Chapter 7 #3
She stops struggling, lets him guide her toward the chair at the table, but her spine stays ramrod straight, her chin lifted in defiance, her eyes bright with anger and calculation in equal measure.
Gabriel plants her in the chair with a firm pressure that leaves no room for argument, and his hand stays on her shoulder, heavy and unyielding, anchoring her in place—a quiet reminder that she is not going anywhere until we allow it.
Her gaze snaps to me, and the fury burning in her eyes is incandescent, hot enough to scorch.
"Did you know?" she demands, and the question is an accusation, a blade aimed directly at my chest.
"No," I say, and the word is simple, clean, true.
But it does not cover the seething mass of emotions churning in my gut—the fury at being deceived, the betrayal that comes from someone you let close enough to hurt you, the dark satisfaction of finally seeing her without the mask, and underneath it all, threading through everything else like poison through veins, the creeping suspicion that this was not just about protecting Erin O'Connor.
This was about conning us.
The thought crystallizes with brutal clarity.
The Irish sent a decoy. They sent someone expendable, someone trained to take whatever we dished out, someone who could play the part convincingly enough to seal the alliance while keeping their real princess safe and untouched.
This was never about respect or partnership—this was about the Irish Mafia treating us like marks, like fools who could be manipulated with a pretty face and a wedding dress.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, knuckles going white with the effort of not putting them through something solid.
I step closer to where she sits trapped in the chair, caged by Gabriel's hand on her shoulder, and I lean forward slowly, deliberately, until my hands rest on the edge of the table on either side of her, boxing her in without touching her, surrounding her with my presence until there is nowhere for her to look except at me.
Her breathing changes immediately—shorter, faster, her chest rising and falling beneath my shirt in a rhythm that speaks of adrenaline and fear and something else she is trying very hard to hide.
"Was this the plan all along?" I ask, keeping my voice dangerously soft, the kind of soft that precedes violence. "Send the decoy to seal the alliance while the real princess stays safe? Keep the Italians happy with a substitute while Seamus protects what actually matters to him?"
"No," she says immediately, the word sharp and vehement. "No, Dante, that's not—this wasn't about the alliance or the families or any of that political bullshit."
"Then what was it about?" I demand, and I can hear the edge creeping into my voice now, the barely controlled rage. "Because from where I am standing, it looks like your father played us for fools."
"This was about Erin's freedom," Rosalina says, and there is something raw and desperate in her voice now, something that sounds uncomfortably close to honesty.
"She didn't want this marriage. She didn't want to be sold off like property to seal some alliance she had no say in.
She wanted out, and I—" Her voice cracks slightly.
"I would do anything for her. Anything. So I took her place. "
I stare at her, searching her face for the lie, for the tell that will confirm she is playing me even now.
But all I see is fierce, unwavering conviction burning in her eyes.
"She's my sister in every way that matters," Rosalina continues, holding my gaze without flinching.
"I've spent my entire life protecting her.
This was just one more thing. One more sacrifice.
And I knew—I knew what I was walking into.
I knew what it would cost me. But she deserved to be free, and if giving her that freedom meant marrying you, then that's what I did. "
The sincerity in her voice is almost painful to hear.
I study her face—the set of her jaw, the brightness in her eyes, the way her hands are trembling slightly in her lap even as she holds herself rigid and defiant—and something in my chest shifts, settles, believes her despite every logical reason not to.
This was not about conning the Italians.
This was about love. Stupid, reckless, self-sacrificing love for the girl she considers her sister.
And somehow, that makes it worse and better all at once.
I exhale slowly, some of the rage bleeding out of me, transmuting into something darker and more complex. I straighten, pulling back slightly, giving her room to breathe.
"You're telling me you walked into this marriage knowing exactly what it meant," I say slowly, "knowing you would be trapped here, knowing there was no way out, just so Erin could run off with whoever she actually wanted?"
"Yes," Rosalina says without hesitation.
I shake my head, something that might be admiration or disbelief or both warring in my chest. "That's either the bravest or the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Probably both," she admits, and there is the faintest ghost of a smile flickering across her mouth before it disappears again.
I turn away from her, raking a hand through my hair, processing this new information, rearranging everything I thought I knew.
She is not the Irish princess. She is not a political pawn being carefully maneuvered by Seamus. She is just a girl who loves her sister enough to sacrifice everything for her freedom. And that changes everything.
My mind races through the implications, through all the careful restraint I have been exercising since the moment this marriage was arranged, through all the rules and boundaries I built around how I was supposed to treat her, how we were supposed to treat her.
The delicate Irish princess. The symbol of alliance. The fragile thing that needed to be handled with kid gloves and diplomatic care.
Gone. All of it, just—gone.
What stands in front of me now is not some untouchable political asset.
She is just Rosalina. Rosalina Carter. A woman who walked into this house with her eyes wide open and her guard up high, a woman who knows exactly how dangerous this world is because she has been trained to survive it, a woman who can take a hit and keep standing.
A woman we do not have to be careful with.
The realization sends something dark and heated spiraling through my bloodstream, settling low in my gut with the weight of inevitability.
I can be myself again. We can be ourselves again.
The boys and I can go back to doing what we normally do when a girl comes into our lives—sharing her, claiming her, taking her apart piece by piece and putting her back together in ways that leave her marked and ruined for anyone else.
The thought makes my pulse quicken, makes heat bloom across my skin.
I turn back to face her, and I know my expression has changed, know something predatory has slipped into my eyes because I see her react to it—spine stiffening, breathing picking up, pupils dilating even as her jaw sets in that stubborn line.
"Here's what you need to understand," I say, my voice dropping lower, taking on an edge that is part threat and part promise. "Now that we know you're not actually the Irish princess, things are going to change."
Her eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I say slowly, deliberately, "we don't have to treat you with kid gloves anymore."
I watch the words land, watch her process them, watch wariness bloom in her expression.
"The original plan," I continue, moving closer again, "was to handle you carefully.
Respectfully. You were supposed to be Seamus O'Connor's precious daughter, the symbol of the alliance between our families, and that meant there were certain.
..courtesies we were supposed to extend.
Certain boundaries we were supposed to respect. "
I pause, letting the silence stretch, letting anticipation build.
"But you're not her," I finish softly. "Which means you don't need those courtesies. Do you?"
It is not really a question.
"What are you talking about?" she asks, but there is a tremor in her voice now, something that might be fear or excitement or both tangled together.
"I'm talking about the fact that the boys and I—" I gesture to Gabriel and Luca, "—we've always shared."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.
Rosalina goes very still.
"It's something we've done for years," I continue, watching her face carefully, cataloging every micro-expression. "When a girl comes into our lives, we don't pass her around like some kind of transaction. We share her. Together. All three of us."
Her breathing is audibly faster now, shallow and quick.
"We told Seamus we wouldn't do that with his daughter," I say, my voice dropping even lower, taking on a darker edge. "Out of respect for the alliance. Out of courtesy to the Irish. But you're not his daughter—not really. You're just the girl who was willing to take her place."
I lean in closer, close enough that I can smell the faint scent of my soap clinging to her skin from the shower, close enough that my breath ghosts across her cheek.
"So tell me, Rosa," I murmur. "Why should we extend you that same courtesy?"
Silence.
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out.
I straighten, turning to look at Luca where he is leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest, green eyes fixed on Rosalina with unmistakable hunger.
"Luca," I say. "Do you like her?"
Luca pushes off the counter, moving closer with that easy, predatory grace that makes people think he is harmless right up until the moment he is not.
His gaze travels over Rosalina slowly, deliberately—starting at her face, trailing down the column of her throat, lingering on where my shirt gapes open slightly, following the line of her legs where they are pressed together beneath the hem.
"Yes," he says simply, and his voice is rough with want. "Fuck yes, I like her."
Rosalina's breathing stutters.
I turn to Gabriel, who still has his hand on her shoulder, who can probably feel the fine tremor running through her body.
"Gabriel," I say. "What about you?"
Gabriel's hand tightens slightly on her shoulder, and I see Rosalina suppress a shiver. He leans down, bringing his mouth close to her ear, and when he speaks his voice is low and dark and edged with satisfaction.
"I love a fighter," he says.
The effect is immediate. Rosalina's entire body reacts—shoulders tensing, breath catching, a visible flush creeping up her neck.
And there, in her eyes—a flash of something that looks an awful lot like arousal mixed with the fury.
"No," she says, and her voice comes out rougher than she probably intended. "No, you're not—I won't let you pimp me out like some kind of—"
"Pimp you out?" I cut her off, genuine amusement coloring my tone despite the darkness of the moment. "Rosa, that's not what this is."
"Then what is it?" she demands, and there is real fear threading through her voice now, mixing with the anger.
I move fast, closing the distance between us in a single step, my hand shooting out to fist in her hair at the base of her skull.
She gasps as I pull her head back, forcing her to look up at me, forcing her neck into a long vulnerable line that makes something primal and possessive roar to life in my chest.
I lean down, bringing my mouth so close to hers that our lips are almost touching, sharing the same breath, the same air, the same desperate tension.
"You keep saying you're my wife," I murmur against her mouth, and I can feel her trembling against me, can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse where my thumb presses against her throat. "But that's where you're wrong, Flower."
I pause, letting the anticipation build, letting her feel the inevitability of what is coming.
"You're not my wife," I whisper, and then I close the last millimeter of distance and crush my mouth against hers in a kiss that is claiming and brutal and absolutely uncompromising. "You're our wife."
She makes a sound against my mouth—half protest, half surrender—and then her hands are fisting in my shirt, and I cannot tell if she is trying to push me away or pull me closer, but it does not matter because I am already devouring her, already claiming her mouth with the kind of savage intensity that has been building since the moment Gabriel said her real name.
When I finally pull back, her lips are swollen and red, her eyes are dark and glazed, and her breathing is coming in ragged gasps that make her chest heave beneath my shirt.
"Ours," I say again, holding her gaze, making sure she understands. "Not just mine. Ours."
And from the heat burning in her eyes, the way her thighs are pressed together, the flush spreading across her skin—she understands perfectly.