
All I want is the surrender she's not ready to give.
Patience, I remind myself.
Strategy.
Control.
But lying here alone in the dark, hard and aching.
Control feels like a cage.
And I'm the one locked inside it.