What am I doing?
He’s not wrong. I am acting like a child. A selfish one.
Then the rock begins to rise from the center of the meadow. The monument that holds Brett’s remains. The familiar feeling rises from the pit of my stomach. And I remember why I’m acting this way.
I’m crazy with grief. And I’m still angry he’s gone. And I’m taking it out on the next man closest to Brett—his brother.
But despite my shenanigans, Rockland’s here for me. As much of a brat as I’ve been to him, he’s holding up his end of the hierarchy. Seeing me through a day that is just as difficult for him as it is for me. I whisper the words, “I’m sorry.” And I mean it. I can tell by the look in his eyes he believes me.
He gives me a look that tells me he forgives me. That he understands. Then he wraps his strong arm around my shoulders. Gives me a slight squeeze. Pulls me against him. I snuggle into his side, the two of us facing this thing together.
Incidentally, he smells heavenly. Damn.
Bronson begins the service. Much like the celebration of life, the memorial is a time to share stories of our beloved Brett. Only the members of the Village are invited to the first two years. The third we host off-site and invite family members. I’m surrounded by my Village on this day and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But when I find myself trying to conjure up Brett’s face, I’m drawing a blank. And when I expect myself to once again lose my shit, as I did at the funeral, the deep sorrow doesn’t come. Although I’m sad, grief’s sharp edges have dulled over the past year. I am able to enjoy the memories with my family without falling apart.
After several people have made heartwarming speeches, Bronson calls Rockland to the monument. Asks him to share a few words with us.
Rockland looks... uncomfortable. Though he’s perfectly at home leading a group of ragtag villagers, apparently he’s not happy with the attention bestowed upon him now. He gives his stained pants a look, then shoots me a glare before striding up to stand before the crowd.
I do feel bad about the spill, but even with coffee-covered pants he still looks like a model straight out of GQ.
He looks over the crowd. When he begins to speak, his eyes find mine—and they don’t leave them. My shoulders tense and I try to look away as he begins his words, but his powerful gaze holds mine. “We gather here today to remember a great man. A pillar of the Brotherhood. A man who happened to be my flesh and blood. Brett was like a father to me. And to many of you.” He pauses. Looks down at his feet for a moment. I find myself holding my breath, choking down a sob. Then he looks up again. His attention directed at me. “And what would a loving father want us to do in his absence? I believe he would want us to move on. Continue living while remembering his love, his words of wisdom as we go about our days. He would want us to cherish every moment, actively participating in our lives, as not one of us know when that precious life will end.”
His words hit me like a punch in the gut. He thinks I’ve ceased to live. That I’ve hit the pause button on my life since Brett’s death. A tiny voice tickles my ear, nagging at my mind, saying, You have, Tess. And Brett would not want it this way.
Rockland finishes his speech, but the rest of his words are muffled in my ears. I can’t focus, I just stare straight ahead as he takes his seat beside me. Bronson stands before the crowd, speaks a few closing words.
I’m numb. I sit, stock still, waiting for this to be over.
In a daze, we somehow get back to the car. We’re halfway back to my house when I find myself breaking free from my stupor and suddenly shouting, “What the hell was that?”
He murmurs, “A memorial service. For a man we both very much loved.”
“No. You know what I mean. That speech. The one you gave while staring at me the entire time?”
“It was a speech I prepared in my brother’s honor, Tess. Not everything is about you.”
“Really? Then why were you looking at me while you gave it?” I cross my arms, stare at him defiantly.
His fingers tighten around the wheel. He heaves that I’m dealing with a child sigh—the one he saves just for me. “Look, Tess. Maybe it was for you. It’s been a year. People are talking. Apparently, you’ve stopped showing up at the office on a regular basis. You’re barely eating. The girls say you haven’t been out with them in months. I know you loved Brett—we all did, and still do—but it’s not healthy to lock yourself away in your house and waste away—”
“Waste away? Waste away! I’m living a perfectly normal life, thank you very much. Taking care of myself and working and... and...”
His brows raise. “And starving yourself? Your dress is practically hanging off you and it fit you perfectly this time last year. You’re spending all your time focused on what you’ve lost instead of the people who are still here. People who love you.”
“It’s none of your damn business, Rockland Bachman. Sure, you may oversee prancing here once a year to link arms with me and take me to a service, but that’s where your jurisdiction ends. So just take yourself back to your little hovel and take care of your ragtag villagers.” I cross my arms over my chest, huffing, “Asshole.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. My jurisdiction covers much more ground than being your escort and letting you take your anger out on me.” His tone changes and when he speaks again, it’s low, dangerous even, and a chill runs down my spine. “There’s a line. And you’ve crossed it.”
Suddenly I no longer feel like the confident, angry widow free to take her emotions out on the man who’s been designated with keeping her sane for the day.
I swallow, hard.
There’s an abrupt tension creeping around the car between us. One that is swiftly making me uncomfortable. Sweat pricks against the skin of my lower back, making the fabric of my dress cling.
My stomach ties in knots. I’ve gone too far. I can feel it. I glance at Rockland, the set of his jaw making me feel squeamish. “Look—I... I’m... sorry.”
“Too late.” His brow narrows.
“What do you mean, too late? Too late for what, exactly?” Nerves dance in my belly as I twist my fingers around one another. We arrive at my house. He slides his sleek car against the curb out front. He gets out, shutting the door a little too hard. Leaving me alone to ponder my fate.
I watch him walk around the front of the car. My stomach twists. His stride is determined, threatening.
He’s opening my door. He’s reaching out his hand to take mine. Hell, no. I’m not going in there with him. I know exactly what he’s planning to do. I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him. Daring him to try to move me.
He’s got one arm slung over the top of the door. He looks at me. Bored.
“Tess, is this really how you want to do this?” he asks.
“Do what? Resist having a man who’s not my husband drag me up the stairs?” I say. I leave out any other things I think he might do, not wanting to give him any ideas in case I’ve misjudged his intentions.
His face is clear of emotion. But that telltale jaw twitch starts up. He takes off his shades, tosses them onto the dash. He leans down. Too close. The enticing scent of his aftershave reaches me as his hazel eyes lock onto mine—the sun hitting his irises to reveal flecks of gold within them. He says, “So, you choose the hard way?” He raises a brow.
“I choose no way. I choose you jet set back to wherever the hell Bronson’s got you stationed and leave me alone to mourn. In peace!” I go to grab the handle of the door and try to slam it, hoping to trap his arm within as I do.
But that damn limb of his is like lead. I tug as hard as I can, but the door doesn’t budge.
He has a smirk on his face. I give a harrumph of dissatisfaction, cross my arms back over my chest, planting myself further into the seat.
“Have it your way,” he shrugs.
In a flash, he’s got the buckle undone. He grabs me by my stiff shoulders and pulls me from the car. I’m shocked at his strength�
��it’s as if I weigh nothing to him. My jaw drops open in protest as I find myself being slung like an old duffle bag, right over his shoulder.
I beat his back with my fists. They bounce off his taut muscles. “Put me down, you—you brute!” I scream. I struggle to right myself. Scratching and clawing as I pull my torso up.
That’s when my perfectly perched ass gets a sharp whack! from his paddle-like hand. “Best behave, little girl.”
I want to cuss, scream, bite. But the sting on my bottom is spreading. My palms press into his back, my upper body tenses as I decide what my next step of action is. Rockland, sensing my plan, gives my ass another, even harder swat and I let out a yowl in pain.
His spanks are hard. I’m shocked at how quickly I’m subdued by the pain.
I give up, lying limp over his shoulder as he effortlessly carries me up the stairs to the front door. My only consolation in my humiliation is that the entire family is headed toward the annual dinner and no one will be witness to my current chastisement.
I hear the door unlock, open.
He drops me down on my feet. I land softly. My hands go to my hair, straighten it back into place after being carried upside down. Under my breath I murmur, “Neanderthal.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. Stares at me, daring me to move. He says, “Let’s lay out all the ways this can happen. I take you upstairs. Spank your ass till you’re under control and capable of handling yourself for the family meal. Or you can fight me.”
My hands go to my hips. So that’s how he wants to play this? I say, “I’ll fight you.”
“I’ll tell you what happens in that case.” His fingers go to the buckle of his belt, causing my heart to skip a beat and my breath to catch. “I throw you over the kitchen counter. Whip you with my belt. Then take you upstairs and spank your ass till you’re under control and capable of handling yourself.”
I swallow, hard. I’ve never had the belt.
He awaits my decision, but the words are caught in my throat. I can’t pull my gaze from his long fingers resting on that buckle.
Ice forms in my stomach. My ass cheeks clench. I can’t let this happen. I picture myself over my counter, his tattooed muscle-laden arm bringing his belt down across my ass. A cold sweat covers my forehead.
He’s staring at me, hard. Tapping his finger on that buckle. He says, “Three, two...”
“Never!” I take off running. Where I’m going, I’ve no idea. I just know I’ve got to stop this from happening. I dash through the hall, past the kitchen, reach the backdoor to the garden. My hand is on the handle when I feel that vise-like grip wrap around my waist.
Again, I’m thrown over his shoulder. Marched into the kitchen. Down from his shoulders and popped onto the floor. Turned away from him. He’s got me over the counter, my waist pressing into the granite. I look over my shoulder, frantic as I watch him singlehandedly unbuckle his belt and whip it from the loops of his trousers. My heart races.
“You need a lesson in respect, little lady. Your tongue is razor sharp and you think you can say and do as you please, letting your anger control you.”
To my shock and shame, he’s lifting the hem of my dress. His hand is at my waist, his rough fingers pull at my panties, tugging them down below the curve of my bottom. He’s holding up my dress with one hand, exposing my bottom. The cool air rushes over my skin, chill bumps rising on my flesh.
“How dare you pull down my panties, you... you... brute!” My sweaty palms press into the countertop as the belt comes down, right across my bare bottom. The crack of the leather reverberates through the room. I hear the sound before I feel the pain. “Ouch!” I scream. The sting burns across the fullest part of my bottom, hip to hip. “That hurt!”
“Are you ready to accompany me up to your room?”
My ass is burning but it’s not yet enough to stop my tongue. “Never. You big... bully!”
He brings the belt down again and over the loud snap of the leather I think I hear a chuckle. He’s hit the same spot as before and now I’m on the tips of my toes, howling in pain. I know I’m overacting but this whole being thrown over your kitchen counter and whipped with leather is new to me and my skin is on fire. I cry out, “Okay, okay! You win. I’ll do whatever you want.”
The belt lands on the floor with a thud. He snaps up my panties, drops the hem of my dress. He whips me around to face him. His hands are on my shoulders, heavy and holding me in place. His gaze locks on mine, those golden eyes flashing. His jaw clenches. But he’s studying my face and now, I’m surprised to see a hint of compassion break through his stony mask.
There’s warmth within his words when he says, “Where do you think you’re going, Tess? The Village needs you today. Brett needs you today. You need to honor his memory in a way you’ll be proud of. I can’t leave you to your own devices. Let you spin out of control. You’ll regret it.”
He’s right. He knows what I need. I know what I need.
But how? How does Rockland know me so well? All day, he’s anticipated my every move. Been so rough with me when most widows would need and want softness, sympathy. I study his eyes, his face. There’s a dark look that passes between us.
There’s an energy at play that I can’t deny.
One that has always danced unspoken between us.
A hateful, raw energy that makes my blood boil and my brain go numb.
I’ve got to get him out of here.
I know what I must do.
* * *
Rockland
She’s walking up to the third-floor master bedroom. She’s acting compliant but I’m sure the little hellcat has tricks up her sleeve. I’m behind her and I’ve got a view of her perfect ass as it moves against the fabric of her gown.
I avert my eyes.
Focus on the task at hand.
We reach her bedroom. It’s already been cleared of all of Brett’s things. The faint scent of her perfume lingers in the air.
She stops when she reaches the carpet in the center of the room. She crosses her arms over her chest. Juts one of those sassy hips out at me. Locks eyes with me. She says, “I’ve done the numbers. Even with the billions Brett has donated in his passing, I’m a millionaire now. I think you know that as well as I do. So, what’s it going to take to get rid of you?” she sneers.
For a moment I don’t understand her meaning. I scratch at my beard. As much as I want to punish her, I’m ready to be done with this chaos and get back to Greece where my life makes sense. Before I can speak, she’s stomping over to her closet. She says, “Tell me, Rockland. What will it take? What’s your number? Half a million? A million?”
Now she’s on her hands and knees, tossing shoeboxes, scarves, purses to her right and left. They fall to the floor in discarded piles. Many items still have tags hanging from them. She’s pulling something from the back of the closet. She holds several rectangular packages in her hands. She’s walking toward me, holding them out to me. “Take them. Then get the hell out of here.”
It’s cash. Hundreds of thousands of bills wrapped in plastic and formed into compact bricks. She’s never been to my island and has made enough snide remarks about ‘uncivilized tribal life’ that I assume she thinks this is more cash than I’ve ever seen.
She throws one of them at me. It hits me squarely in the chest, then falls to the floor at my feet.
She thinks I’m here for her money. That she can buy me off. Bribe me to leave her alone. Literally throw it at me and I’ll retrieve it like a dog.
Fury rises from my gut.
Tess—always buying her way out of trouble. Throw a few Benjamins at the problem and it will disappear.
Not this time, sweetheart.
I’ve got all the money I need. Yes, I’m located remotely, caretaker of a society who prefers a simpler way of life, but I’m still a Bachman man. And my offshore accounts in the parish—of which she has no access to—add up in the billions.
But even if I was penniless, I wouldn’t touch
her money.
My patience is gone. I’ve given her an appropriate amount of grace.
It’s time to give her what she needs. What Bronson has brought me here for.
Daggers shoot from her eyes. She’s got another block of cash in her other hand. Aimed right at my forehead.
“Throw that and you’ll not sit down for a week,” I say.
She pulls her arm back and her face narrows with determination. She flings it.
My arm shoots up, my hand opening. The brick hits my palm with a loud thwack.
Maybe I will keep this one.
So I can burn it.
I toss it to the floor with the other one.
Out of ammunition, she’s eyeing me leerily. I can tell by the blush rising in her face, she’s considering the repercussions of her actions. Her hands go to her already striped bottom, as if there’s anything she can do to protect it from me.
I take a step toward her.
She backs away, cornering herself in the room.
She’s pressed between the two walls. Her hands raise before her, guarding herself from me.
I loom over her. I must be a full foot taller than her. Her hands go to my chest. Attempting to push me away.
A dark chuckle erupts from my chest.
I grab her shoulders. I give her a shake. I demand, “Look at me.”
Her eyes flit to mine. Full of misplaced anger and dredges of fear. She’s shaking. Saying, “Just take the money and get the hell out.”
“You know that’s not going to happen, Tess.” When I say her name, she gives a little shiver. “I know you’re grieving, but you’ve crossed a hard line.”
She’s quiet now. I’ll start off soft.
I take her hand. I pull her toward the bed. I don’t give her time to think, to protest. I know what she needs. In seconds, I’ve got her pulled over my lap, her bottom perfectly perched over my thigh. I say, “Tess, you’re out of control.”
“Of course I am—I’ve just lost my husband—” Her shouting is cut off by her gasping breath. I’ve laid a single, hard smack on the center of her ass. The same spot I gave her a taste of my belt. She cries out, “Hey! That hurt!”
Rockland: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 3
