by K. I. Lynn
When we stepped out of his office, a woman in slick black heels and tears streaming down her face stomped toward us.
“You murderer!” I recognized her as Renata Ferrante, Giovanni’s wife. Domenico stepped in front of me, but when I watched her pull her hand back to strike him, I moved in front of him and grabbed hold of her wrist.
“Don’t you fucking touch him, you witch,” I growled.
“Get your hands off of me, maggot!” she screeched.
In her heels she was easily six inches taller than me, so I turned her wrist outward, bringing her down to my level.
“I would watch what you say to us. Your son got what he deserved, though he deserved so much more torment,” I spat.
I had no remorse in me for Roman’s death, and she would never touch Domenico again.
“Get this thing off me!” she screamed, but nobody moved.
“They won’t help you. If they touch me, Domenico will kill them.” I pushed her away and released her.
“Giovanni! Do something!” she hissed at her husband. “He killed our son!”
“And as my underboss, and a Ferrante defending what is his, it is his right.”
“W-what?” she stuttered. Her eyes were wild.
Behind her a man that looked eerily like Roman emerged. The second she saw him she called him closer.
“Manny, baby. You have to kill him.”
His eyes met mine, and I inwardly cringed. Domenico drew me behind him again.
“Kill whom, Mother?”
“That bastardo that killed my poor Roman!”
“Roman is dead?” He looked to his father for confirmation before pulling a gun from his jacket.
“Think with your head, Manetto, or are you too high to use your brain?” Domenico taunted.
“You little shit,” he hissed before pointing the gun at Domenico.
Immediately the rustle of guns being raised as men stepped in front of Domenico echoed around the marble floors.
“What the fuck is this? Stand down!”
“Loyalty is earned, Manetto, but you never did care for that lesson, did you?”
“Father, let me kill him,” Manetto pleaded.
“No.”
Manetto stared at Giovanni in anger. “You always favored him—now you’re letting him get away with killing Roman? He isn’t even a true Ferrante!”
“He is as much my son as you are,” Giovanni’s voice boomed out, echoing against the marble floors. “I gave him my name to ensure that. You’re just angry because you were taught from your mother to hate him. If you want to live, Manetto, lower your weapon.”
“Are you serious?” Manetto asked.
“Where are your siblings? I really do not wish to have this conversation over again.”
Renata lunged forward and snatched the gun from Manetto and turned it on Domenico. One of the guards was on her and threw her arm up, the gun firing off into the ceiling as he wrestled it away.
She fell to the floor as she let out a scream.
“I believe dinner should be ready shortly. Domenico, Arabella, why don’t you go upstairs and clean up,” Giovanni said.
With a nod Domenico wrapped his arm around my shoulders, keeping me close, and we followed a guard upstairs. The tension was thick, and I was waiting for another gun to go off or more hysterical screaming from Renata.
My grandfather’s house was huge, but as I stared down the hallways, I was certain the Ferrante house was larger.
I was paying more attention to the details than where we were going when Domenico opened a door and we stepped in. The bedroom was large and complete with its own en suite. It was well appointed with leather chairs and dark woods, deep navy blues and creams.
Once the door was shut, I unzipped my coat, freeing the awkward, shredded layers beneath.
A hiss left me as I pulled my arms from my jacket. “Do I even want to know what I look like?” I asked.
Domenico’s brow furrowed, answering my question. “I wish I could kill him again right now.”
I turned and got my first good look at him since I left him in the car what felt like days ago.
A deep red stain covered his shirt and I immediately pulled the hem up. “It’s Roman’s,” he assured me as I ran my hands across his skin. While the blood was Roman’s, the bruising underneath was caused by someone else. It was obvious he’d been punched and kicked, but I had a feeling there were more corpses out there.
The skin around his bullet wound was still a rainbow of colors that seemed to be spreading. His fingers brushed against my skin, and I hissed when he hit a spot on my cheekbone.
“Stay still,” he said, and I did as he requested. I ground my teeth as he probed the spot, then relaxed as he drew his hand away from it. He touched my jaw and moved it around. “Nothing is broken.” He took my hand and pulled me toward the attached bathroom.
My eyes widened as I got a look at myself in the mirror. Dried blood was splotched all over me, my skin swollen and turning purple from where Roman had struck me, welts left from the lashing of his belt. On my cheekbone and bottom lip were two scabbed-over breaks in the skin, and there was at least one gash in my hairline. Then there were the bruises that littered my body from head nearly to toe in splotches of dark and deep colors. I even had a black eye.
Streaks of rusty red stained my hips and sides from Domenico’s bloodied hands.
“I look like a nightmare,” I said as I looked in the mirror at Domenico. His arms were covered in the same red. His knuckles were split open from all the punches he’d delivered.
He was silent as he pulled me into the shower. The water stung the places where gravel bit into my skin and scratched, making me hiss. For a few minutes I just stood under the spray, letting it dissolve and wash everything away.
“Thank you,” I said as Domenico ran a washcloth across my skin, taking special care of any tender areas.
“I will always protect you.”
It began to settle in then. Domenico promised he’d figure out a way, and I knew it when he said it—this was the only way. Taking up the mantle, merging the families, was the only way we were ever going to survive.
It was never a position he wanted, nor expected would ever be his, but from what Giovanni said, it was one he was groomed for from the beginning. Above all others, Giovanni knew, possibly even from the moment he named Domenico after himself.
I was moving to step from the shower when Domenico’s fingers curled around my neck and he whipped me around to face him. I drew in a sharp breath at the intensity of his eyes.
“Hades himself will not take you from me. Ever. You are mine from this life to the next.”
“Always.”
His lips crashed to mine and he backed me up against the wall. I drew in a sharp breath when my skin hit the cold tile, but that didn’t slow him from pulling my leg up and positioning himself at my opening, then slamming in. My head fell back as I cried out. It was a moment of necessity, of need. To drive out the whirlwind of emotions and settle the adrenaline back down.
He didn’t last long, soon spilling inside me. His forehead rested against mine as he regained his breath, my leg still hooked in his arm. “Arabella Santoro, will you marry me?”
A tingle exploded in my chest and my lips curled up into a smile. “I want nothing more than to walk this life with you beside me.”
He pressed his lips to mine. “Ti amo.”
“Ti amo.”
When we exited the shower, there was an assortment of toiletries sitting in a basket, and I grabbed hold of the brush immediately in an attempt to move through my tangles. I no longer looked like death, but I did look like I’d been in a brawl. Domenico had the same look about him. We were quite a mess.
After drawing the excess moisture from my hair and drying my skin, I looked to Domenico, who had a towel around his waist and was sifting through the basket. He pulled out a tube of something and stepped over to me. His eyes met mine before his fingers pressed against my che
ekbone, the cut on my forehead, and the welts.
“This will help,” he said, then spun me around to dab it on my butt and the backs of my legs.
“How do you know all this wound care?”
He quirked a brow and pointed to his body. “Who do you think took care of me after all those fights?”
I shrugged. “I guess I assumed your mom.”
“In the beginning, yes, but as we got older and the punches got stronger, I started taking care of myself.”
“You didn’t want her to worry.”
He nodded.
“We seem to be in a predicament.”
“How so?”
I looked down at my naked body. “I don’t think I want to go to dinner wearing the emperor’s new clothes.”
He nodded, then opened the door to the bedroom. In the middle of the room stood a woman about twice my age. As soon as she saw movement, she stepped forward.
“For Miss’s modesty,” she said as she held out a basket.
“Thank you,” Domenico said as he took it from her, then turned to me. I blinked down at the items—a variety of panties and an assortment of bras, all with the tags still on them.
“I like the red,” Domenico whispered.
I shook my head as I sifted through, finding something that would not only fit but that I’d like.
In the end, I did choose a pair of red panties and a mismatched—but not really noticeably so—red lace bra.
The door to the room swung open just as I finished putting them on. A young maid scurried in with an armful of clothes, and I blinked at the stack.
“What the hell are these?” Domenico asked.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she squeaked. “All Miss Valentina wears is dresses.”
“It’s better than what I was wearing,” I said.
He gave me a side-eye before shuffling through the stack until he found one he was satisfied with.
“What does she wear in the winter?” he asked.
“Still this, sir,” the maid responded. “With thigh-high boots.”
“Of course,” Domenico said sourly.
“What are you going to wear?” I asked Domenico as he pulled open a chest of drawers.
I blinked, watching as he slipped on some underwear and an undershirt, then moved to the closet, emerging with a charcoal suit.
My mouth popped open and I looked around the room. By the blankness of it I’d assumed it was a guest bedroom, but then the familiar sterility reminded me of his house.
“This is your room,” I said as I stared at him.
He nodded. “I don’t stay here often anymore, but I keep it stocked for when I do.” He furrowed his brow at me. “What?”
I shook my head. “I’m just thinking about the difference a few months make. What I thought when I first met you.”
“You were frightened.”
“Yes, but even then I could tell you were different. You were a ruler, and you’ve remained a ruler.”
The physician arrived and looked us both over and ruled everything superficial, but he said we should call him if any symptoms arose, especially with the hard knocks my head had taken.
Thankfully Valentina’s shoes were about my size, just a half size smaller, but the maids found a pair that fit before they left. The dress, however…
I stared at my reflection, eyes wide. “This was the longer one?”
He stepped behind me in the mirror to adjust his tie, his eyes caressing my reflection. “Sadly.”
I was fairly certain my coat covered more than Valentina’s so-called dress.
My hair was drying in waves, and I had no makeup, so I looked underdressed in comparison to Domenico’s crisp three-piece suit.
I turned to look at him. One day, somewhere in the middle of my time in the cell, he arrived wearing a suit, but I didn’t get a very good look before he changed his clothes. Full access to the image made my thighs rub together.
“Is there anything you don’t look hot in?” I asked, wetting my lips at the delicious way the suit hugged his body.
He grinned at me. “I could ask you the same.”
“Umm, I’m pretty sure torn jeans and an over-stretched sweater that hadn’t been washed in three weeks answers that question,” I reminded him.
A groan left him, and he dipped his head down, his tongue brushing against my tattoo of his name. A shiver rolled through me as he pulled me close.
“Even then.”
He took my hand and I drew in a deep breath, preparing myself for the coming battle. Because that was what dinner was going to be. The rest of the Ferrante family were about to learn of their brother’s demise and their half brother’s rise.
It felt like whiplash—and quite a role reversal. At my grandfather’s Domenico had been heavily guarded, and as we walked down to the dining room I couldn’t help but notice all eyes were on me.
When we arrived, Giovanni was sitting at the head of the table. He looked up from his drink and smiled. “Much better. You no longer look fresh off the battlefield.”
The rest of the table was empty.
“Where is everyone?” I whispered to Domenico.
“They like to be fashionably late,” Domenico said with a sigh of annoyance.
A chuckle came from Giovanni as he stood and pulled out the two chairs to his right. “Sit here. They’ll be in shortly.”
“Has Manetto or Renata spread the word about Roman?” Domenico asked as he pushed my chair in for me.
Giovanni returned to his seat and swirled the brandy in his glass before taking a slow sip. “I forbade them, so it is possible, though I think Manetto returned to his line of cocaine, and Renata is probably plotting some manipulation.”
Just then there was yelling at the door, and we all looked to find a dark-haired man in a black suit spitting mad as he handed over his guns.
“Really, Father?” he snapped as he walked in, a scowl etched deep into his forehead. His features were closer to Domenico’s, with a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, and he had the same glowing silver eyes. His hair was black as night, and his obvious disgust of Domenico was apparent the second he noticed him. It was clear he was the last of the brothers—Antonio. “The whelp is here? I thought he was on the run with his tail between his legs with some bitch.” His gaze moved to me. “He brought her here?”
“Sit, Antonio,” Giovanni commanded.
“What is going on?” he asked as he looked from his father back to Domenico and me, lowering into the seat across from Domenico.
“Wait until everyone is here.”
Domenico was rigid beside me as he stared at Antonio, almost as if he was on guard, waiting for him to strike. I rested my hand on top of his, and I felt some of the tension bleed out.
I took a sip of water, and the sound of heels clicking cut through the silence. The woman who walked through the door was the physical embodiment of a stuck-up socialite. Her hair was long, her dress short, and her makeup flawless. She even carried herself with a holier-than-thou, nose-in-the-air attitude.
“Father, Antonio,” she said as she approached the table, completely ignoring Domenico. She gave me a brief glance, then did a double take.
“Is that my dress?” Valentina’s eyes were wide as she looked at me before letting out an awful screech. “Take it off right this minute.”
“She’ll do no such thing,” Giovanni said as he stared at his one and only daughter. “Sit.”
Valentina huffed and glared at me before taking a seat next to Antonio.
Next to arrive was a portly man who bore a resemblance to Giovanni, only shorter and squatter. His eyes pinched in confusion as he looked to our seats.
“Giovanni?” he asked.
“At the head, Giuliano.”
He nodded and took a seat.
More shouting from the doorway and another screech before Renata slammed something and stomped in. She shot daggers at us as she took a seat at the other end of the table, near Giuliano.
Manetto
floated in after her, clearly high as a kite, and, at her prodding, sat next to his mother.
There was a divide at the table, which was fine by me, though I was getting sick of Valentina’s glares pretty quickly. I snapped to face her and glared right back without flinching.
“Welcome, my family.”
“Roman’s not here yet,” Valentina said, stopping Giovanni from continuing.
“Because that fucker killed him! He killed my baby!” Renata roared before throwing her knife at Domenico.
It headed right for me, and I threw up my hands to block it, but there was no impact. Domenico was crouched around me, the knife securely in his hand.
He straightened and pointed it at her. “I warned you, Renata.”
“I wasn’t aiming at her—I was aiming at you.” Another item, a spoon, crashed into a wine glass, and it exploded, sending shards all over the table. Valentina screamed, and I scooted back to avoid any pieces.
“Enough!” Giovanni boomed. “Even think about throwing another item, Renata, and I will tie you to that chair.”
Her eyes popped wide before narrowing. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Giovanni leaned forward, his eyes slits. It was the same expression I’d seen on Domenico when the anger surged in him. “Try me.”
It took a moment, but Renata finally sat back in her chair. Attendants came around and quickly dealt with the glass shards, replacing all the table settings.
“Is it true?” Valentina asked, her voice cracking. “Is Roman dead?”
Giovanni nodded.
Antonio shot up from his chair, his eyes alight. “You did it?” he accused as he glared at Domenico.
Domenico reached over and brushed the hair back from my collarbone, exposing the elegant script of his name. “He hurt what’s mine.”
“Your brother laid claim to the girl. She is his property, but more importantly, she is my new daughter.”
