Page 23 of Till Death Do Us Part

“Nobody ever plans to die, Pippa. But I need an heir, and as my wife, it is your duty to give me that.”

“Now?”

“What better time than the present?” He stands, his fingers moving to the button of his jacket. Antonio is an attractive man, and I can imagine most women would be happy to lie beside him, but all I am feeling in this moment is fear. “You’re not a virgin are you, wife?”

My only answer is a small shake of my head, my mouth too dry to form any words in response. He slips his jacket off, laying it neatly over the armchair, before he moves onto unbuttoning his shirt.

“Can we not talk about this some more?” My voice comes out gravelly, fear coating my words when his shirt joins the jacket. My heart races, my cheeks burning in worry when he turns to face me once more. His tanned chest is lean, though defined with muscles. It is obvious that he takes good care of his body, but mine is not responding in the way I imagine it should be to my husband.

There is not a single tingle of excitement, or flicker of heat. The only thing I feel is dread. It spreads over me like cement, every muscle in my body locking when he fiddles with the buckle of his leather belt.

“What is there to talk about? You are my wife, and I want a child.”

“Please, I do not want to do this,” I implore, pleading with my eyes that he stops.

He tuts in response, pushing his trousers to the floor before he steps out of them. Once again, he folds them neatly, placing them on the arm with the rest of his clothes, until he stands in front of my bed in a pair of white boxer briefs.

He cocks his head to the side, eyeing my pyjamas with a smug smirk at his lips, which only makes my discomfort grow more. One step, then two, and before I know it, he’s standing right in front of me, his tall frame towering over mine.

It feels like I’m frozen in time, watching through somebody else’s eyes, when he reaches for my pyjama top. My body trembles, though he doesn’t unbutton it like I expected, instead he traces his fingers over the material at my stomach. My throat bobs when I swallow over the lump that has formed there, my mouth dryer than the Sahara.

“These pyjamas are lovely,” Antonio mutters, though I do not think his words are meant for me. “Such a shame.”

Before I can ask what he means, he fists the material, yanking it from my body. The silk rips, the sound bringing tears to my eyes as I realise what is happening.He is not going to stop.

“Antonio, please.” My voice cracks when he pulls at my waistband, his hands disappearing inside the material. He runs his calloused fingers over my thighs, his eyes locking on mine. The blue is frostier than anything I have ever seen, the depths blank as he stares at me. There is no heat between us, no fire. This is nothing more than a business transaction to him, and I am nothing more than collateral damage.

“Enough talking.” His voice is hard as steel, cutting off further conversation when he forces his lips down on mine, his tongue spearing into my gaping mouth. I fight the urge to bite down, knowing it will not help me. He pushes me against the door, my back screaming as I slam against the wood. My pyjama bottoms are pushed to my ankles, the material pooling on the floor. He steps into me, pushing my thighs apart with his knee while he continues to shove himself in my mouth.

He nips at my lips, biting the sensitive skin before sucking it into his mouth. My chest heaves, tears spilling over my face as his hand cups my breast. He pulls his mouth away from mine, pressing hard kisses along my jaw and down my neck.

Long minutes pass, maybe even hours, as he continues his assault with his mouth and hand. My nipples are sore, aching when he sucks them into his mouth one at a time, pulling at them with his teeth.

Time means nothing when he moves his hand over my waist and cups my centre. Not when his fingers prod at my dry entrance or circle my clit. He grunts in displeasure when he finds no moisture, his eyes narrowing on me when he forces a finger inside. He thrusts inside, adding a second before grinding his palm against my clit.

Closing my eyes, I try to find a world far away from here. A world where he doesn’t wrap my leg around his waist. Where his penis is not pressing against me. Where he isn’t pushing himself painfully inside me, tearing me apart with his length.

I do not know how long it’s been, nor do I care. I let the darkness swallow me and take me away from my body while Antonio uses me, uses my body for his own gain.

Rosa was right . . . and wrong.

These people do not want to protect me, but I also cannot protect myself from them. It does not matter how well trained I am, or what weapons I have at my disposal—when it comes down to this, I cannot escape. I cannot fight my way out of it. I am trapped under the weight of the man I am supposed to call my husband. A man I am supposed to spend my life with.

Antonio grunts, spilling his seed inside me before pulling out and turning away. Tears continue to streak down my face while I tremble on wobbly legs and then slump against the wall. Everything aches. He dresses quickly without uttering a word.

Turning to face me, he watches blankly as he slips his arms through his jacket. In less than a moment, he is back to being the Mafia boss. His suit still looks fresh, clean, and put together. There is not a hair out of place on his body, or a hint of what he just did.

What he took from me without my permission.

When he walks back towards me, I steel myself, shuffling past the door so he can get by and leave my room. The moment the door closes behind him, my knees buckle and I fall to the floor.

I have always considered myself a strong person, able to withstand anything the world throws at me—but right now, I’ve never felt more weak. All I want is my papá, my sisters, and a way back home.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Thedayspass,slowly.September turns to October, and the world keeps spinning as the weeks drag on. Antonio visits me almost nightly, stealing from me, but during the days, he is nowhere to be seen. Margo tries her hardest to pull me out of my “funk,” but nothing works.

I don’t want to do anything other than hide in the library and drown my sorrows in words and wine. Drinking away your problems isn’t the best idea, I know; but being numb is the only way I can think of to survive this.

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