Page 9 of Marriage of Revenge

My heart clenches painfully in my chest. The memory of that day is as vivid as if it happened yesterday. The crackling of the fire, the sharp glint of the blade in my father’s hand, Antonio's screams as it sliced through his skin. The look of betrayal in his eyes when he realized I couldn't stop it.

An unwanted shiver runs down my spine, goosebumps prickling my skin.

"Isabella?" Naomi's voice, full of concern, cuts through my spiraling thoughts. She has been watching me, waiting for me to speak.

She heard enough about my daydreams about him. A crush Taylor Swift could have written albums about—and Naomi had teased me endlessly about it, dubbing him my "forbidden snack" and writing terrible stepbrother romance plots that made me laugh until I cried.

But she doesn't know everything.

She doesn't know about what happened in the days before. About my guilt. Not because I don't want to tell her—but because I know the power knowledge can have. The destruction it can wreck.

"Isabella," she repeats, her usual snark replaced with genuine concern as she squeezes my hand. "I know that look. That's your 'I'm-fine-but-actually-dying-inside' face. The one you wore through chemo when you didn't want to worry anyone."

I return her grip, forcing a smile onto my face. "I’m fine," I manage to say, though my voice trembles.

But I can't tear my gaze away from Antonio's photo. His dark eyes, so different now, capture me. This isn't the Antonio I knew, the one who laughed and joked, the one who protected me. This is someone else, someone hardened by the life he's been forced to lead.

The realization settles into my bones like chemo drugs through an IV line, slow and cold and sometimes burning and yet with a tinge of hope.

Antonio is now one of the men my father has auctioned me to. The same hands that once played piano while I danced, that caught me when I stumbled, that turned gentle when I needed gentle—they could be my prison or my salvation.

And I have no idea if he's here to save me, or destroy me.

CHAPTER 4 - ANTONIO

The dimly lit roomhums with a kind of energy that never truly dissipates. Yesterday’s attempt at distraction had left me irritated, unfulfilled, the rage still clawing at my insides. So tonight, I’m trying again, and this time, I’ve chosen someone who knows exactly what she’s stepping into.

Paola walks in with her head held high, exuding confidence that would unnerve anyone who doesn’t know her as well as I do. Her dark eyes meet mine, a spark of challenge in them, and she smiles—not sweet, not soft, but bold and knowing. She’s lived on my compound for years, tied to me by loyalty, loss, and something unspoken that she wears on her skin.

“Antonio,” she greets, voice smooth, teasing. I remain seated behind the desk, leaning back in my leather chair, not bothering to move. I push my chair away from the desk, creating space but not relinquishing control.

“Paola,” I reply, my voice low, flat. “Shut the door.”

She does, the click of the lock echoing in the room.

“Do they believe you?” I ask—making sure our plan is in place.

“The shipment they caught thanks to my information has helped,” she says as she reaches behind her, unzipping her dress. The fabric slides down her body, pooling at her feet, and she stands there, naked, unashamed. She continues, “I’ve given them what you said, too. Told them about my sister. They believe she’s alive and in one of their houses. They think they own me.”

“Good.”

My gaze traces over her tattoos, marks that tell a story she never has to speak aloud.

The first is a delicate script on her left rib, her sister’s name—a memory inked into her skin. The other two are bolder: one on her right hip, a jagged line resembling the scar on my face, and the other on the back of her neck, a symbol that matches one I’ve carried for years. Devotion made permanent. Obsession she doesn’t hide.

“You never get tired of showing off,” I say, my voice edged with something I can’t quite name. Admiration? Pity? Doesn’t matter. She steps closer, her bare feet silent on the marble floor, and there’s no hint of vulnerability in her stance. Just confidence. The kind that dares me to use her.

“I like to remind you,” she murmurs, her eyes never leaving mine.

Her gaze flickers to my scars—she knows better than to touch them. It's an unspoken rule she never crosses, even when she’s bold enough to push other boundaries. She kneels gracefully between my legs, her hands trailing over my thighs, deliberate, never careless. She reaches for the condom I toss onto the desk, tearing it open without hesitation, and rolls it onto me with hands that are practiced, sure.

She takes her time, starting with feather-light licks, tracing the length of me, her tongue flicking, teasing. It’s a game she plays,her eyes meeting mine with every calculated swirl, daring me to react. It’s a power play, and she knows it.

But I don’t let her have control for long. My hand grips her hair, and I force her to take me deeper, cutting off her teasing with a brutal rhythm. She adjusts, never flinching, her moans vibrating around me, making the pleasure coil tighter, more dangerous. I use her mouth without mercy, my hips snapping forward, each thrust wiping away everything but the raw, consuming need to dominate.

Sparks burst behind my eyes as I come, groaning low and harsh, holding her in place until the waves of release subside. When I let go, she pulls back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her lips swollen. She stands, discarding the condom, and meets my gaze with that same infuriating confidence, her chest rising and falling, but her composure unwavering.

“Get out,” I order, voice cold. Paola straightens her shoulders, bends to pick up her dress, and pulls it back on. She doesn’t slink away; she walks out with her head high, her tattoos—her devotion—still visible as she leaves, a silent reminder of what she’s willing to endure for me.

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