The priest awaits my response, dewy perspiration forming above his brow.
My throat feels tight and I clear it so that my words will be heard and there can be no mistaking of my response.
“No.”
The single word echoes through the church like the sound of the guillotine crashing down on the block.
All eyes are on me.
Including his.
They smolder with flames from the depths of hell. Fear and fire fill my belly as his hand reaches toward me. I flinch as he grabs my hand in his. His touch surprises me. Strong. Warm. Possessive.
He turns to the Priest, murmuring, “You’ll have to excuse us for one moment.”
The haunting silence finally breaks in the crowd as hushed whispers fill the church. He drags me past the altar to the side. He opens a door, guiding me down a long hallway.
Terror pierces my heart. I try to tug my hand from his. “Where are you taking me?”
He ignores my question, opening another door, pulling me inside.
“Let me go!” I struggle to pull away, but his strength overpowers me.
We’re standing in a small, rectangular room, what looks like a butler’s pantry. A window overlooks the gardens, the walls are lined with shelves of food, and a counter runs down the length of the room. It reminds me of the store, adding sadness to my anger.
He shuts the door, facing me.
His words come, harsh and fast. “It’s time you received your first lesson in respect. You are nothing without me. Penniless, homeless, left with your father’s debts. No education, no career, you have nothing.”
How dare he. Anger rises in me, looming so large I’m briefly no longer afraid of him.
I lean in, pressing my fingertip into his chest. “Let me offer you your first lesson in respect. You, sir, are wrong. I may have nothing, but that does not make me nothing. I’m bilingual and highly educated from books I’ve read. I have a community that I served every day, before you brought me here. And yes, though I am burdened with my father’s debts, I am also filled with his love.”
His gaze lowers to my hand, my finger still poked into his chest. He takes my hand in his, removing it. It drops limply to my side.
His jaw tightens. His eyes flash. The muscles in his shoulders tense.
He leans in, close, his voice lowered to a dangerous rumble. “Well played. But no one, no one, tells me no.”
I’ve crossed a line. A dangerous one. And I’m going to pay for it.
Fear swirls around me, fogging my mind, making me numb. No other defense, I back toward the window like a caged animal. There’s no escaping him—his broad shoulders block my way.
My voice shakes. “Why are we here?”
“Why do you think?” he asks with the growl of a tiger, stalking toward me as if I’m his prey.
“You plan on…punishing me?”
“You are smart, aren’t you?” he sneers.
What will he do to me?
Though I’m terrified, my sharp tongue breaks through the shock. I shoot my words at him like arrows. “You’re such a strong man, but you can’t handle a woman speaking her mind. Can’t tolerate someone not bending to your will?”
He grabs me roughly and as his fingertips dig into my flesh, I find my tongue going dry, my mouth, my words disappearing like sawdust in the wind.
“I’ve no need to bend you to my will. I’ll break you.”
With that, he turns my body, forcing me to bend at the waist. My hands reach out, grabbing at the edge of the counter for stability. His left arm wraps around my torso, pinning my left hip and side to his hard body.
His hand comes crashing down on my ass with a sharp sound that echoes through the small room.
The pain is like lightning, flashing and spreading over my skin. My teeth sink into my lip, holding in my cries. But his hand comes down again, harder this time, and the pain is too much to bear. “Stop!”
“You don’t tell me when to stop.” His hand comes down again and again, punishing every inch of my silk-covered curves. “The sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.”
Is he speaking of his rough punishments…or more?
The way he handles my body with such confidence, such force; will he be just as commanding when he takes me as his wife for the first time?
I hope so.
A shameful thrill runs through me at the thought, my insides becoming liquid.
A white heat flushes my cheeks as my stomach turns to knots. My confusing thoughts are forgotten as he brings his hand down again. My only thoughts now are of the stinging, painful fire that’s spreading over my skin.
I loathe this man. I hate him.
And yet…the assault on my ass has ceased and now, his big, open palm strokes over my stinging curves. As his hand runs from my waist, sliding down the silky material of my dress, caressing the cleft in my bottom, a warm heat begins to grow in my core.
A pool of arousal gathers between my thighs.
Shame covers me like a blanket, my varnished fingernails digging into the soft wood of the counter. I’ve been with men…a few…no serious boyfriends, just an evening or two with an admirer from the village. Nothing about them kept me coming back for more.
They were all good men. Nice men. Sweet men.
Men not at all like Vincent. After only a few moments alone with him I’m charged with desire, lust filling my veins like it’s been injected into my bloodstream.
This can’t be.
How can a man I despise, one that’s just violated my pride as well as my body, make me react like this? My breasts ache, my nipples strain against the thin silk of my dress, as if they are begging for his touch.
He pulls me up, holding me, my back pressed against his hard, broad chest. His arm tightens around my waist. My hands clutch at his arm trying to pull it from me, but his mouth finds the base of my neck.
And he kisses my delicate flesh with a harsh punishing kiss on that soft spot just a finger’s length below my ear. His lips press, his teeth nip at my tender flesh. Despite my best efforts to harden my will, my head lolls back, my eyes close, and I let out a soft moan.
The sound of surrender.
And it feels so fucking good.
One brutal kiss on my neck and suddenly every man I’ve been with, every perfectly pleasant evening of gentle lovemaking evaporates from my mind, disappearing forever, making me forget that warm, kind man I dreamed of marrying.
This man, to his core, his very nature, is the thing I’ve secretly been craving.
Blame it on reading too many medieval fairytales, or too many hours alone…or just the way I’m wired, but I’ve laid awake dreaming of an encounter like this for a long time.
Why am I so weak? Why am I melting in the arms of this monster? I should fight, I should kick, I should scream. But now his hand slides up my belly, palming and squeezing my breast. Hard. Punishing. Possessive.
My nipples tighten, peaking further against the fabric of my dress. He takes one in between his fingers, pinching as his mouth moves down, sucking and biting at my shoulder, marking my flesh with his harsh kisses.
“You fight me, little girl, but I know down here,” his hand dips below my waist, his fingers cupping between my thighs with the lightest of pressure, “you’re wet and aching for your husband to take you.”
Damn him to hell for being right.
Damn him for making my body crave him, his rough touches waking up my deepest desires.
I’ve no weapon against him, only my tongue. “You’re not my husband.”
“Not yet. But unless you want a repeat of what happened in this storeroom out there in front of the curious eyes of all of our wedding guests, you will walk down that aisle and say your vows like a very good little girl.” The pads of his fingertips stroke my pussy over the dress as his thumb brushes over the tips of my nipples.
He presses against my swollen, pulsing clit. And I come undone. My breath catches in my throat as a pool of moisture gathers
below his caresses.
“More.” Shame fills me as I utter the word, begging for my captor’s touch.
He gives a dark chuckle. With a nip of my earlobe, the warmth of his body is gone from mine.
Leaving me standing with weak knees, my eyelids heavy, my breasts aching, my panties damp. My slick sex throbs for more of his touches. My ass still stings where his hand rained down.
He gives me a look of triumph. “Come,” he commands, his dark eyes locked on mine. He holds his hand out to take mine.
And in this moment of madness, I give it to him.
2
Felicity
We walk down the aisle, his arm locked tightly around mine, holding me prisoner against his body. When we reach the altar, he does not release me.
He addresses the priest. “My soon-to-be wife would like the vows to be read for her. A simple ‘I do’ from her will suffice.”
The priest gives Vincent a tight nod. His eyes scan over his massive, black leather bible as he quickly reads the words before him. “Do you, Felicity, take thee, Vincenzo, to be your wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish and to obey, till death do you part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto, pledge him your faith?”
To obey…
I think of my father in his home, safe and fed. I think of Vincent’s punishing hands. The promise slips from my mouth. “I do.”
And with those two whispered words…it’s done.
Over.
Finished.
After his heated touches in the storeroom, I find myself waiting for his lips to meet mine, almost wanting him to take my mouth in his in a possessive kiss, claiming me as his wife.
But he makes no move toward me. Instead, he turns to his right. A man in a dark suit appears from nowhere. In his hands he holds a cushion made of burgundy velvet.
On it sits a crown.
The crown is black.
The metal is twisted into intricate loops and swirls, chunks of onyx cut like jewels resting in the limbs of the curved branches.
Vincent takes the crown from the pillow, lifting it as if it were an explosive and the slightest bump could blow up the church.
He stands before the crowd, speaking to them, his gaze resting heavy on their faces.
But his words are meant for me.
“If I am the king of my world, let my wife be the queen. Let her wear this crown with pride, knowing that though others serve her, she serves me—her husband,” he turns to me, stepping so close only my ears can hear his whispered words, “and her master.”
He places the crown upon my head, giving me a smug smile that makes me want to claw his eyes from his face. The kiss he marks my cheek with is soft, gentle, but it may as well be a slap. Heat rises in my face.
He’s mocking me.
The crown weighs heavy on my head like a curse.
I won’t let him break me.
I’ll never wear his crown.
I tear it from my head, tossing it at his feet. It lands with a ringing clatter that fills the silent church.
The priest flounders, his gaze going from me to Vincent. “Err…you may now kiss the bride?”
The look in Vincent’s eyes tells me to run, that I’m moments away from more of his punishments. Knots tighten in my stomach.
To my surprise, he gives a slow, smoldering smile.
Taking my face in his hands, he brings his mouth to my ear. “You’ve just declared war. And to be clear—I never lose.”
His mouth moves to mine, hot, covetous, and dangerous.
His kiss is a warning. One that has my body fighting my mind. One that both angers me and enlivens me. His hand wraps round the back of my neck, pulling me in closer to him. His tongue darts into my mouth, caressing mine possessively, tasting me.
Claiming me.
When he pulls away, there’s no mistaking the look of conquest in his gaze.
We’re quickly swept from the church.
The celebration is in the great hall of his medieval castle. My new home. The reception is an opulent affair. I’ve done nothing to prepare this event—everything was chosen for me. The monstrously long table is set for a hundred. It’s beautiful, decorated in black and golds. Somber classical music plays. Flames burn from candles on sconces on the walls, and from black chandeliers that hang from the ceiling.
Did he intend for the evening to have an ominous tone?
Of course he did. I think of the crown. He clearly loves to play mind games.
Two thrones sit at the head of the table for the bride and groom.
Or in this case, king and queen, the Russo Royals.
Felicity Russo. I hadn’t given my mind time to think, turning it off in an attempt to remain in survival mode.
But Russo is the name I bear. And now this, this is my home. At least until I can escape.
If I can…
Tears burn in the backs of my eyes, reminding me why I’ve chosen not to think.
We are seated, servants shuffling around us, wine being poured into our glasses.
His arm brushes mine as he lifts his glass, leaving a trail of fire on my flesh.
Everyone is seated now, all eyes on my husband, and at his cue, the raise of his glass, they raise their glasses in turn. He says, “To an enchanting evening. And to my new bride.”
“Hear, hear!” shouts rise from the room. I grab my own glass, not to toast, but because my body needs something, anything, to relax.
I take a deep sip from my glass. I know nothing of wine, but the taste is rich, fruity, and smoky and it warms me as I drink it. It’s delicious.
Courses begin to be served and the guests busy themselves with chatter, eating, and drinking. I eye the plates as they go by, suddenly ravenous. The scent of garlic and herbs fills the room.
Vincent leans over toward me. “I had a gift for you this evening.”
“Had?” I ask, with a raise of my brows.
He gives a nod, reaching for a slice of bread. “Yes. Had.”
“What was it? A ball and chain to match my crown?” I watch as he tears the bread in half.
He gives a shrug of his shoulder. “No. It was your father.”
My father?
I’d give anything to have the comfort of family right now. I look around the room, finding him nowhere among the sea of faces. “He’s here?”
“He was. I had him escorted back home after that shrewish act you pulled with the crown I had made for you.” The bread drops to the plate. His hand slides up the back of my neck, pulling me over to him until my ear meets his mouth. “Learn this, and learn it quickly. Disrespect me and there will be consequences. Immediate and harsh. And if you want to play games, know I will win.”
“You are the only one playing the games.” I don’t give him the satisfaction of begging for my father back—Vincent’s made his choice. I refuse to let tears fill my eyes, waiting from him to release his hold on me.
I’ll not be meek. I’ll not bow my head.
If I’m the queen, then I’ll fill my role. Bide my time until I can flee. And while I do, I will maintain every ounce of dignity I can.
“You do make a beautiful bride. Look at the lovely flush in your cheeks.” He lets me go.
“Thank you.” I tilt my chin in the air, the only act of defiance I can manage safely. “Seems to me you’ll look ungracious to have disinvited your new father-in-law.”
Bored with our repartee, he turns to his meal. “He’s nothing to me. I only invited him because I knew he meant something to you.”
“And afforded you an opportunity to punish me.”
The corner of his lips raises. “Exactly.”
“You’re quite calculating, aren’t you?”
He raises his glass to me. “You don’t get to be the head of the Italian mafia without being good at strategy. After all, life is nothing more than a game of chess.”
“And I’m
your pawn.”
“No, Bella, you are my queen.” His dark eyes bear down on me.
I want to toss my wine at him.
Instead, I tip my glass, pouring the liquid down my throat and finishing it off. He surprises me by politely refilling it.
Such a dutiful husband.
Music begins to play in the background, still classical, but now upbeat. People begin circling us, congratulating us. As if we are the happiest couple in the land. As if we feel love for one another.
Pretending he didn’t steal me from my home. That I didn’t first refuse my vows, then destroy his crown.
It’s not their fault.
I sip my wine and offer our guests polite smiles, short phrases of thanks, brief eye contact. I realize I’ve not eaten and take in the food before me. Instead of clearing my uneaten courses, they’ve left them for me.
I taste the crisp salad, the tender meat, the thinly sliced potatoes. The food is a delicacy, like nothing I’ve had before. My father’s money tied up in other things, the most we ever splurged for was takeout pasta.
I’ve never dined in a fine restaurant.
I take another bite of the beef, and it melts on my tongue. The food is phenomenal and not only did I not prepare it, I won’t have to wash a dish. I could get used to this part of being a Russo Royal. Our bottle empty, I call for a servant, requesting more wine. If I’m going to be trapped here for an indefinite amount of time, I may as well enjoy myself.
The guests are seated. Vincent makes conversation with his men as they pass. I ignore them, thoroughly enjoying my meal. After polishing off my dinner, I find myself looking around for dessert.
Instead, I find his gaze, heavy on my face. “Come, Bella. I want to dance with my bride.”
He stands, offering me his hand.
And once again, I take it.
Rising from my chair I feel the wine. It’s done its job, calming my mind. Relaxing me. Helping me get through this night.
He leads me through the high arched stone opening to the next room. A band plays on a stage. Couples decorate the floor, dressed so elegantly I ache, just gazing at their beauty.
Dark Crown: A Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Russo Royals Book 1) Page 2
