Page 5 of Stolen By The Bratva King

This isn’t over, you fucking shitstain. Not by a long shot.

4

Emery

Iloiter in reception, afraid to do something but even more afraid to do nothing.

I mean, I should have called the police by now, but my would-be defender saw Dante hurting me. If he reports it and they check me for injuries, what then?

So far, I’ve explained away the bruises, blaming everything from rock climbing to good old-fashioned clumsiness, but it’s only a matter of time before the truth comes out.

Or not. Dante is old money and thinks it’s unseemly for a wife to work. I guess then I won’t have to worry about anyone figuring out that our picture-perfect relationship is anything but.

I take a moment to collect my nerves before heading out to where Dante is sprawled on the concrete, blood trickling from his mouth.

“What happened?” I ask, reaching for him.

“Your new boyfriend punched me again, and I bit my tongue.” He slaps my hand away and scrambles to his feet. “Who is he? Where did you meet?”

“I don’t know him,” I reply, terrified of the fury in his voice. “He came into the hospital earlier, accompanying a patient. I thought he’d left already.”

“Waiting for his little doctor whore, was he?”

My eyes sting. The stranger kissedme, not the other way around, and it’s not like Dante knows. Even if Ididenjoy it, it wasn’t my fault.

“Why do you say things like that?” I ask. “He saw what you were doing and intervened, that’s all.”

Dante’s face twists. “He said he’d see me at the wedding. What did he mean by that?”

“I don’t know.” I bury my face in my hands. “I’m tired, Dante. Come inside, and let me check you over.”

“No.” He turns away. “You can fuck yourself. Oh, wait—that’s your whole deal anyway, right? Because you won’t fuckme.”

He’s always throwing it in my face that we haven’t had sex yet despite being together for seven months.

What he doesn’t know is that I haven’t had sex withanyone, ever, and the thought of him being my first makes me feel sick to my stomach.

Only a few days left. After I say ‘I do,’ I won’t be able to hold out on him anymore.

“I’m leaving,” he says as he walks away. “LA awaits, and there’ll be plenty of pussy there. You’re mine, and it’ll be official on Friday, so your days of preserving your honor will soon be over.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. “See you then, Mrs. Firenze. Don’t worry; my men will keep an eye on you.”

I lock the door of the consulting room and collapse onto the chair. The tears come then, hard and wracking, every sob tearing through me like a knife.

How has it come to this?

I know the answer. My father, Alec, is not a bad person, but he has two fatal flaws: people-pleasing and an appetite for risk.

The latter trait has been passed down through many generations of men. Over the years, the Brights accumulated a healthy business portfolio based on little more than wagers disguised as astute decisions.

Unfortunately, Dad forgot he was no longer young blood, and early last year, he fell under the influence of a new associate—a man who had recently arrived in New York and was determined to make an impact.

At first, Dante was charming, the perfect gentleman at charity galas and upscale dinners. He swept me off my feet, and the match thrilled my father.

It didn’t take long for the mask to slip. By the time Dante proposed, my father’s investments were tied to his approval, and our family’s future was balanced on his whims. Saying no felt impossible, but I didn’t think I could do better anyway.

The putdowns intensified soon after the engagement. They started subtly, Dante’s offhand comments about my weight and appearance sliding past with a half-smile.

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