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

by Shanna Handel

  My eyes catch my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes shine with desire.

  This is what he does to me.

  Shaking my head, I let out a sigh, neatly hanging the towel on the bar.

  When I get to the living room, Esme and Sophia are here.

  “Oh, Felicity! It’s so good to see you. We were so worried.” Esme runs over to me with open arms, flinging herself into me.

  Holding back a laugh, I stroke her silky golden locks, assuring her I’m fine. “No need to worry. Vincent took care of me. I was safe with him.” My words make a tug in my chest. Over her head, my gaze catches his.

  He’s smiling.

  It’s a slight grin, but it’s his, and its real.

  And it’s meant for me.

  He must be pleased by my words. I’m safe with him.

  When I’m with Vincent I know no man can hurt me. I fear only for my heart, wanting to keep it from his grasp.

  Esme lets out a long exhale. “I’m so glad. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”

  “We’re all safe now. We’re in good hands with Alec. He’s going to put the shield up and we’ll be untouchable.”

  She releases me, looking over at the panel by the back door where Alec stands. “Ooh. He’s cute.”

  Boy crazy. I’ll keep a close eye on her. The last thing we need is her falling for a man she’ll never see again.

  There’s a clanking of pots and pans. Sophia calls from the kitchen. “Esme. Come. I can’t find a soup pot.”

  “Coming, Sophia!” Esme leaves me, rushing off to assist.

  Sophia and I will have our work cut out for us, distracting our girl from Alec.

  The girls are busy in the kitchen. Alec and Vincent are engaged with their phones, their technology.

  Leaving me free to explore the bookshelves some more. I cross the room, taking in the varying colors and fonts that rest on the polished wood shelves. The tension melts from my shoulders as my fingertip traces over the leather spines. Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, One Hundred Years of Solitude.

  I’ll be just fine during this lockdown. Forty-eight hours may not be long enough.

  I’m in the mood for one of my favorites. One I’ve not read in years. Reaching for a blood-red spine, I pull Dracula down from the shelf.

  Curling up on the black leather sofa, I lazily turn through the first pages of the book. A fire burns in the fireplace and Sophia’s bringing me a cup of tea. Soon, I’m lost in the story.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when a loud whirring noise rumbles through the house. I look up. The sun disappears as a smoky shield of glass rises from the ground like magic.

  They reach the top. There’s a clicking clank, a sound I assume means that the panels have locked into place.

  Our forty-eight hours has begun.

  I go back to my book. Smells of Sophia’s chicken soup fill the room. Alec throws another log on the fire.

  Jonathan reaches the hotel and is handed a letter from Count Dracula, giving directions to his castle. I feel a presence by my side. I know before I look up that it’s Vincent.

  He sits beside me on the sofa. Casually rests his arm on the couch behind me. Not touching me, but making my skin tingle, nonetheless. His nearness sends invisible electric pulses through me.

  I inch away.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Dracula.”

  “The vampire book?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve not read it. I don’t care for reading.”

  “This will be my third time. Do you read at all?” Could we have less in common?

  “No. I’ve no time for…” his hand waves through the air over the open pages, “frivolity.”

  “Well, you must do something for fun. Is there anything you do that isn’t business, or stealing brides?”

  “I did not steal you. You were a payment. And yes, I like to play piano.”

  I feel my brow furrow. “You? Play piano?” I try to picture it, Vincent bent over the ivory keys of a shiny black grand piano.

  I can’t.

  His brow knits as if I’ve insulted him. “Why does that surprise you so much?”

  I give a shrug, wanting to laugh. “I don’t know. Up till now you don’t seem to have any interests other than conquering things.” And me. “To play the piano…it seems it would take a lot of patience.”

  He gives a sniff. “I have patience.”

  “Do you? Because if so, I’ve not seen that side of you.”

  “Well, who needs patience. At least I have class and manners, and would never, ever mark a book by bending the corner of its pages.” He gives a pointed look to the corner I’ve folded of Dracula.

  “Manners?” I think of the way he forces me to beg for his touch, for release. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I think I’m very classy.” He calls over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Sophia—do you think I’ve got class and manners?”

  “Sure, Mr. Russo.” She grunts. “Class and manners. But no romance.”

  A secret smile lights on my lips. No romance. Exactly.

  He has all the couth and poise money can buy.

  But he’s an animal. A monster.

  He reaches out, his finger snarling a tendril of my hair. He wraps it around and around his finger until there’s a slight pull at the skin of my scalp. He pulls my ear to his mouth. “Romance? What is that?”

  I struggle from his grasp, pawing his hand from my hair. “It’s a form of manners you exude when you’re with a woman you care about. Say, your wife, for example?”

  He grunts, taking the book from my hands. “And did this Dracula, did he exhibit any romantic tendencies?”

  “No. But I wasn’t married to him.” I toss him a dismissive look, rise from the couch, and follow my nose to the kitchen.

  He gives my ass a slap as I brush by him.

  Animal.

  Sophia’s busy in the kitchen, peering into massive pots as she stirs.

  I grab plates from a cabinet. “Sophia. Would you like help setting the table?”

  “From you?” She nods. “I would.”

  I set the table. Bowls for the soup. Plates for the salad and bread Esme’s prepared. A glass for the wine I most certainly need.

  I set a wine glass for Esme, pouring her a little taste. She needs it after the long day she’s had. Maybe I’ll even let her sit next to Alec. The girl is boy crazy—why not give her a little eye candy. After all, someone in this house deserves to have a little romance in their lives. And as Sophia has stated, it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.

  Not from Vincent, at least.

  But as we sit to dinner, he pulls out my chair. Smooths my cloth napkin over my lap. He holds the dishes for me to serve myself from. Refills my wine.

  He’s as attentive as a husband can be.

  We talk and laugh over the homey comfort food. As relaxed as five people locked in a tower of bulletproof glass and steel can be.

  As I’m buttering my bread, my knife slips from my hand. Vincent retrieves it, takes it to the sink, bringing me a clean one. After dinner, it’s he who offers to wash the dishes, while Esme dries. Then, he sends Esme off to bed. Alec retreats into the kitchen to make phone calls.

  Sophia collapses on the couch, snoring.

  Vincent re-stokes the fire, bringing it back to life and making it roar in the stone fireplace.

  I sit on my cozy corner of the black leather sofa, and once again, he joins me. This time, his arm is wrapped around my shoulders, touching me. Warm and protective. I find myself wanting his hands on my body.

  His mouth on mine.

  I find myself craving his touch.

  And why shouldn’t I be granted the favor? I am, after all, his wife.

  I tear my gaze from the fire. Focusing on him. He stares at the neckline of my shirt. His fingers go to the ends of my hair, taking a piece and twirling it lazily in his fingers.

  H
e moves in. To kiss me. My eyes close.

  His mouth finds mine. As he tastes me, I feel myself melting into his gentle kiss. His tongue slips between my lips.

  And I’m lost.

  My body melts into his. I want him. Body, mind, and soul.

  But I know the most he’ll ever give me is his body. But I’m so turned on and desperate right now, I’ll take it. Besides, he owes it to me.

  “Let’s go.” He takes my hand, pulling me up from the couch. Our eyes brush each other’s briefly and we both know where we are headed.

  He leads me down the hall, to the master bedroom on the first floor. The one adjoined to the bathroom of our fight. I take in the room. White walls. White linens. Black wrought iron bed frame.

  One he could tie me to.

  I shake the silly thoughts from my mind. What am I thinking? Desiring this man that thinks of me as nothing more than a conquest, a prize he’s won.

  But when his mouth finds mine once again, it doesn’t seem as if it’s in conquest. It feels…nice. Caring. Adoring.

  The way a woman wants a man to kiss her after a long, emotional day. A kiss that says, I’ll take care of you.

  A stark contrast to his conquest fuck from last night.

  And take care of me he does. He scoops me up into his arms. Carries me to the bed. Lays me down amongst the soft feather pillows and comforter.

  He’s unbuttoning my pants. Removing them from my body. His hands go to the waistband of my panties. He takes those off as well.

  Suddenly, he’s crouched between my knees, my bare thighs cupped in his strong hands.

  He parts my legs, crawling toward me.

  And he’s gone.

  I lie back down on the pillows, my breath holding in my lungs. Waiting. His breath is hot against my skin. His tongue, slick, trailing its way up the inside of my thighs. His mouth finds my sex.

  And it’s fucking heaven.

  My eyes close, my head lolls back with a moan. “Oh my God. What are you doing?”

  He answers with the swirl of his tongue, his hot mouth cupping my pulsing sex. He licks, then pulls away, teasing my aching clit. His fingers clutch around the cheeks of my ass, digging into my flesh. He murmurs between licks. “Don’t you know what I’m doing?”

  I bury my hands into his hair, grasping on for something to ground me as I climb higher into the clouds. I’m floating, unaware of my surroundings, other than the presence of this man between my thighs.

  I rise up, moaning in pleasure until finally, my body tightens, coiling into itself as I find the pinnacle of my pleasure. I cry out his name, “Vincent!”

  The electric waves shoot through my body until I’m trembling. I collapse back on the bed. Vincent crawls his way over me, his mouth kissing my neck, making its way higher until he meets my lips, my taste transferring to my tongue.

  His hands disappear to his waist as he unbuckles his belt, unbuttoning his pants and freeing his cock. He slides it into me, my slick heat willing, wanting, ready and soft and supple after the orgasm he’s given me.

  His hands press into the bed on either side of my face. His gaze burns into mine as he moves his hip, the head of his cock finding my slick entrance. He pauses, teasing me with the head of his cock, his eyes telling me—he owns me.

  And I don’t even fucking care.

  I want him to.

  I want him to own me, to possess my body.

  I beg. “Please.”

  With one powerful thrust, he buries himself inside of me.

  And I’ve never felt more whole. My hips rise, meeting his, pushing him further into me. I grab his shoulders. My fingernails dig into his flesh. I hope I leave marks.

  He breaks eye contact, nuzzling his head into the crook of my neck. Kissing and licking that delicate spot that drives me wild. He thrusts again, slowly, deliberately, offering pleasure at the pace he’s chosen.

  I want more. I want it harder, faster.

  I grab his hips, pulling him into me.

  He stops.

  Those dark eyes slowly raise to meet mine. “You want it rougher, my Bella?”

  I want to answer but suddenly my brazenness catches in my throat. I can’t answer him and instead I find my teeth sinking into my lip. He doesn’t need to hear my words to know what I want.

  With strong hands, he grabs me, flipping me over. Brings me up onto my knees. My face buries into the pillow.

  He takes my hips in his hands, kneeling behind me. The head of his cock pressed against me and then...

  With one low growl, he thrusts inside of me. My ass in the air, my face in the pillow, I bury my shame as I beg for more. “Yes, rougher.”

  He delivers.

  He’s sliding in and out of me, hard and fast, pummeling me, his thighs pounding against mine until I can think of nothing other than the feeling of him inside me. Another climax begins to grow as my pussy tightens, clenching around his cock.

  He slaps my ass as he fucks me. Hard, and it echoes through the room. “You like that? You like it rough?”

  “Yes.” I fucking love it.

  “You like to be my naughty girl? So bad, wanting to be fucked, to have your ass slapped, to have your hair pulled?” He gathers my locks, winding them around his hand and yanks my head back.

  He leans over me, the heat from his chest pressed against my back. His breath is hot in my ear. “Are you my naughty girl?”

  “Yes.” And I am. “Fuck me.”

  He pulls my hair. Reaches around my ribcage and cups my breasts. Pinches my nipples. Fucking me harder and faster as he does.

  Perspiration dots my brow. My limbs feel weak, my breasts heavy. I pant as I take every thrust he offers me. My core tightens. The orgasm hits before I’m ready, robbing the breath from my lungs. Stealing his name from my tongue.

  His fingers dig into my hips. He gives a growl, reaching his own orgasm. His hot seed fills me. My sex clenches around him, milking him for the last drops of his seed. He collapses over my back, our damp skin pressed together.

  He gives me a soft look, a long gaze, pushing my hair back from my face and kissing my earlobe, my cheek. He climbs off me, pulling out. He collapses on the bed beside me.

  I lie down, lost in my thoughts.

  He kisses me, and falls asleep.

  Leaving me an open opportunity to study my husband close up. It’s the first night we’ve shared a bed, a room.

  He’s never slept with me, he’s never stayed.

  I lie on my side, taking in his face under the moonlight that streams through the darkened window.

  He looks like an angel.

  That bone structure, those dark, full locks of hair, one strand lying over his arched brow. A nose sculpted by the Gods of Rome.

  Or is he a devil?

  I’m so confused. One minute I loathe him, the next I want nothing more than to have him inside me. I hate him, then I find myself softening toward him.

  What’s wrong with me?

  What’s wrong with him?

  And why do I find myself curling into his side? I snuggle down beside him. In his sleep, he gives a moan, his arm wrapping around my shoulder. Pulling me into him. Curving his body around me like a crescent moon.

  I drift away, dreaming of his face, his dark eyes. The way he looks at Esme with a mix of fear and untainted love, like a father looks at his child. The way his jaw muscles tense when Sophia’s giving him a hard time, but there’s a soft smile in his eyes.

  The way he looked as me tonight, just before he pulled out.

  Like I am more to him than just a prize he’s won.

  I wake in his arms, his body still curved around mine. His breaths come in heavy, even pulls. But he’s not sleeping. I can sense his gaze on my face.

  I turn over my shoulder, to find him staring at me.

  “Good morning, my Bella.” He leans down, gently kissing my lips.

  And something inside me shifts.

  I find myself wanting his touch, more of his kisses, but the desire doesn’t co
me from that dark place of lust and desire. It comes from wanting something simple, something pure.

  I long only to be close to him.

  To connect with him.

  I find the thought unsettling.

  He is a monster, right? A beast.

  But now his fingertips are stroking the back of my arm. He’s kissing me so tenderly.

  Do we have a chance at happiness?

  8

  Vincent

  We spend our forty-eight hour prison sentence playing board games. Eating soup Sophia made and bread Esme baked for us. We drink wine by the fire.

  And we laugh.

  When Felicity laughs, her whole face lights up, enhancing her beauty.

  She’s as lovely a bride as my grandfather said she would be.

  Only my feelings for my wife have grown so large, they loom over me, almost making me feel guilty of how I came to be her husband.

  Ricardo Russo, my grandfather, was a powerful man. He was raised in the village my castle overlooks, his father a prominent government official in Rome. When he was in his twenties, he was betrothed to a dark haired beauty of his own: Esmeralda Bianchi.

  The marriage was arranged, the two set to wed. When he met her for the first time, he knew he was in love, falling for her before the ceremony even took place.

  Days before the wedding, Esmerelda broke it off, running away to America and eloping with her lover. Her family was disgraced. My grandfather, humiliated.

  The village got wrapped up in the drama of the story, leading to the creation of a song, a ballad about his broken heart that children sang in the play yards of the schoolhouse.

  He married a widow, and together they had a few children, but it was more a marriage of convenience. Though the two respected one another, there was no deep love there. And in his eighty years of life, he never lived down Esmerelda’s rejection.

  My grandfather, like me, did not like to lose.

  Felicity is Esmerelda’s granddaughter.

  And so, he proclaimed her the perfect bride for me. And through his grandson’s marriage, he would avenge his own broken heart.

  Days before my grandfather died, he asked me to go to Felicity’s father’s store to arrange the marriage. He told me our union would let his aching body rest comfortably in the ground, knowing I’d avenged his broken heart. The day after I made the arrangements, he passed in his sleep, a soft smile on his lips.