Page 28 of Brutal Union
The black Valentino gown clings to every curve, the kind of dress that makes intentions clear. But it's the diamonds that mark me as his. The Rosetti family jewels that haven't been worn in public since his mother's death. Every person at tonight's charity auction will understand the significance.
Mother's rosary beads hide in my clutch, their familiar weight a reminder of what happens to women who enjoy their cages too much. But when Marco's hand settles possessively on my lower back to guide me to the elevator, I lean into his touch just slightly. My body's betrayal is becoming habit.
The Palmer House ballroom glitters with danger masquerading as elegance. Tommy waits with the car as Marco's security detail flanks our entrance, their hands never straying far from concealed weapons. Two more of his soldiers blend into thecrowd, their eyes tracking every movement toward us. The scent of expensive perfume can't quite mask the gun oil and barely leashed violence that follows men like my husband.
Conversations pause as we pass. Marco's reputation precedes him. The Don who took a bride from the altar, who broke a man's hand for touching what was his. Women eye me with a mixture of envy and pity. The men don't look at me at all, too aware of what happened to the last one who did.
"The infamous Mrs.Rosetti," Margaret Whitmore approaches, her smile sharp as winter. She's Senator Whitmore's wife, untouchable by Chicago PD but very much aware of who truly runs this city. "You look radiant. Captivity suits you."
The barb is testing for weakness. I lift my chin, channeling every lesson in regal composure my mother taught me before Father destroyed her. "Freedom is overrated when the cage comes with Cartier."
Her laugh is surprised, reassessing. "Indeed. Though I imagine some birds sing prettier in cages than others."
"Only if they choose to sing," I counter, feeling Marco's approval in how his thumb strokes my spine.
She retreats, message received. I'm not some trembling victim. I'm choosing to be here, choosing to wear his diamonds, choosing to play this role. Even if the choice isn't entirely mine.
"Magnificent," Marco murmurs against my temple, his breath stirring my hair. "You're learning to be my queen."
The praise warms me despite myself, heat pooling low in my belly. I've become addicted to these moments of approval, these glimpses of pride in his dark eyes. Mother would be horrified.
The auction begins with the usual pageantry. Hospital executives thanking donors, sob stories about sick children, the careful dance of charity that's really about tax write-offs and social positioning. Marco bids occasionally, throwing money atcauses with the same casual indifference he uses for everything that isn't me.
Then the bachelor auction starts.
"Ladies, prepare your checkbooks!" The auctioneer's voice booms. "Our next item is a dance with one of Chicago's loveliest. Mrs.Valentina Rosetti!"
My blood freezes. I glance at Marco, whose expression has gone lethal. Of course he knew. He controls every detail of my life. This is another test, another public display of ownership.
"You knew," I whisper.
"I know everything that happens in my city." His voice could frost glass. "The question is whether anyone's stupid enough to bid."
Before I can respond, a familiar Irish accent cuts through the murmuring crowd. "Fifty thousand for a dance with the beautiful Mrs.Rosetti."
Liam O'Brien stands across the ballroom, his green eyes holding mine with calculated malice. My former groom, the one I was supposed to marry before Marco stole me. The Irish prince testing the Italian king.
The entire ballroom goes silent. This isn't about charity anymore. This is about territory, about who owns what in Chicago's underworld.
"One hundred thousand," Marco says, his tone conversational but deadly.
Liam's smile is cold. "One-fifty. Some prizes are worth the cost. Even stolen ones."
Around us, I sense the shift in the room. Hands moving to concealed weapons, bodies positioning for potential violence. Marco's soldiers step closer to the stage.
"Two hundred thousand," Marco says, each word precise as a bullet.
Liam considers, his eyes stripping me mentally, calculating if pushing further is worth potential war. "Two fifty. Unless you're worried about competition, Rosetti. Scared she might remember what she's missing?"
The insult lands perfectly. Marco goes still beside me, the kind of stillness that precedes violence. When he speaks, his voice carries enough threat to make seasoned killers step back.
"Five hundred thousand." The number drops into silence. "She's already mine. This is just making it expensive for anyone to forget."
The auctioneer's gavel cracks before Liam can respond. "Sold! Five hundred thousand dollars to Mr.Rosetti!"
The applause is nervous, uncertain. Everyone recognizes what just happened. A public claiming worth a fortune. But as Marco leads me to the dance floor, I don't feel humiliated.
I feel powerful.
