Page 21 of Dario DeLuca

"Do I need to put you in your place, Bella? Spank that thick ass of yours until you comply?" The suggestion is as much a provocation as it is a promise.

Her chest heaves, portraying the rapid dance of her heart—a rhythm I feel echoed in my own. I lean in, the space closing as my mouth hovers close to hers. The memory of her soft lips lingers like a phantom kiss, haunting the scant inches that separate desire from madness.

"Look at you. Speechless," I murmur. "You like that, don't you? The promise of my hand on your ass?"

"Fuck you," she seethes.

"There’ll be plenty of time for that when you're my wife," I reply.

"You'll never even get to smell it." Her voice has certainty, a conviction that might have made me laugh if I weren't drowning in her scent.

"Ah, Bella," I say while brushing her hair from her face with the butt of the gun. "You'll be begging me for a lot more than that."

With that, I leave her standing there and return to my meeting, the echo of my footsteps filling the dead air. Her fury follows me, a siren's call whispering of battles yet to come.

"I hate you," she yells after me, each syllable a fiery arrow aimed to singe but missing its mark.

"It's a thin line, Bella. A very thin line," I throw over my shoulder.

Stepping back into my office, Evelyn hops to her feet, concern and nerves written all over her. My men stay seated, patiently waiting for us to resume.

“Is everything all right, Mr. DeLuca?”

I wave her off, settling into the leather chair at the head of the table. “Just a minor disagreement with my fiancée.”

Her eyes widened and flickers to the reddened mark marring my cheek. “I didn’t realize you were engaged.”

“Now you do.” I steeple my fingers, staring her down. “Is that going to be a problem?”

She swallows, averting her gaze. “Of course not. It’ll actually be perfect for the campaign.”

TEN

MIA

The knockat the door is soft, almost apologetic, as if the oak door itself hesitates to be the bearer of his summons. I don't need to hear my name to know who beckons me. The gentle tap on the door is enough to tell me it isn’t him.

"Ms. Gordon, Mr. DeLuca requests your presence in the living room," Vivian, the woman who helped me, informs me without crossing the threshold into my room.

My voice catches in my throat. I don’t even bother to look up from the book I found in one of the sitting rooms. It was alone on a shelf full of old, leather-bound encyclopedias. It’s a mystery, not something I would normally read, but it gives me something other than my current circumstances to hold on to.

"And if I choose not to indulge him?" I cast my gaze toward the figure that stands at the threshold.

Vivian shifts uncomfortably. "He insists."

A sigh escapes my lips. “Fine.”

I climb out of bed, my feet guiding me unwittingly into the hall and down the grand staircase. Each step is heavy with reluctance as I wonder what fresh hell Dario has for me now.

Begrudgingly, I descend into what feels like a walk down the green mile. I'm greeted by an unexpected sight—bags, an array of them, branded with names that resonate with a piece of home.

I stare at them, confused as I approach them. Inside, the treasure unfolds: silk bonnets, pillowcases, and scarves in a kaleidoscope of colors.

A reverse hair dryer stands proudly among bottles and jars filled with promises of nourishment for my hair. It's a thoughtful gesture, but at what cost?

“What’s all this?” I ask, pointing at the items.

“Hair products for you, at least I hope that’s right. I read that those are staples in a Black woman’s routine, so I had Rafael do his best to find everything." His voice breaks through my musing, a low rumble that commands attention even when it's not sought. "I know you don't have your necessities, so I told him to get one of everything."

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