by Emma Slate
Raphael gathered me into his arms. “You pleased me tonight. I have no doubt that when you’re my wife, you will be a beautiful adornment at my table.”
A scream lodged in my throat as Raphael dipped his head. Hysteria threatened to overtake me. I knew what was coming, and that refuting it would cost me, so I closed my eyes and pictured Hadrian as Raphael’s mouth covered mine.
His tongue darted between the seam of my lips. I nearly gagged on the overwhelming taste of caramelized onions and heady red wine from my family’s vineyard.
He ground his pelvis against mine, letting me know in no uncertain terms that it didn’t matter if I wanted him or not. He wouldn’t care about my pleasure when he rutted between my thighs.
His fingers plowed into my hair, tearing the pins from my bun. My scalp burned from his grip when he tilted my head back and forced me to meet his gaze.
“I should’ve fucked you in the bathroom,” he growled. “Fucked you like the whore you are.”
“Why didn’t you?” I demanded before I could stop myself.
His clasp on my hair tightened, but I refused to cry out in pain, even as tears sprung to my eyes. Raphael leaned down and pressed his cheek to mine. To anyone watching the scene, we might’ve looked like two lovers locked in a passionate embrace. But the words he whispered in my ear belied the truth.
“Because when I fuck you,” he said, his voice low, “I’m going to take my time, and I’m going to make it hurt. And just when you think I’ve had enough, I’m going to do it all over again until you’re pregnant.”
Bile surged up my throat, but Raphael released me. I gulped breaths of air voraciously, trying not to let him see my fear, but it didn’t matter.
Raphael knew—and he smirked when he saw the terror on my face.
He pulled out a jewelry box from his suit breast pocket. “Your engagement ring.”
When I made no move to take it, he opened it himself and took it out. He grabbed my hand and shoved the ring onto my finger. It was a gaudy, overpowering diamond set in a classic gold mount.
A symbol of my bondage.
“From this day forward, if you ever take off this ring, I’ll cut off your finger.”
With a jaunty chuck underneath my chin and a dazzling smile, he turned and waltzed down the front steps, whistling as he went.
His driver jumped out of the car and hastily opened the back door for his master to climb in as Raphael approached.
Raphael’s face appeared through the side window. He blew me a kiss when they departed.
I pressed my clenched fist to my heart, staring at the retreating lights of Raphael’s car. He was gone for now, but his terrifying presence remained.
When I started to shiver in the cool air, I turned to head up the steps and stopped. Luca stood in the doorway.
I wondered what he’d seen, and whether or not he knew the truth. It didn’t matter.
“Come into the salon,” he said quietly. “We’ll have a drink.”
I trekked closer to him, and just when I was about to pass him by, I spit in his face.
“Fuck you, Luca.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
I was alone after an exhausting day and finally had a measure of privacy. I slipped into the en suite bathroom of the room I was staying in and locked the door for good measure, even though I knew it would do nothing to keep anyone out.
I turned on the shower and stripped off all my clothes. Every inch of my body was sore. The lack of sleep had taken its toll, along with the sheer emotional upheaval and Raphael’s beating. Before stepping under the water, I looked at myself in the mirror. My gaze dropped to my flat belly and I slowly stole a hand across it.
“Are you still there?” I whispered, my heart beating with hope.
When I was finally under the showerhead and the warm water poured over me, I fell apart. I cried for all the terror I’d felt over the last couple of days. I sent up a fervent prayer that Hadrian was on his way, and I wondered why it was taking him so long to come for me.
Exhausted, I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. I grabbed a white fluffy towel and quickly dried off before wrapping it around me.
When I left the bathroom, I drew to a halt and gaped in surprise. Tor sat at the edge of my bed. He didn’t look at me when I entered; his body was hunched over as he leaned his elbows on his knees.
“What’s with you Moretti men?” I demanded, tightening my fist around the towel I wore. “You just show up in my bedroom like it’s your right.”
Tor didn’t supply a rebuttal. He got up off the bed and stalked to the balcony doors and peered out. “Get dressed. I want to show you something.”
“It’s late, Tor, and I’m tired.”
“It won’t take long.” He looked at me over his shoulder, his eyes glittering in the low lamp light.
“What’s this about?” I asked.
“You’ll see. You won’t get rid of me, so you might as well give in. Don’t bother with outdoor clothes. We’re not leaving the house.”
Reluctantly, I went to the dresser and discreetly pulled out a pair of underwear and a set of blue silk pajamas. I headed back into the bathroom to change, wondering what the hell was so important that Tor—silent, stoic Tor—had to show me.
“I’m ready,” I said when I opened the bathroom door.
Nodding, he headed to the exit of the room, not bothering to look behind him to see if I was following.
The house was quiet. Tor took the ornate staircase to the first floor, and I thought we’d turn in the direction of the salon where the family usually congregated, but he surprised me when he headed the opposite way.
The massive, austere, ancestral home was a labyrinth that I was sure each Moretti knew like the back of their hand. When we arrived at a heavy wooden door, Tor pushed it open and went in first. It was a library—the gargantuan wood-burning fireplace had not been modernized and was at least ten feet tall. Leather bound books lined the shelves, and I wondered if they were all for show, or if people ever actually read them.
“This is the sanctuary,” Tor explained. “This is where the men of the family come to discuss the fate of Italy and the legacy of the Compagnia Bianca del Falco.
I didn’t bother holding in the eye roll. “It looks like any other library on a grand estate. You couldn’t show me this tomorrow?”
When I made a move to leave, he reached for my arm and stopped me.
“There’s a purpose to this room. One you need to understand,” he said, his voice gravelly and low, like he was unaccustomed to speaking for prolonged periods of time.
Tor walked to the far wall and pointed to the painting of a handsome man with tan skin and a short, silver beard. He sat atop a black stallion and he was dressed in chain mail armor. On a flagpole attached to his horse and braced by one of his hands, flew a deep red flag with the image of a white falcon on a coat of arms.
“We can trace our lineage back to this man,” he said, gazing up at the painting, his dark eyes glowing with pride. “Alfonso Moretti.”
I looked at the painting again, studying it. Through the generations, the Moretti men still carried the hearty stamp of Alfonso’s features. Aristocratic brow, patrician nose. Alfonso’s chin was concealed by his beard, but I didn’t doubt that it was as robust as the vitality emanating from him.
“The falcon…I always wondered why the literal translation of the Compagnia Bianca del Falco is The White Falcon Company. How did it become known as The White Company? What happened to the falcon?” I asked.
“We actually don’t know. Our coat of arms shows the white falcon, but through the generations the falcon was dropped from the translation and we became known simply as The White Company.”
Tor moved to the next painting and the next, depicting every first-born son and leader of The White Company. There were sixteen in all.
“Where’s Angelo’s painting?” I asked.
“His will go on the wall after he passes,” Tor explained. He
looked up at the most recent painting. “Our grandfather, Antonio.”
My mother’s father.
“You look like our grandmother,” Tor said.
I absently reached up to touch my nose and then let my hand drop.
My curiosity ran rampant, and I wanted to see paintings of the Moretti women. What of them? Were they all pawns like I’d become, or had any of them risen above their own oppression?
Here, in the sanctuary, the legacies of men reigned.
“Why did you bring me here, Tor?” I asked, my voice soft.
“One day, my brother will replace my father as the head of this family. One day, I will stand as his second in command. I will do anything to protect him and our legacy. Choose wisely, Sterling.”
My heart lurched. “What do you mean?”
“You are a Moretti. It’s your duty to honor and serve your family. It’s been that way since you were born, whether you knew it or not.”
The anger that had been simmering inside me finally ratcheted up to a boil. “It’s an honor to serve my family?”
“Yes. It is.”
“You’re delusional. All of you are,” I spat.
Without waiting for his reply, I fled the library and returned to the illusion of refuge in the confines of my bedroom.
I was trapped by my Moretti blood.
Power, bloodlines, archaic alliances…that is all my family—and the other four families—care about.
My mother had tried to warn me. Nothing else mattered to these people.
As soon as my wrath had come, it leaked out of me like a deflating tire. I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin before leaning over to turn off the bedside lamp.
I slid my hand over my belly and let it rest there.
I didn’t care about the Moretti legacy.
I cared about my own.
I slept deeply and without interruption. Long after dawn had come and gone, I finally awoke. I stretched leisurely in bed, wincing at my sore and bruised body. When I got up, I sucked in a quick breath, feeling a cramp low in my stomach.
Padding my way to the bathroom, I focused on breathing and trying not to panic. But concern gave way to horror when I saw drops of blood in my underwear.
Had Raphael gotten his way? Was I having a miscarriage?
My mother had been a devout Catholic. She had turned to The Church when she needed help. I turned to her God now, praying for the safekeeping of my baby, praying for strength.
There was a subtle knock on the bedroom door. I expected it to be a servant with a breakfast tray, but when I called, “Come in,” it was Gisella who entered. She was dressed in expensive riding clothes and her glossy dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
“Good, you’re awake,” she said with a shy smile. “I was worried that you were still sleeping.”
Forcing my expression placid, I shook my head.
“You look like you slept. Did you?” she inquired.
“I did.”
“Do you want to go riding with me this morning?” she queried. “It’s a gorgeous day.”
I would’ve loved nothing more than to go with her, to feel the wind on my cheeks and the warm scented air in my lungs. But I was too fragile to entertain the idea of fun.
“I’m not in the mood to ride, but I think I’d like…” I frowned.
“Sterling?” she pressed. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I inhaled a shaky breath, but it did nothing to calm the nausea. I turned quickly and dashed for the bathroom, making it to the toilet and throwing up bile.
I vaguely realized that Gisella had followed me into the bathroom and shut the door. “Oh, Sterling… Are you—”
“No. It’s just nerves.” I looked her in the eye. “Do you understand, Gisella? It’s only my nerves.”
She nodded slowly. “Nerves. Got it.”
“No one can know about my nerves,” I stated. “It would be catastrophic for me.”
“Does your fiancé,” she whispered, “know about your nerves?”
“Yes. He knows.”
Gisella leaned her head against the door and closed her eyes. Finally, she opened them and stared at me. “Get dressed and meet me in the gardens.”
Before I could reply, she ran out. I brushed my teeth and then splashed some cold water on my face. I was already having morning sickness, which meant I was farther along in my pregnancy than I had realized.
It must’ve happened the first night I was with Hadrian.
My life had changed then, and I hadn’t even known it.
I dressed quickly, feeling the walls closing in on me.
There were no servants in the hallway nor any looming Moretti men, and I was able to escape to the gardens. I found Gisella on the stone bench in front of the fountain and took a seat next to her.
“Here,” she said, handing me a biscuit wrapped in a paper napkin.
“This is becoming a routine of ours,” I said dryly.
She smiled. “I brought you some weak tea.” Gisella looked around and once she ensured we had privacy she spoke again, only this time her voice was lower. “One of the maids has four children, and she swears the cure for morning sickness is a biscuit and weak tea.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling tears sting my eyes. “Why are you helping me?” I picked at the biscuit and placed a piece in my mouth to settle my stomach while I waited for her to reply.
She nibbled her lip in pensive thought. “I heard what happened to you. I mean, how you were…taken.”
“Who told you?” I asked.
“Last night, my brothers were in the sanctuary talking with my father. I was passing by and overheard…”
I couldn’t help it; I grinned. “You mean you were spying?”
“I prefer snooping,” she said, pretending to be offended, but then she spoiled it by letting out a giggle. “They mentioned Hadrian.”
My heart lodged in my throat. “What did they say?”
“They’re wondering why he hasn’t come for you.” Her brown eyes stared into mine. “They expect him to come.”
“So do I…”
“Tor said he’ll come ‘because he’s Hadrian Rhys’. What does that mean?”
“If you’d met Hadrian, you’d understand. Did they say anything else?” I pressed. “Please, Gisella. If you know—”
“Papà and Luca think he—they think he might be planning something. They sounded afraid…”
A grin spread across my face. “They should be afraid.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Who is Hadrian?” Gisella asked, her voice filled with awe.
What could I say to a sixteen-year-old?
She may have been just sixteen, but she was a Moretti. She deserved to be protected, but I wouldn’t treat her like some sheltered, spoiled child.
“He’s a professional international blackmailer with ties to the criminal underworld,” I said.
Her mouth formed a silent ‘oh’.
I shrugged. “You asked.”
“I didn’t think you’d really tell me,” she said with a laugh.
Sunlight caught the diamond on my finger, and I absentmindedly fiddled with the vulgar bauble.
Gisella reached for my hand and lifted it to stare at the ring. “Do you think…”
“Hmmm?” I looked at her when she trailed off.
“Do you think this was the ring he’d have given me if I’d been the one to marry him?”
“Probably,” I admitted.
I thought of the diamond jewelry Hadrian had bequeathed me. It was still resting on the nightstand in the guest room.
“I wonder if his first wife wore the same ring,” Gisella said, dropping my hand and gazing at the fountain.
“First wife?” I asked quietly. “He’s been married before?”
She nodded, her eyes sad. “He married her soon after your mother left. She died only a few years into their marriage.”
“Any children?”
“No.�
��
“How did she die?” I asked, a knot of horror forming just below my breastbone.
“In a car accident. I don’t know much about it. It was kept quiet…”
Kept quiet.
“What’s he like?” Gisella asked.
“Who? Raphael?”
“Not him. Hadrian.”
My entire body softened when I thought of him. “What’s he like,” I repeated. “He’s indescribable.”
“Try,” she said in amusement.
I squeezed her hand, knowing she was trying to distract me from the horrors of my situation.
“He’s,” I began, “big.”
“Big?” She raised her eyebrows.
“Tall and muscular,” I said. “Beautiful.”
Ruthless.
I closed my eyes so I could picture him. The smile that came to his lips when I surprised him with my sassy attitude. The breadth of his shoulders when he slid into me. The scars marring his body. The rough, callused hands that touched me with reverence and passion. The strawberry blond hair of his warrior ancestors. The blue-gray eyes that held so much pain.
The wind changed and I could almost smell the scent of rain blowing in from the ocean, and it reminded me of his skin in the early Shetland morning.
But when I opened my eyes, all I saw was the Rape of Proserpina, carved in a fountain that rested on my family’s land.
Talking about Hadrian would only remind me that he hadn’t come for me.
“What happens to you, Gisella?” I asked, changing the subject.
“What do you mean?”
“Now that you’re no longer embroiled with Raphael, do you have a choice? Can you marry someone you love?”
Her eyes grew despondent. “I’m a Moretti. I’m not given the luxury of marrying for love.”
There was a commotion coming from the direction of the house, followed by a woman calling out.
“What’s going on?” I asked, swiveling around, but I saw nothing.
“Aunt Beatrice has arrived,” Gisella said, standing. “To begin the preparations for your wedding.”
