Page 3 of Coerced Wife

He’s broody in the car, so much so that I don’t dare to speak. I shift in my seat to find a more comfortable position for my sore bottom while staring through the window. I hitched up the dress at the back so that I don’t spoil it. If he gets a cum stain on his leather seat, he only has himself to blame.

He doesn’t drive long before pulling up at a mansion in Park Slope.

I shoot him a glance. “This is so close to your house we could’ve walked.”

Our eyes lock. Once again, it’s like before, when he fucked me, and nothing existed but the moment and us.

Taking my fingers in his, he presses a kiss on my knuckles in an old-fashioned, gentlemanly manner. “With those heels on your feet?” He lets me go. “I’d never be so cruel.”

The connection between us snaps as he slides from behind the wheel and gets out of the car. His attention is already trained on the house when he helps me from my side. I don’t miss the tense set of his shoulders or the hard line of his jaw.

A tingle runs down my spine, nerves twisting my insides.

Several expensive cars are parked in the street. Saverio intertwines our fingers and leads me to the front door.

A valet asks if Saverio would like him to park his car somewhere safe, at which he gives him a clipped no, barely sparing the man a glance as he ushers me up the steps. A hostess opens the door and tells us to make ourselves at home in the backyard where drinks are served.

I look around as we cross a big foyer and an enormous lounge. The house is decorated with contemporary art and furniture, the accent colors red and black, but it seems cold and empty like a show house that lacks any signs of living.

Sliding doors lead to a covered terrace. The late autumn day is mild, but I’m grateful for the wrap that I pull around my shoulders to cover my nipples.

People mingle around cocktail tables on the lawn. The women are dressed in evening gowns and most men wear tuxedos. At the far end of the garden, a gazebo stands on a small stage. Chairs decorated with white ribbons and cream roses face the gazebo.

A waiter offers us champagne, but Saverio declines.

“Juice?” he asks with his head bowed down to mine even as he scans the crowd with his gaze.

“Um, please.”

A few people turn their heads our way. We’re the talk of the gathering as we go to the bar on the other side of the terrace. Suppressing the urge to fiddle with my dress, I square my shoulders and walk with my head held high next to Saverio. All the while, whispering reaches my ears.

Despite doing my best to ignore the attention and trying to blend in, I’m sure everyone can see right through me. I’m not one of them. These people were raised with money. They wear it like a general wears his stripes on his sleeve.

At the bar, Saverio orders orange juice and brandy. He hands me the juice and downs his drink in one shot.

“Is everything all right?” I ask, watching him carefully.

He’s been tense ever since we left his house, but his jaw is set in an even harder line now.

“Yes,” he says in a curt tone.

His words from earlier come back to me, that claiming me as his is as much for my safety as for our public act.

I swallow. “Am I in danger here?”

His eyes soften. He forces a smile, but even that takes its toll if the strain etched on his face is anything to go by.

Cupping my cheek, he says, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I look beyond him to the guests milling on the lawn. Luigi and Giorgio aren’t among them. “Other people here may have different ideas.”

His pale blue gaze pierces mine. “They can try. I won’t let them succeed. Anyway, this is a wedding. The family has a strict code of conduct when it comes to significant events.”

“Meaning you don’t kill people at religious gatherings?”

His smile comes a little easier this time. “Religion has nothing to do with it.”

I open my mouth to ask what makes the difference when Dante appears next to us.

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