The Vendetti Empire

by Sapphire Knight

  Reminiscing of that intense night not long ago has me thinking more in depth. He had his fingers inside me, finger fucking me on the dance floor. He’d have to have known that I’m a virgin, from that alone. Did he create a spectacle of my innocence needing to be checked just to mortify myself and my family?

  This dickface!

  My head shakes at the infuriating thought. My glower cuts back to his too handsome face, breezing over his lips looking as if they were formed by a master sculptor wanting women to bow before the man in question.

  “Why have your father check me, when you’d already touched me?” I mutter the question outright—just another of my bad habits according to my mother. I’m known for speaking up when something bothers me and that goes against her desire of being a subservient and dutiful wife to my papa. “Was it necessary or are you just that spoiled?”

  He runs his tongue across those luscious panty dropping lips, wetting them just a touch, and damn it, even that miniscule motion has my full attention riveted on his mouth. Bad enough the man has breathtaking features; he shouldn’t be allowed to look so goddamn perfect all wrapped up in a ridiculously expensive suit, but Ruthless Vendetti doesn’t play by any rules. None of his family does.

  “You were being given my name. Of course, it was necessary.”

  “You knew...Damn it,” I hiss with a scowl coating my features.

  “No.” His deep voice lowers another decibel, making him sound like something straight out of a nightmare. “You had time to go off and fuck anyone.” His rich, coffee-colored irises scream ‘guilty’ when they stare into my own eyes, as if they’ve already convicted me of a crime I never committed. He finishes, “Especially whoring around with random men in clubs.”

  “Fuck! You!” I fiercely whispered. I moved so quickly to stand, the chair jolts. His brothers straighten in their seats, gazes locked on Matteo and me, waiting for instructions, no doubt, and most likely shocked to hear me breathe such disrespectful words toward their brother, the almighty Capo.

  The guests quiet, turning their heads to stare at me, waiting. For what, I have no idea.

  Matteo gets to his feet, his body so big and imposing, close enough to mine that I don’t know where I begin and he ends. His large palm scorches me as it contacts my upper arm, his grip tight enough that it draws a gasp from the silent promises his touch inflicts. I shouldn’t react to him like this from a mere touch; no one should be able to hold that much power over another. His chest rumbles in a barely-constricted growl against my back as his other arm crosses over my stomach. Possessively, his free hand lands on my hip, anchoring me to his firm chest. His touch is full of ownership, no doubt making a statement to the rest of the room that I’m his, and no one will ever have something that belongs to a Vendetti.

  His cock’s solid, seated against my ass cheek and lower back. The sheer size pressed against me indicates that it’s bigger than I ever envisioned a man’s cock being in the first place. Of course, it’s large. Why would I expect anything less when it comes to Matteo? Not only does he look perfect, but his cock is most likely perfect, and while we’re at it, he probably fucks perfectly as well.

  I imagine this is what it feels like to have a criminal at your back, one who’s holding you at gunpoint. Sweat beads along the back of my neck. The room suddenly feeling a bit clammy, and goosebumps rise over my flesh as my breathing become labored. My heart beats at a rapid pace, the thrum just there, waiting...wondering.

  Is he going to kill me in front of them? He’s dangerous; everyone knows he’s the Ruthless Vendetti. And now, he’s also my husband. Will he simply snap my neck? Or will he slit my throat and allow everyone to bear witness to his new bride bleeding out at their feet?

  I always do this to myself—get in regrettable situations—and here I stand with him plastered to me, right in the very center of everyone’s attention. My lips part, to say who knows what? But before I can stammer out anything even remotely understandable, the man over my shoulder speaks, or more like jests. It’s so unlike his broody character I’ve grown to expect from our brief encounters.

  “In true Vendetti form, I must retire. Mia Moglie has a long night ahead of her.” I can hear the too pleased smirk sitting on his lips as he pompously implies I’ll have my hands full.

  With a cock that size, no doubt I will, but I won’t be fucking him. I don’t want to sleep in the same bed as him, let alone allow him to make love to me. Married or not, I won’t have sex with an asshole who likes to embarrass me. I don’t care how mortified my mother would be. Matteo owes me an apology. While we’re at it, his father and brothers owe me one as well. His father for examining me, his brothers for eagerly watching, and then this infuriating male for the constant inadvertent subjection to embarrassment. I hate it that, even through it all, I can’t stop thinking of him, can’t stop savoring that pineapple as if it’s how his lips taste, can’t stop clenching my thighs together...just knowing that when he does finally take me, my body will be ruined for anyone else.

  The room breaks out into knowing chuckles and cheers and his brothers stand. Their towering bodies create a wall on either side of us, their presence one full of protection. Their menacing muscles all clad in designer suits that were no doubt hand stitched to perfection with each individual firm body in mind. I’ve never been in such a close proximity of so many devastatingly handsome men as I have since arriving at the Vendetti mansion.

  Mansion is an understatement as well. It’s more of a compound that looks as if it were designed for a future king. No wonder they call it an empire; it’d have to be a freaking empire to be able to live in such opulent wealth. And it’s supposed to be my new home. I’m supposed to live alone, amongst all these men? Sleeping in a house full of dangerous, experienced killers?

  The guests raise their glasses in a toast to our union as Matteo’s grip further tightens and he nearly drags me alongside him. His strides are much too long and quick that I find myself stumbling, my feet attempting to keep up in the five-inch Italian-made stilettos. Rather than pausing, he hugs me to his body—nearly lifting me from the floor as one brother follows closely behind, holding my ripped dress together. The rest of Matteo’s brothers fall into what I’m assuming is their normal formation when being around their Capo. They quickly close ranks around us, swallowing our forms into the middle of tailored suits and large, buff bodies.

  “What’s the rush? Jesus, you’re going to break my ankle!” I can’t walk in these pretty shoes no matter how much my mothers had me practice in the past, and Lord knows, I’ve tried to today. At this rate, I’ll be visiting the emergency room for not life-threatening injuries before he ever has a chance to wring my neck.

  With a grunt, he plows forward. Another of his brothers takes my free arm, his enormous hand wrapping around my bicep. He lifts me farther than Matteo, to the point that my feet no longer touch the ground at all. This is absolutely ridiculous. The handsy brother leans in; Salvatore’s his name, if I remember correctly. He’s the one who sat directly across from me at the table earlier too.

  His warm breath hits my ear, “Moglie.” His rumbling deep rasp of “wife” in Italian leaves his lips sounding like mouyaay. The endearment coming from a Vendetti reminds me more of a collar around me claiming their ownership. The noose constricting around my throat, no matter how smoothly spoken as if he’s the one I married earlier and not his older brother.

  “Enemies are always scheming and plotting—planning a hit. You just became the empire’s biggest weakness and you go and stand up in front of the room, in the open. Stupida moglie, you’re so beautiful, but so, so stupida. I’m not cleaning up blood today; not even yours, Princess.” He leans up, still holding me close and off the ground as he keeps up with Matteo’s brisk pace.

  Luciano—I believe—the one holding my dress together, bends forward, his nose nearly in my hair. “We have plans for you,” he shares ominously, and I choke on the retort I had for Salvatore insisting that I’m s
tupid.

  Plans? I thought they didn’t want to clean up any blood, even mine. I’m so screwed. My father never should’ve left me here in New York amongst people who can’t stand my family. I’m in a cage full of vipers, and I’m the newest snack—a mouse ready to be swallowed by whoever’s hungry first. The hall passes in a blur as my head grows dizzy. The nervous perspiration shifts from my neck to dot my brow as well. I’m a frazzled, hot mess.

  Eventually, we stop in front of a locked door. I’d never forget this room and my embarrassment at the hands of Matteo and his father, Romano. I clear my throat, mumbling, “The uh, exam room?” I’d rather be anywhere but here, remembering the mortification on my parents’ faces as I was taken away to be “checked over.” Why on earth would these brothers bring me back to this place? I was hoping I’d never see this door or room again.

  I’m met with various growls from the men surrounding me. What in the hell kind of plans could they have that would elicit a reaction of growls? I don’t think I want to find out.

  “Strap her down.” I give the order effortlessly upon entering as we usher Violet to the leather exam table once again, leaving no time for her to fight us. We had the element of surprise for Romano’s premarital exam; she’s not that naïve this time around on what the table’s used for.

  “Wait, what?” Violet gasps, on the verge of protesting. She probably doesn’t believe her own ears and with good reason. She will be strapped down, though; it’s nonnegotiable.

  Laying her down, she begins to squirm her delicious petite body in all different directions. Not that she can move much in that constricting dress. Perhaps I should thank her mother for it rather than curse her thoughtlessness. The sight of her struggle has me groaning with anticipation, knowing she’ll make those same moves when I have my tongue lapping at her tight, virgin pussy. Her protests are useless; she can’t escape my grip. My brothers surround her, holding her in place so we can get her arms and legs strapped in.

  “Stop this!” she yells and an evilly delightful chuckle rumbles through my chest. Seeing her fired up is a sight to behold. The poor flower’s frightened, but she needn’t be. We aren’t going to hurt her—too badly, at least. We’re just gonna bruise up that perfect pussy a bit.

  Briefly turning away from the sight of her pink cheeks and flushed chest, I reach for a pair of scissors. I can’t help but rush myself, wanting to finally see those perfect tits without any more damn barriers. The woman sets me on edge just looking at her. I want her naked and wrapped around my cock.

  “Please,” she pleads, voice growing frantic. “Don’t kill me!”

  Dante grins, running his fingertips across her cheek. “Shhh, we’ll make you feel good, beautiful.”

  Her fearful gaze locks on mine as I approach, scissors ready to slice through every piece of fabric in my way. “Matteo, what are you going to do to me? W-what’s he talking about? Please just let me free.”

  “Dante always speaks the truth,” I rumble and her irises flick to him, then back to me after he nods. I leave out the rest of my answer. That she’ll never be free, that she’s my wife—mine. Violet Vendetti’s my unspoiled little flower to keep and care for. To nurture how I see fit. She’ll be lucky if I don’t lock her in one of the tower suites and only let her leave once I’ve fucked her into submission.

  But first, we must go about the tradition.

  My brothers’ palms rest on various places over her frame, holding her securely while I cut through the lace gown. I hope she’s not one of those women expecting to keep her wedding dress as memorabilia of her wedding day. I could save her some scraps. My slices make quick work in ruining the delicate design. We rip the fabric away, almost as one, each of us anxious to see her body bared before us.

  “Matteo, please stop.” Violet chokes the words free, her voice lowering to hide the tell that she’s about to cry. Is it so wrong of me that I want to see the drops flow over her cheeks? Maybe have a small taste as I fill her core? She’s so young, yet I find myself overzealous to possess her entirely. “Why are you doing this in front of them?” she gasps, goosebumps running wild over her exposed flesh. “I’m your wife!” The last is merely an uttered whisper, yet I feel it all the way down to my toes, as if she were screaming it in my face.

  “Si, mia.” Yes, mine. If she only had an inkling of what that title truly brought with it. Her life as she previously knew it is no more. She’s a Vendetti now—my queen to the empire and she must pay her price for her safety to all of us.

  “Then tell them to leave,” she bargains, “and take me to your suite.”

  Cristiano swallows roughly with a curse, ready to pounce. Being the youngest, he’s showing a great deal of restraint. If I were in his shoes, I don’t know if I’d be able to hold myself back. Her pleads must be driving him crazy as well.

  Violet’s scantly covered in what remains of the ivory lace, a bra fashioned from the same material as her dress. The material’s so thin, we can all easily see her tan areolas through the dainty design, lying in wait to be caressed. Her pebbled nipples are further enticing, begging us to remove the lace bralette and suck them greedily. The tiny white triangle between her thighs barely covers her waxed pussy, and I know I’m not the only man in the room whose mouth is watering at the sight. I want to lick her, eat her, and fuck her until she can no longer take me.

  “Matteo,” Santino utters, licking his lips, urging me to continue, and I nod.

  They eagerly watch as I snip each thin satin strip holding the lingerie in place, ridding the remaining barriers. My wife’s securely strapped in place to the table, the stirrups spreading her legs just enough that we can see everything. She’s completely stripped and bared to my brothers and me, seven men each looking their fill as she’s unable to move or hide herself from our lustful gazes. Tears run freely over her high cheekbones, mixing into her hair, and I swear she’s never appeared more beautiful than this moment right here.

  So vulnerable, mia fiore—my flower.

  “Touch her,” I command, and she sputters with the frightened eyes of a doe, staring up at me as if I’m her newest nightmare in the flesh, her very own monster here to torment the poor thing. The argument dies on her lips as Valentino keenly runs his fingertips over the tender skin on the inside of her bicep. Violet’s breath catches in her throat on a gasp, her tearstained gaze jumping to follow Valentino’s touch.

  “Sei così attraente quando ti arrabbi,” he mutters with a smirk. Silently, I agree with him; she is breathtaking when she’s angry.

  “W-what?” she questions, as her forehead scrunches in confusion. She flicks her curious eyes between the two of us. My brothers chuckle around us. Violet’s too Americanized for our familia. She’s not fluent in our tongue, and she’ll miss out on a lot of conversations and remarks because of it.

  “You’re not familiar with Italian, Violet?” Santino questions and leans in, as he caresses the side of her face, wiping the sweet tears away. “Did your familia not speak to you in our own language?”

  She swallows, her mind momentarily distracted. “I can pick up random words. My papa never allowed it; he preferred to keep me out of his business.”

  Santino doesn’t have to reply. We’re all thinking the same thing anyhow. Her father is smart and stupid. Smart to have an easy way to keep her out of his dealings and stupid for not sharing an important part of our culture with his daughter. She should be fluent and he should’ve spoken to her in Italian with pride. I suppose it should be expected, though; the bastardo is a Bottaro after all.

  Not being able to refrain myself from touching her flawless skin any longer, my palms land on her thighs. My large fingers splay widely, taking up as much of her pale flesh as possible. I’m greedy. I want to touch and feel as much of her as possible all at once. I’ve heard enough talking tonight, and the truth is, that I don’t pay any mind or respect to her babbling father. As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing him a favor having his daughter under my care
and protection, and now I plan to reap any such benefits from the situation I was pressured into.

  But first, the tradition.

  “Is this a consummation thing?” she asks, biting her luscious fucking lip. I want to nip that part of her as well and feel her breath against my mouth as she mewls underneath me. “Are you all going to watch me and Matteo as witnesses?”

  Cute. God, she’s so fucking cute and innocent.

  My brothers look to me with amusement and begrudgingly my heated gaze leaves her succulent pink folds. Clearing my throat, I mutter, “Something like that. And also they’re all going to fuck you...” At her gasp, I continue. “The number one priority of a Vendetti male, is keeping the bloodline strong. You’re the new queen, fiore; it’s our job to make sure you have a Vendetti child in your womb immediately. What better way than for all of us to fill you with our cum? We’ll breed you, impregnate you as soon as possible with our strong line and have you pushing out sons in no time.”

  Her little hands fist, but it’s no use, she still can’t move them to defend herself. “You expect me to be pregnant right now?” she repeats with outrage. “But we were barely freaking married today! This is madness! You guys are crazy—all of you.”

  Santino grunts, his voice gravelly, no doubt from her state of undress. “It’s your life now. Get used to it.”

  Cristiano nods. “No use fighting it, non pensarci troppo con la tua bella testolina.” He finishes switching to Italian without realizing it. It’s going to take some practice for us to realize Violet doesn’t understand what we’re saying when that happens.

  She peers at him puzzled for a moment before Salvatore grumbles to the sixteen-year-old, “English asshole.” He turns to her then. “He says not to worry your pretty head, babe.”

  With a snort, she moves to disagree and Luciano covers her mouth with a tsk. “Enough!” he growls. With his free hand, he flicks the closure on his slate colored slacks open and looks to me for his next move. “Matty?”