Page 83 of Sins of the Son

My Milana was a fighter.

A fucking little half-pint badass who didn’t take shit from anyone and gave as good as she got.

It was one of the things I loved about her.

Her spirit.

Her intelligence.

Her courage.

Her pride.

Her fire.

The challenge of making a strong, independent woman like Milana love me, want me, need me, was invigorating. There was nothing else like it in the world. I knew she would never miss an opportunity to remind me that I was only as good as how I treated her, and that at any moment she could decide she’d be better off without me.

If she submitted to me, it was because it was her choice. Fuck! The power and enthrallment of knowing that! It was the greatest high in the universe. Sure, I may have compelled her to stay at my home, but we both knew that if she had truly wanted to leave, she would have found a way.

The girl standing before me seemed like a dark shadow. If I wasn’t physically touching her shoulders, I could almost imagine my hands passing right through her.

My brow furrowed as I eyed her carefully. “Disappoint me?”

She broke free of my grasp and stepped back as she spun in circles around the room.

“I’m sure you were expecting some kind of Disney-like Cinderella transformation the moment the villain, Romolo, died. Perhaps my small apartment was supposed to have transformed into a large villa in the south of Italy, and suddenly my parents would have appeared, and they’d be respectable, from a rich, well-known family in Rome.”

Her voice rose in pitch, her eyes widening as she became more volatile. “And the best part is, I wouldn’t be the broken little bastard castoff with her weird, PTSD, night-terror-baggage past. No, now I would be an Italian princess with a heritage worthy of the Cavalieri crown!” she called out, throwing her arm up in the air as she ended with a flourish.

I crossed my arms over my chest. She really was the most glorious creature, even when she was pissing me the hell off. I raised a single eyebrow. “Are you finished?”

There was so much reflected in those beautiful dark eyes that stared defiantly back at me.

I had a ridiculous surge of absolutely obnoxiously arrogant, masculine confidence.

There was only one man who could possibly understand the complex mixture of fear, bravado, rebellion, challenge… and love… reflected in the depths of those eyes.

And that man is me.

She matched my stance, crossing her arms over her chest and widening her feet. She lifted her chin and stared down her nose at me. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

I nodded as I allowed my gaze to travel slowly over her. She was wearing a crisp white blouse that was tied off in a knot at her waist, an emerald green ribbed skirt, and a red, gold, and black silk scarf around her neck. Large gold hoop earrings emphasized her short, wavy bob. All borrowed from Amara, no doubt. “Good, because you’re right.”

Her mouth dropped open as she unfolded her arms. “What?”

I advanced on her.

Milana stumbled back.

My hand whipped out like a striking cobra, capturing the knot of her shirt and yanking her toward me. I ripped open the knot and grasped the ends of the shirt, tearing them in opposite directions, sending the buttons scattering across the floor, exposing her lush breasts. “I’m tired of seeing you in secondhand or knockoff clothes,” I growled.

I spun her around and tore at the buttons securing her skirt. It fell to the floor. “I’m tired of seeing you in borrowed clothes bought by another man.”

I was fully aware that a decent portion of the clothes currently hanging in my closet at home were technically purchased for Amara by my father.

I turned her back to face me and wrapped my hands around her narrow waist. I lifted her high, so her lips were even with mine. “From now on, the clothes that touch my wife’s skin will be bought by me. Do you understand me?”

Before she could say anything, I tossed her backward onto the center of the bed. Staring down at her, I kicked off my boots and drew the black thermal I was wearing over my head. As I reached for the zipper of my jeans, I said, “The jewels that grace my wife’s beautiful neck, ears, and hands will only be of the finest gold and diamonds, befitting a Cavalieri queen.”

---