Dark Crown: A Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Russo Royals Book 1)

by Shanna Handel

  He pulls me into him and the music slows, as if even the notes bow to his will.

  His left hand holds my right. Our fingers lace together as one. My free hand goes to his shoulder.

  His arm wraps around my waist. Our eyes lock.

  And we dance.

  We move across the floor as one.

  He’s a gifted dancer. He holds me with the confidence of a man who rules the world. We twirl across the floor, all eyes upon us.

  And I almost fall for the fairytale.

  Then I remember his rough treatment of my body in the storeroom. The mocking crown. The punishment of disinviting my father.

  This is all a game to him. I’m just a pawn in his hand. And he intends to win.

  To what purpose I bring, I’m not yet sure. But I feel, deep within in my soul, he’s got a bigger reason for wanting me.

  For he is a king, and not one to settle with a pretty shopgirl.

  I have something he wants. I don’t yet know what it is.

  Having my body pressed against his, feeling the heat of his flesh meld with my own, I begin to focus on my greatest fear—the one I’ve not yet succumbed to worrying about: my wedding night, and consummating our marriage.

  It’s too much—to think of how he will use my body. How my body, in return, will desire his. My meal suddenly feels heavy in my stomach. The wine has gone to my head.

  Pressing my palm to his chest, I stop dancing. “I—I think I’m tired. I may…go to bed now.”

  His eyes study my face, harboring a glint of determination. He won’t be this easily put off. “We’ll go together. The festivities are just beginning. No one will miss us.” He links his arm in mine, guiding me through the ballroom before our wedding cake is even served.

  An older gentleman elbows Vincent as we make our way from the room. “Eager groom, eh? Can’t wait till the party’s over to enjoy your bride?”

  Vincent gives me a dark look, a grim smile. “Something like that.”

  As we walk up the great stairway—the one that will lead to his bedroom—my stomach flips, my palms grow damp. My mind is hazy. He is going to claim me as his wife.

  And I know only one thing for certain. He will not be gentle.

  The thought makes me ache between my thighs, shame filling me at my body’s traitorous response.

  We reach his room. It’s a massive suite, fit for a king. Deep red velvet curtains are drawn over tall windows. The four-poster bed is centered in the room, donned in luxurious looking gold silk sheets, and covered in thick black velvet blankets and pillows. Beside a mahogany wardrobe sits a throne-like chair with black upholstery and gold gilding, a pair of worn leather boots discarded beside it.

  A man’s room, set in another time. One where kings ruled and their women obeyed.

  There is no such thing as equality within these walls.

  I stand, shivering in the center of the room, despite the large fire that roars in the fireplace. He closes the door, locking it with a flip of the great brass knob.

  What now?

  He’s over to me in two long strides. One hand slips into my hair, gathering it into a knot in his hand. The other flattens against my lower back, pulling my body into him. “We can do this one of two ways.”

  “Consensual or non-consensual?” I snap back.

  His gaze darkens. “I’m your husband. I bought you from your father. You’re my wife. Your body belongs to me.”

  “My body belongs to no one but me.” I make my words hard, though I’m a trembling willow whipped in the winds of a hurricane. “What are your two ways?”

  He raises a brow—a cue that he’s initiated one of his games. “Tedious, or thrilling.”

  “What does tedious entail?” I hold his gaze.

  His hand slides across the back my neck. “You lie on your back and I take you for my wife.”

  “A hopeless romantic, I see?” I mean for the words to carry a harsher edge. To fight. But his game makes me weak with desire and my words come in a hushed whisper. “And thrilling?”

  “You fight me.” He pulls me toward him, intending to claim me with his kiss. “And then, I take you anyway.”

  I come to my senses, breaking from his spell. “I choose neither.” And with that, I bring my knee up true and hard, right between his legs.

  He doubles over, hissing between his teeth.

  My knees are weak, but they hold my weight as I run for the door. With trembling fingers, I throw the lock to the left, and push open the door. My eyes widen as I face two large men standing guard, their arms crossed over their chests.

  I slam it back shut, turning to face him. He recovered quickly and stands with his arms crossed over his chest, a smug smile on his face.

  Bile rises in my throat. “Such a strong man, but you need guards to protect yourself from me, to keep me here?”

  “No. They are to protect me from those who want to steal my place. This is a large event. There are many people here. You can never be too careful. Though, care is something you apparently know nothing about.”

  He steps toward me, grabbing the hair at the nape of my neck pulling until I cry out. My head flies backward as his other hand cups my face, sweetly. His lips are on my neck, kissing me, as he presses his chest against mine. His mouth moves upward, his kisses leaving a trail of fire.

  The cacophony of pain, his harshness, and the soft caress of pleasure make my thoughts blur.

  He nips at the lobe of my ear, a shooting pain rushing over my skin. “Bad girls get what bad girls earn. And you, my Bella, are a very, very bad girl.”

  I gasp in shock, as he twists my body, his grip still tight on my hair. I’m facing the bed, my back to him. He holds me against him, releasing my hair, one arm wrapped tight around my waist pulling me hard into him, the other is savagely groping my breasts, each one in turn, his pinching fingers leaving my nipples peaked.

  Pushing behind me, he moves us over to the bed. Roughly, he bends me at the waist, pushing me downward. My cheek lays flat against the covers, my stomach compresses against the edge of the mattress.

  I can feel the erection welling in his crotch, pressing into the cleft of my ass.

  He wants this hard and fast. He wants to claim me now, as quickly as we said our shallow nuptials.

  What is this madness?

  I loathe him and yet I find myself wet and throbbing between my thighs, aching for relief.

  My deepest desires surface at his touch.

  It was only a fantasy, a dirty story in my imagination.

  I’ve always wanted to be handled roughly. To be taken by a man more powerful than myself. To be dominated.

  This is real.

  This, is that man.

  I hate myself for it, I hate him for it, but I want this.

  I feel a tug at the hem of my dress as he pulls it up over my waist. My panties are torn from my body, the scrap of a G-string required to pull off this curve-hugging silk dress is gone with one harsh tug.

  His fingers dive between my legs. I give a gasp as he enters me, the force of two of his fingers at once, pressing through my opening, stretching me, my flesh burning as he fucks me with them.

  “So, so wet for your husband, aren’t you? You play innocent, but admit it, you want every inch of my cock inside of you.” His fingers twist. “You want me. Tell me, you want this.”

  My answer is a moan as his fingers torment me. I do want his cock right now; my pussy demands it.

  But him?

  This self-righteous, power-hungry man who taunts me?

  Do I want him?

  “Answer me, wife. Do you want me inside you?” He gives my bare ass a slap, the sting spreading over my flesh.

  He’s my husband. To have and to hold, to obey, until death do us part—at least for now.

  And I want a hard fuck. I need the release, I need to lose myself in this moment.

  I want my fantasy fulfilled.

  I swallow my humiliation and I lose his game with three words.


  “I want this.” I spread my legs.

  My fingertips grab the covers, they crinkle in my hands. I close my eyes, my cheek resting on the bed. His fingers slide from me, leaving me aching and empty. I moan with satisfaction as the head of his cock presses against the tight entrance of my sex. He pushes harder, demanding access, the head of his cock stretching me as he enters.

  As he fills me, I let out an unabashed moan of pleasure. Even though it’s so wrong, it feels so fucking good.

  I want more.

  He grabs my wrist. Pins it to my lower back. And buries his cock the rest of the way into me.

  And I almost come. From that one, incredible thrust. Shame covers me, my will gone. How could I give in so quickly? How could my body betray me so?

  But it does. My nipples tighten as my core grows heavy.

  Begging for more.

  One hand is wrapped behind my back, my other slides across the bedding, resting beneath my cheek. He moves inside me, hard, the front of his thighs pressed against the backs of mine, his balls hitting my bare ass. His cock pounds into me, creating the delicious friction I crave. As he moves in and out of me, my body melts into the bed. My mind floats above the castle as the endorphins rush through me.

  His cock is pure perfection.

  A perfect fit—so big, it hurts so good as I stretch to accommodate him.

  We fit together perfectly.

  Releasing my wrist, he grabs my hips, lifting them and pulling my ass toward him, so he can enter me deeper. He thrusts in, then pulls away, taunting me by pausing for a long moment. Making me beg.

  The shameful moan rises from my chest. “Please…”

  “Please, what, Bella?”

  “Please, fuck me.”

  He grants my wish, entering me fully. His cock rubs inside me while his rough hands grab at my flesh. He’s pounding me, claiming me, and each times he forces his way inside me, my body melts just a little more, giving further into his dominance.

  It’s my greatest nightmare, my darkest fantasy. To be taken like this by a man who’s a stranger. Taken, out of control, until I cry out in shame.

  And now, I cry out his name.

  Vincent.

  With my exhalation comes exultation as I ride a wave of euphoria at his hands, his cock thrusting into me with no mercy. As I ride the waves of climax, I feel an emptiness inside me being filled. Though I don’t want him, I need him. I’ve been alone for so long, investing in the hopeless project that was the store, I didn’t realize how desperate I was for touch.

  And this man, despite his horrific faults, his body is tuned to mine in a way no one has ever been.

  He is my every sexual fantasy fulfilled.

  He strokes my hair, my back, crooning, “Come for me, Bella. Come for me, my beautiful wife.”

  My sex locks down on his and a strange noise rises in the back of my throat as the heavens burst, falling down to Earth and enveloping me in the final throes of climax.

  He releases my wrist and my hand goes to my mouth. I bite down on it as he fucks me, harder, faster, until I’m coming again.

  The throes of pleasure rock my body, my limbs tightening, then shuddering as the climax breaks, leaving me limp on the bed.

  His fingers dig into my flesh as his body cups mine. He gives a moan, his hot come bursting forth and filling me.

  Between my thighs, I’m full of his seed.

  My hips wear the angry red marks of his greedy hands.

  My neck surely has purple bruises, a reminder of his harsh kisses.

  We lie there a moment, panting and catching our breath. He leans down, stroking my damp hair away from face. And places a chaste kiss on my cheek.

  He pulls out from me and shame covers me as I feel his hot seed rush from me, running down the inside of my leg.

  I stand on shaky knees, pulling my dress down as best I can. Smoothing my hair.

  What now?

  His back is to me, but I hear the zipper on his pants, see that he’s buttoning his shirt. “Sophia will show you to your room.”

  Disappointment rises in my chest, making me feel entirely silly, used, and naive. To be dismissed so quickly after our intense coupling—I’d thought we’d forged at least a thread of a connection.

  One that should have at least earned me a goodbye.

  But why would I expect anything less from this monster?

  And why the hell do I even care? This husband, this stranger of mine, I want his rough ways when he’s touching me, kissing me, but then when he so easily dismisses me, I get my feelings hurt? Get over it, Felicity, you hate the man. Don’t be expecting a goodnight kiss and a bedtime story from him.

  Hearing the door creak open, I turn over my shoulder to find Sophia, her face peeking through the crack. “Are you ready, dear? I can show you to your room.”

  I turn to leave.

  A clearing of his throat makes me pause. Hovering by the door, I keep my gaze on the hallway, but I wait for him to speak.

  “I’ve paid the loan off on the store. Your father will have his shop back. He can open as early as next week. My wedding gift to you. Sleep well, Bella.”

  My father’s store is happy place, the last memories of my mother reside there. And, it’s his connection to the community he loves so dearly. A generous gift.

  But it comes at the highest of costs.

  Do I thank him? Spit at him?

  I choose to say nothing, following Sophia through the doorway.

  3

  Vincent

  Her body responded to my rough touch. She craves my dominance. Without knowing, she fights, and denies, before finally accepting and embracing the fact that our bodies, perhaps our lives, were made for one another. My touch pulls a rose flush to her cheeks. She’s intoxicating....

  Perhaps, as my grandfather said, the shopgirl was meant for me, after all.

  I think of her face when I arrived at her father’s store, weeks ago. She was so lovely, I found myself reaching out to her, stroking my finger down her face, knowing she would be my bride.

  Many women have longed to be in her place. Beautiful, cunning women who would go to great lengths to wear my ring, to take my name. Women whose only desire is to wear the dark crown of the Russo family on their heads.

  But none are worthy.

  And none owed my family quite like she did.

  Now, the debt is repaid, my family avenged. And she is mine. Forever.

  There is no one quite like Felicity.

  Her perfume clings to the fabric of my clothes as I redress, making it difficult to focus on anything other than her. The room still smells of her scent, sweet and musky and her. My bedcovers are mussed and wrinkled from her fingers clutching at them as I brought her body to the throes of climax.

  I think of her too much. I think of her…always.

  It’s late, but I generally sleep little and tonight is no exception. With my marriage consummated, my mind must go back to work. There’s a man who’s traveled a long way to attend our wedding. A man I want to meet with.

  Rockland Bachman.

  Leader of the American and Greek branches of the elusive Bachman mafia. They’re the do-gooders of the criminal world, robbing from the corrupt and redistributing the wealth to the people who were made impoverished by the greed of the top one percent.

  I want to speak to him, to convince him to allow us to tour his arms warehouse, a heavily guarded cache of weapons hidden on their private island off the coast of Greece.

  Here, there’s tensions growing between the Russos and our rivals, the Romanos. I want to increase our security, our weapon stores, two things the Bachman family is known for.

  In exchange for sharing his information, I can offer him real wealth, treasure you can hold in the palm of your hand, its weight heavy against your flesh. Something Americans know nothing about, putting their trust in the almighty paper dollar, or the invisible one, hidden in their computer bank accounts, paid out on plastic cards.

  Gold is wealth. Gol
d is power.

  Rockland waits for me in my library, my favorite room in the castle. It’s a small, dark, intimate place, smelling of leather and cigar smoke. At my command, a fire is burning in the stone fireplace every evening, a full bar prepared on a gold cart awaiting me at night, a French press of coffee prepared for me every morning.

  I enter the room, making my way to the leather wing-back chairs angled before the roaring fire. Rockland stands to greet me, serious man who rarely smiles, though his skin is tanned from the sun. He runs his hand over his short, dark beard assessing me. Calculating.

  I reach out a hand, taking his. Firm grip—I’d expect nothing less from the head of America’s most powerful—albeit secretive—mafia. “Rockland. I’m so glad you could make it to the wedding. Please, take a seat.” We settle down into the deep cushions of the worn leather chairs.

  He runs his hand over his short beard again. “Yes. Your bride put on quite a show. Are the women always so eager to marry here in Italy?” He gives a dark chuckle, alluding to my wife’s temper tantrum, the throwing of the crown.

  “She didn’t have much say in the matter. Her father owed a debt and she’s repaid it.” I take a seat in one of the wing-backed chairs, sliding against the cool, dark leather.

  Rockland follows. His dark eyes find mine. “A revenge bride of sorts?”

  A smile curls up on my lips. He has no idea how right his words are. “Exactly.”

  Tonight, I have a taste for liquor. When I ordered the fire to be made, I also requested an aged bourbon to be brought up from my cellar. A glass has been prepared and it sits on the side table. I take a sip of the amber liquid. It burns as it goes down. Exquisite.

  He raises a brow. “Are you finding her to be agreeable?”

  I think of her body bent over the bed, the feeling of her sex clamping around me like a vise as she cried out my name. “Very.”

  “Things here in Italy are done much differently than at home. In the Bachman family, we woo our brides.” He lifts his glass to his mouth.

  “Or threaten them into marrying your single bachelors, in order to keep the delicate balance of peace you hold so dear?”

  His hand pauses, mid-air. He returns the glass to the coaster on the table, giving away no other sign of surprise that I’m privy to this knowledge, of how his fiery redheaded wife, Tess, enjoys playing matchmaker.