Chapter 8 #2
My heart pounds so hard I'm certain he can feel it where my chest presses against his. When he finally pulls back, just enough to murmur against my lips, I'm trembling. His breath is warm on my skin, his voice low and rough, words meant only for me.
"This isn't the wedding you deserve." His thumb traces my cheekbone, and the rough pad of his skin catches moisture I didn't realize was there.
A tear. When did I start crying? His touch is warm, impossibly gentle, and it sends a shiver racing down my spine that has nothing to do with the cool courthouse air.
"But I promise you, jungle flower, when you're ready, when you trust me, I'll give you one worth remembering.
Wherever you want. However you want. A real celebration. "
My heart stutters. Stops. Restarts in a rhythm I don't recognize. I swear it wants to feel like hope, but I refuse to let his words take root anywhere near my heart.
His dark eyes hold mine, steady and sure.
Sincerity burns in them making my chest ache no matter how much I try to control my emotions.
The scent of him wraps around me, sandalwood and smoke, so achingly familiar that my throat tightens.
I search his face for any signs of lies out of habit, or manipulation.
My father has me so twisted in the head, I have a hard time trusting.
Yet, I find nothing but a man making a promise he seems desperate for me to believe.
I don't know what to do with this man. He blackmails me one moment and speaks vows like he actually loves me in the next. He traps me and then offers me the key. He breaks me open and then tries to piece me back together with hands that could just as easily destroy.
"I'll hold you to that." The whisper scrapes past the lump in my throat. It's the only response I can manage. The only words that don't betray how violently his promise has shaken the walls I'm trying so hard to keep standing.
His smile softens, just at the edges, and his thumb sweeps one more time across my cheek before his hand falls away.
"I'm counting on it."
An hour later we are back at Redthorne Holdings.
The reception takes place at Ember House, a boutique publishing house that occupies one of the lower floors of the tower.
I learn from Katriana that it was Drake's gift to her, a place where her love of books could flourish surrounded by the empire they're building together.
The venue itself takes my breath away. A gorgeous space of exposed brick and towering windows, filled with books and warmth and the kind of intimate lighting that makes everyone look beautiful.
The Syndicate inner circle fills the space with their dangerous presence and their unexpected warmth.
Rafael Milano stands near the bar with his wife Persia and their daughter Sofia, the baby babbling happily in her mother's arms. Massimo and Rowan argue playfully near the windows.
Kon lurks in a corner like a particularly well-dressed shadow, his dark eyes tracking every movement in the room.
These are the most dangerous men in Chicago. And their wives are fierce, beautiful, and terrifyingly welcoming.
"You're going to fit right in." The voice comes from my left, warm and certain. A second later Katriana appears at my elbow with a glass of sparkling cider for me. Not champagne. Cider. The deliberate choice makes my pulse stutter.
I accept the glass and raise it slightly. "How do you know?" The question comes out a bit sharper than I intend.
Katriana's expression softens, no apology but no pretense either. "Luca told Drake before the ceremony. Drake told me because we don't keep secrets from each other." She holds my gaze, steady and honest.
“Does anyone else know?”
"I don’t think so. It's not my news to share."
Irritation flickers through me, hot and fast. Another decision made about my life without my input.
Another man deciding who gets access to my secrets.
But the warmth in Katriana's eyes holds no judgment.
Just the quiet solidarity of a woman who understands that privacy is a luxury women like us rarely get to keep.
"For what it's worth," she adds, tilting her glass against mine with a soft clink, "I think it's wonderful. Everything will work out. You’ll see. We’re all family here."
The sting behind my eyes catches me off guard. I blink it away and take a sip of cider that tastes sweet on my tongue and in total contrast to the unexpected knot in my throat.
"Family." The word sticks. "Is that what this is?"
Her smile softens. "That's exactly what this is. We take care of our own. And you're one of us now."
I lift the glass to my lips again when movement across the room catches my attention.
Rafael Milano approaches Luca with a smile that doesn't quite reach his dark eyes.
He clasps my new husband's hand and pulls him in close, the way men do when they want a conversation to look friendly from a distance.
Whatever Rafael murmurs against Luca's ear makes my husband's jaw tighten, but he nods once, a sharp, decisive motion that carries the weight of a promise.
Rafael studies him for a long beat, then claps his shoulder and walks away.
The exchange takes less than thirty seconds, but the air around Luca shifts, something heavier settling across his shoulders that he smooths away before anyone else notices.
I notice.
Before I can cross the room to ask what that was about, a hand touches my arm, and I turn to find Persia Milano studying me with eyes that see too much.
Rafael's wife is stunning in a deep red dress that matches the color of danger, her violet hair swept up to reveal a graceful neck adorned with diamonds.
"Walk with me," she says, and it's not quite a request.
I follow her through the crowd toward a quieter corner, hyperaware of the curious glances tracking our progress.
The wife of the Syndicate's leader taking the newest acquisition under her wing.
I wonder what they see when they look at me.
A pregnant bride in a borrowed dress. A Marchetti in Valentina territory. A pawn who somehow became a queen.
"I know what it's like." Persia's voice is soft, her gaze distant. "To feel like your whole life has been a chess game someone else is playing. To wonder if you'll ever get to make a move of your own."
My breath catches. The question tumbles out before I can stop it, raw and desperate in a way I didn't intend. "And did you? Make your own move?"
Because I need to know. Need to believe that women like us, women born into cages gilded with money and expectation, can find a way out.
That the chess pieces can refuse to be played.
That somewhere on the other side of all this fear and uncertainty, there's a version of my life where I'm the one holding the board.
Her smile is slow and secret.
"I did. I finally had enough of everyone else taking my life into their own hands as if it belonged to them. So I made a wish."
"A wish?" My eyebrows lift, and I tilt my head slightly, searching her face for signs she's joking.
"Mm-hm. At Scarlet Thorn." She angles her body toward me, her voice dropping. "There's a box there. A special box where people drop their deepest wishes. And there's a group of men, secret men, who read those wishes and grant them if they're worthy."
My pulse quickens. A wish-granting box. Secret men. It sounds like a fairy tale, the kind of story mothers tell daughters about magic and hope and impossible things.
"Who are they?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "The men who grant the wishes?"
Persia's lips part to answer, but before she can speak, Rafael appears at her side. His hand slides around her waist with easy possessiveness, and the look he gives her is equal parts adoration and command.
"Dance with me, bellissima." His voice brooks no argument. "They're playing our song."
“More later, okay?” She shoots me an apologetic glance as he sweeps her toward the makeshift dance floor, her answer dying unspoken.
But the seed has been planted.
A wish box. Secret men. Scarlet Thorn.
I look around the reception. Luca is deep in conversation with Drake and Kon, their heads bent together in discussion that looks more like strategy than celebration. Katriana and Persia's other friends cluster near the bar. No one is watching me.
It takes less than five minutes to slip away from the reception and into the elevator. A few floors up, Scarlet Thorn waits. I press the button to take me up and hold my breath.
The second I step out of the elevator, the hostess at Scarlet Thorn recognizes me from my membership, though her eyebrows lift slightly at my wedding dress. I brush past her murmured congratulations and ask the question burning in my chest.
"Thank you. It was a whirlwind shotgun wedding.”
That puts a smile on her face. “I’ve almost landed as the bride of a few of those. Luckily I’ve managed to keep a ring off my finger, but just barely.”
I would totally be best friends with her if I had more control over my life. Until then, I have to stay focused. “I’ve heard there is a wish room. Do you think you can show me where it is?"
She considers me for a minute and then nods. “If you’re in danger and need help right now, let me know. I can get the bouncers.”
Bouncers can’t help me here. “Thank you for that. I need a different kind of help.”
She directs me down a corridor I didn't explore that first night.
Matte black walls stretch before me, scattered with gold leaf that catches the dim lighting from overhead chandeliers like fallen stars trapped in midnight.
At the end stands a single red door with gold handles that gleam like they've been polished by devoted hands.
I wrap my fingers around the cool metal and push inside.
The room steals my breath.