Page 29 of Brutal Union
He spent half a million dollars just to remind everyone that I belong to him. The thought makes me wet, makes my nipples harden beneath the designer gown. My body has learned to crave his possession as much as it fights against it.
His hand burns through the silk at my waist as we dance, his other hand holding mine with deliberate possessiveness. Every eye in the ballroom watches us. The Don and his stolen bride, five hundred thousand dollars' worth of public claiming spinning across the floor.
"You enjoyed that," he murmurs against my ear, his breath making me shiver. "Watching me destroy him financially just to prove a point."
"You're delusional," I manage, but my voice comes out breathy.
"Your body says otherwise." His hand tightens on my waist, thumb stroking just under my breast where others can see."Your pupils are dilated. Your pulse is racing. And if I slid my hand under this dress right now, I'd find you dripping wet."
The crude truth makes me flush hot. Because he's right. I'm soaked, squirming with each movement of the dance. Some dark part of me loves this. Being worth so much to him that he'll publicly humiliate rivals just to keep me.
"Careful, Rosetti," Liam's voice cuts in as he passes close during his own dance. "Some prizes come with a blood price. The Irish have long memories."
Marco doesn't even look at him. "And I have a basement perfect for shortening them."
The threat is casual, matter-of-fact. Liam pales and moves away, his dance partner looking relieved when the song ends. Around us, the other dancers give us space, recognizing the danger that radiates from my husband.
"We should leave," I whisper, aware of the attention, the way people whisper behind manicured hands.
"Not yet." His hand slides up my back, fingers tracing my spine with dark promise. "I want every person here to see exactly who you belong to. Want them to watch you melt into my touch despite yourself."
He spins me, then pulls me back against his chest, my back to his front. His hands settle on my hips, possessive and unmistakable. In the mirrored wall, I see us. Him dark and dangerous behind me, me flushed and obviously aroused in his arms.
"Look," he commands softly. "Look at what you've become."
In the reflection, I see a woman I don't recognize. Dripping in diamonds that mark her as owned. Body pliant against her captor. Eyes dark with need instead of fear. I look like every mafia wife I swore I'd never become.
"I hate you," I whisper, but my hips press back against him, feeling his erection through our clothes.
"No," he corrects, his mouth at my throat. "You hate that you want this. Want me. Want to be my dark queen."
The song ends, but he holds me for a moment longer, letting everyone see. When we finally return to our table, women look at me with newfound respect mixed with fear. I'm not just his captive. I'm his chosen obsession, worth bankruptcy and bloodshed.
The rest of the evening passes in a haze of congratulations and careful distance. People approach to pay respects but don't linger. Liam and the Irish delegation leave early, message received. The senator's wife nods to me with something like approval.
In the car afterward, Marco's hand finds my thigh, proprietary and warm. "Five hundred thousand," he muses, thumb stroking higher. "Worth every penny to see you realize what you are."
"And what's that?" My voice shakes, fingernails cutting into my palms.
"Mrs." His hand slides higher, beneath the hem of my dress and up along my thigh until he is playing with the edge of my panties. "Fucking." He pushes the panties aside and finds the wet heat inside them, running a finger through my wetness. "Rosetti." He pushes a finger inside me, making me gasp.
I catch my reflection in the window. Diamonds at my throat, his marks on my skin, my lips swollen from biting them during the dance. When his fingers stroke me, I spread my legs wider, hating myself for the moan that escapes.
"Tell me you want this," he challenges. "Call me husband and beg to stay with me."
"Never," I gasp out, even as my hips rock against his hand.
His laugh is dark, knowing, carrying an edge of danger. "Oh, you will. And when you do, you'll get all of me, principessa. Every. Last. Inch."
And when he removes his hand from me, licking his fingers slowly, then turns away and looks out the window at the city blurring past, I almost give in. I almost lean down and take him in my mouth, anything to be closer to his body. It takes every iota of willpower I possess to turn away and swallow my moans, pretending I don't care.
11 - Marco
The day after the auction. Since I spent half a million dollars to remind Chicago who Valentina belongs to. Since she pressed against me in the car afterward, so wet I could smell her arousal, so close to surrender before pulling back again.
Today, I'm giving her something more valuable than diamonds: the illusion of freedom.
The bank of security monitors fills my office wall, each screen tracking a different angle of Chicago's streets. My wife walks through them like she owns the city, her dark hair catching April sunlight as she moves through crowds who have no idea they're parting for a Rosetti.
