Page 6 of His Dark Possession

“I think I need to go,” she whispers, a look of confusion etched deeply across her features—those expressive eyes filled with uncertainty.

I reach for her hand, wrapping my fingers around it gently, and bring it to my lips once more, savoring the warmth of her skin against mine. “I’ll see you tomorrow, gorgeous. I look forward to the rest of my life with you,” I promise, hoping my words will soothe the turmoil within her.

Gabriella only frowns, her brow furrowing as she processes my reassurance, before pulling away from me. She flees from the room in double time, the luxurious red satin of her dress trailing behind her like a comet’s tail, capturing my attention even as she rushes away.

“We’ve got a problem,” Enzo says, approaching me quietly from behind, his presence a sudden reminder of the world outside my bubble of emotions. He claps a hand on my shoulder, grounding me with his familiar touch. “The O’Reilly brothers want a sit-down. Tonight.”

I check my watch; the hands are nearing nine, the hour creeping closer to an inevitable confrontation. “Do you think they’ll call her the Black Widow if I die before we get married?” I quip, an uneasy laugh escaping my lips, laced with dark humor.

Enzo purses his lips, shaking his head with a firm resolve. “We’ll make sure you’re protected. They wouldn’t dare try anything right now. They know they’d face the wrath of the Bianchi and Andretti families. Married or not, their family owes us a debt—one they’d be foolish to ignore.”

The O’Reilly brothers have been gunning for me since I was just fifteen years old, their relentless pursuit a shadow that loomsover my every step. I guess if there was ever a time to catch me off guard, tonight would be it, the odds stacked against me in a way that feels almost palpable. “Set it up for eleven at Herbs & Rye,” I say, my voice steady despite the dread curling in my stomach. “I want this to be public. If they’re going to make their move tonight, I want there to be witnesses, people who can recount what really happened.”

“You’ll be fine, Antonio,” Enzo reassures me, his tone unwavering, but I can see the tension in his posture, the way his jaw tightens as he considers the risks.

Maybe I’ll be fine, but I’m not taking any chances. Not with my life hanging in the balance, not with the O’Reillys lurking in the shadows, ready to strike.

6

GABRIELLA

The day that I married Johnston Scott was one of the worst days of my life, a day I will never forget for all the wrong reasons. He showed up to the altar, disheveled, wasted, and sweaty, with the unmistakable scent of alcohol clinging to him like a second skin. At twenty years my senior, I understood all too well that he would have certain expectations of me in the bedroom, but I was still a virgin, unprepared for what lay ahead. Our first time together occurred hours later, shrouded in an uncomfortable intimacy, with guards standing just outside the door, unable to resist the temptation to sneak furtive glances at what was happening inside. In his inebriated state, Johnston neglected to close the door to the bridal suite, and three barrel-chested men awkwardly tried to discreetly shield us from the prying eyes of onlookers.

Our marriage was difficult from the very start, marred by misunderstandings and unmet expectations. Johnston could never comprehend why I wasn’t instantly overcome with desire for him every time he walked into the room. “I’m rich, Gabriella. I’m the wealthiest fucker in Nevada,” he would declare, his arrogance palpable as he buried himself inside of me. Somedays, the physical connection felt good, a fleeting escape from the reality of our situation, while on others, it turned into a tedious waiting game. How long until he comes? How long until he begins pushing for a baby? How long would I be trapped in this union, feeling the weight of my choices pressing down on my chest?

In public, he was the perfect gentleman, charming and affable, at least until the alcohol began to flow. He dressed me in luxurious, expensive dresses, paired with designer shoes that pinched my feet. I even had a personal hair and makeup artist on call, ready to transform me into the image of his perfect little wife at a moment’s notice. I wore the facade well, but beneath it all, I felt like a puppet, strings pulled by the whims of a man who could never truly see me.

Then the doors of the limo would swing shut behind us with a heavy thud, sealing us off from the outside world. Johnston would launch into a tirade, cursing vehemently at the photographers who clustered like vultures, snapping away at his every move. “They don’t even try to get my good side,” he would lament, his voice dripping with irritation. “It’s like they’re determined to catch me eating in every shot so that I look like an idiot.” I would attempt to reason with him, reminding him that it was just eating, a normal part of life. After all, everybody eats, right? “Then why don’t they get photos of you wolfing down a croissant every morning? If you don’t stop eating so many carbs, you’re gonna wind up looking like your fat mother.” My words hung in the air, tinged with the bitterness of truth.

Johnston Scott was undeniably wealthy, a fact that permeated every aspect of our lives. He was acutely aware of the consequences of marrying me, too. He funneled money to my parents back in Vegas, a generous stream that they used forwhatever whims they had. They could have easily asked for twice the monthly amount, and Johnston, in his boundless affluence, would never have noticed the difference. Yet, their illegal ventures provided him with an arsenal of ammunition to wield against me, a constant reminder of my family’s questionable choices.

“If it wasn’t for me,” Johnston would boast, his voice dripping with arrogance as he bent me over the cold, unforgiving kitchen counter, “you’d be married to some Italian fuck who could never provide for you. You’d be wearing clothes from Target and walking the Strip looking for a john.” The words were a twisted form of foreplay, and I could sense his thrill in degrading me, the way he seemed to grow harder as he spoke, reveling in the power he held over me. It was a game to him, one where I was both the pawn and the prize.

I tried to be a good wife, pouring my heart into every effort. I sought advice from my friends, eager to learn what it took to truly please a man. They shared tips on how to stroke him until he wept with lust, their whispers filled with the secrets of intimacy. I practiced the perfect technique to take him into my mouth, savoring the way he would explode with desire. I even straddled him on the couch, riding him with abandon until we both felt the high of ecstasy wash over us. But despite all that, it still wasn’t enough.

Johnston Scott was wealthy, and with his riches came a sense of entitlement that seeped into every aspect of his life. He believed the world was his playground, and he treated women like disposable commodities, purchasing them the way some people might buy groceries. He’d take them on every surface of the house—the kitchen counter, the plush sofa, the luxurious bedroom—whether I was home or not. If he sensedmy discontent, he’d simply send them away, only to turn his attention back to me with a smirk. “You like this cock, don’t you?” he would taunt, his voice dripping with condescension. “You wish it was all yours, huh? But I’m not a one-woman man, Gabriella. I need pussy.”

It wasn’t the fact that he had sex with other women that gnawed at me; it was the painful realization that he still felt the need to have sex with me at all. He treated them with a kind of respect that was foreign to me, while I was met with harsh words and cold indifference. Johnston bought them for a fleeting night of pleasure, but he had purchased me for the rest of our lives, binding me in a way that felt more like a curse than a commitment.

Sadly, the rest of his life didn’t last long. Liquored up and ready for a fight, Johnston paved his own reckless path, one that was fraught with chaos and self-destruction. He might have lived another forty years if he hadn’t tried to spray his load all over my tits just ten minutes before we left for a high-profile fundraiser gala. “I want you to feel me under your dress tonight,” he laughed, a twisted grin spreading across his face as he jerked his cock, the arrogance in his voice making my skin crawl. “I want you to think about what I’m going to do to you when we come home.”

I could feel the bile rising in my throat, but before I could respond, salvation arrived in the form of his assistant, an older woman with a no-nonsense attitude who knocked on our bedroom door just before he reached his peak. She announced that the limo had arrived early, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. Johnston was thrown off his game, his bravado faltering as he hastily shoved his cock back into his suitpants, the anger simmering beneath the surface as he stormed off to collect himself.

When we came home later that night, the plan began to formulate in my mind before I could even stop it, a dark whisper urging me on. Johnston was going to bed, blissfully unaware of my intentions, and I was going to an after-hours event with some friends from the gala, a chance to escape the suffocating reality of my life. While I changed dresses, he passed out, completely oblivious to the storm brewing in my heart. I ordered the limo, my hands steady, then proceeded to kill him while I waited, the cold resolve washing over me like a wave. I didn’t spend weeks mulling it over; I just did it, the decision made in an instant that felt like a lifetime. Then I left, stepping into the night where I spent hours drinking and laughing louder than I had in months, the weight of my actions hanging heavy in the air. The newspaper would report that I’d been at the after-hours party when Johnston Scott died, but they wouldn’t know the truth of what really transpired behind closed doors.

My marriage was over just as quickly as it began, a fleeting moment that felt more like a cruel joke than a lasting commitment. I returned to Vegas with my family, a small stipend in hand as decreed in our prenuptial agreement, which felt like a cold consolation prize after everything that had transpired. The questions came relentlessly, like vultures circling a fresh carcass, each inquiry probing whether I had anything to do with my late husband’s untimely passing. In response, I donned the mask of the widow, stricken with grief, my eyes dampened with false sorrow. But whispers of Johnston’s darker side began to seep into the air like a noxious gas. I imagined one of his paid prostitutes, emboldened by her own motivations, had come forward, or perhaps someone with a vivid imagination had hit the nail on the head without realizingthe implications of their words. Either way, the rumors took flight, soaring higher with each retelling.

Tabloids branded me the Black Widow, a title that clung to me like a shadow. My friends, in a show of loyalty, swore they would never believe such shameful gossip, their voices resolute yet their eyes glancing sideways. But I caught them whispering behind my back, their conversations dying down as I approached, their mouths snapping shut with a guilty click. It was far more thrilling to speculate that I had killed my husband than to stand beside me as I struggled to regain my footing in a world that had turned upside down. I forgave them, knowing deep down they were right; I’d done it, and if given the chance, I’d do it again without a second thought.

What I hadn’t anticipated was that being a young widow would mean my parents would take it upon themselves to find me a new husband, as if I were a prized possession to be rehomed. Antonio Bianchi was only fifteen years older than me—not the twenty I had half-expected. His family was wealthy, their riches built on questionable assets, much like Johnston’s. The rumors of his father’s infidelities hung in the air, and whispers of Antonio’s own promiscuity—how he could bed anything in a skirt—painted a picture in my mind that felt all too familiar. In many ways, he seemed like Johnston Scott reincarnated, a doppelgänger of my past mistakes.

Until he wasn’t.

Antonio lapped at my pussy like a little boy savoring an ice cream cone on a hot summer’s day, his enthusiasm innocent yet fervent. Instead of degrading me, he made me come, unraveling the tension that had coiled tightly within me. His punishment for my past actions wasn’t to belittle me, but rather to elevate my senses, to make me feelmorethan I ever thought possible. Andthe deeper I sank into those sensations, the stronger my desire grew to be close to him, to lose myself in the warmth he offered.

He vowed to love me like no man had ever dared to love me before. He spoke with a conviction that resonated deep within my heart, promising that he would never mistreat me or make me question my worth. He declared, with a sincerity that threatened to pierce my guarded exterior, that he would be a better husband than a Black Widow like me could ever hope to deserve.

As I stare out the window of my father’s home, gazing at the stars strewn across the velvet night sky, I wonder if I would be naive to wish for Antonio to be different from the men of my past. Would it be shameful to harbor the hope that if he isn’t, he might fade from my life before I have the chance to confront that painful truth?

---