Page 70 of Bound in Debt
My body shoots into a sitting position, ready to— Well, I don’t know, but I want to smack the living shit out of him. His superiority is more than infuriating and I am far from clueless about sex and the ways of the world. “I’m sorry that I don’t have forty years of life behind me, you washed-up mobster. But I’ll have you know I’m not some—” I’m on my back within a split second, tossed down by Dante before I can process his movement, setting my head spinning.
His grip closes over my right wrist, forcing it over my head and pinning it into the pillows. I freak out, and with my other arm still free, I crack my palm sharply against Dante’s cheek and the sound echoes in the harsh silence that follows.
The burn of that slap tingles in my own skin.
However, I don’t have time to wince or rub at my red flesh because Dante is fighting me for control. His long, thick fingers latch around my left forearm, trying to drag it above my head to trap both of my wrists. He settles his weight over my hips, keeping my thighs pinned beneath him. Still, I manage to jab my knee into his ass, knocking him off balance just long enough to rip my left arm free again.
Shoving at his chest, I think I have him for a moment, but something inside him comes alive and that’s when I know I’m no match.
Dante secures himself back over my body, his knees on either side of my hips, and it’s clear he doesn’t have the patience for any more games when he expertly takes hold of my arms and clamps them above me in one hand.
“Are you done with your temper tantrum, princess?”
“Screw you,” I spit out, arching up in protest. “And get off me.”
“Now, now, princess,” he taunts me easily. “That’s no way to treat your husband on our wedding night.”
I attempt to wiggle my body out of his hold, but it’s obvious I’m truly stuck underneath him. “You’re not my husband. This isn’t real.”
“It’s real in the eyes of Father Charles.”
“I don’t care what some priest thinks. You’re never going to be my husband and I?—”
“Calm down, Victoria,” Dante orders, using his free hand to brush my hair away from my face. “There’s no need to get hysterical.”
There’s no need to get hysterical.
Right.
Because we’re both trying to convince ourselves that after we pay this Italian mobster we’ll be in the clear. We’ll be able to freely live our lives. That I won’t ever have to watch my back again.
My sense of security is gone. The idea that six million dollars will fall out of the sky without my having to get pregnant is a pipedream. Even if it did, I don’t feel safe here anymore. How could I? Angelo Lombardi knows who I am. He knows my family has money. What happens when he decides six million isn’t enough, that he wants more?
“I want out of the States,” I stammer, a sob working its way up my throat. “I want to go to Paris. I can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”
“I’m not going to let anything happen?—”
“You’re not going to be here if we pay him back,” I retort sharply. “We’ll get a divorce, go our separate ways, and he’ll still be here. He knows who I am. What if he tries to ransom me to my family for more money? I don’t have my passport yet and I can’t get out if he?—”
“Enough,” Dante bites out before the pad of his thumb skims along the side of my cheek. The touch doesn’t soothe away the chaos in my head. My life as I knew it is gone. The risk is too high, not only for me, but Ellie, too. We live together, were seen talking to Chase together, and no one will believe she doesn’t know what I’m up to. Neither of us have the resources to keep Lombardi at bay unless we involve the cops.
Even if we did, I doubt it would make a difference. Any help they could give would be too little, too late. Because if a mob leader senses cops closing in, wouldn’t he just off them or something? Or the person who snitched to them in the first place? Mobs don’t tolerate snitches, they handle them.
Dante’s weight suddenly lifts from my body, coming to rest against my side as he releases my arms and hooks an arm around my waist. I roll towards him, my hands gently falling to his shoulders. His hand slides up my body and I try to enjoy the sparks of awareness dancing under my skin. Eventually, his palm comes to rest on the side of my face, his thumb stroking back and forth across my cheekbone as he forces me to look at him in the faint light.
“Why Paris?” he gently asks, not pausing in his rhythmic stroking.
“It’s…beautiful.”
“It is.”
I almost grin, latching onto the quiet assurance in his voice. “You’ve been there?”
“Once.”
“For what?”
“Don’t ask.” His vagueness dismisses the tiny bit of glee I felt and my muscles tense. Dante notices, and he pauses a moment before continuing our conversation. “What are you going to do there?”
