Page 67 of The Red Queen

“You could have told me the truth!” she snarled, rolling off the side of the bed and staggering as pain and alcohol hit her. She steadied herself against one of the massive bedposts.

“When?” he demanded, coming around the end of the bed toward her. “When you were delirious from the pain of losing your finger? Or maybe I should have told you when you were blowing up my kitchen.” He gripped her shoulder and shook her. “You were too emotional and too traumatized to think clearly.”

She shook her head in denial. “You should have told me anyway. You should have given me a choice. Now I’m married to a man I can’t trust.”

He laughed, the sound devoid of humour. “You’re angry with me for wanting to have children with you?” His grip became so hard she had to force herself to stand still and bear the pain. “What about Garza?”

“What about him?” she snarled.

“The man beat you and raped you from the age of ten onwards. You were his slave for over two decades. Yet, when he was killed, instead of running, instead of finding a new life, you sought vengeance.”

Fury ripped through her. “You have no right to… to…” She was so angry she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“To what?” he demanded, his voice rising until he was nearly shouting at her. “To call your former lover a rapist? He was, Desi, and you’re blind if you don’t see it.”

“At least he never pretended to be anything other than what he was!” she shouted. “Maybe he was a… a rapist, maybe he hit me sometimes, but he didn’t lie to me. You’re a rapist hiding behind a veneer of civility, but I see you now. I see everything clearly now.”

His hand squeezed her so hard that she thought he would crush her arm. She cried out, jerking in his grip.

He released her and dropped his hands, but his fists were clenched at his sides. Had she pushed him too far? Was he going to strike her?

He did the opposite of what she was expecting, though. He took a deep, calming breath and lowered his voice as he said, “I’m sorry I hurt you, Desi. I never meant to.”

His words had the opposite effect from what he intended. Rather than soothing the pain, they reminded her that everything she felt for him, everything she thought he felt for her, was a lie. Maybe he was sorry for hurting her, but he wasn’t sorry for bringing her to Italy. He wasn’t sorry for wanting to use her to replace his only child.

“You can’t hurt me!” she hissed, trying to slide past him and find a dark corner where she could shrivel up and die from her humiliation. “You don’t mean enough to me to hurt me.”

His lips pressed into a grim line, and he reached out to stop her. “That’s not true.”

Desi flinched back and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go back to my room and in the morning, I want to leave.”

He rubbed an impatient hand over his face, and she thought maybe he would relent, but when he looked up, his gaze was as hard as his voice. “That won’t happen, Desi. You belong to me and I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever.”

“Not even after the children are born?” she asked, sarcasm heavy in her tone. “That’s what you want, right? Babies with some fight in them. Well, you can have them and then you can let me go.”

“Desi, stop talking.” His voice was low and deadly, but she didn’t heed his warning.

She yanked at the zipper on her side, annoyed when it only slid partway down, then caught on her bandage. She dragged the strap of her dress over her shoulder and bared the black bra she wore underneath. “If this is what you want, then you can have it. My body is nothing but a tool. You won’t be the first man to use it and you won’t be the last.”

He lashed out, his hand gripping her throat so tight that any further words were cut off as he half strangled her.

She choked and gripped his wrist in both hands, but he ignored her struggles, dragging her up onto her toes and leaning down until his lips nearly touched hers.

“I said, shut the fuck up, Desiree.”

A chill ran through her body as they stared at each other, everything laid bare between them. She saw the Italian Godfather up close and personal, and he was as terrible as the whispers throughout the underworld had indicated. His eyes were hard chips of black ice and the lines bracketing his mouth spelled death. The stiff readiness of his body, the intent in his stare, was a thousand times worse than anything Nico had thrown her way. The cartel lord might have been brutal, but at least she knew what he was about, knew what to expect.

Giovanni was more terrifying to her than ever. He was granite, hard, unmoving. He was the boss of a huge mafia organization, and she was his lover. The woman who dared to hurl unwise words at him.

Desi had seconds to regret it, then his hands were everywhere, tearing at the zipper until it hung open in shreds.

His lips slammed into hers, forcing her mouth open, plundering, cutting, hurting. A kiss, but not a kiss. It was an invasion, a terrible attack that went on and on.

Dizziness engulfed her and she struggled for air, pushing against his chest and kicking out at him. He would allow no reprieve though, gripping her neck tighter and forcing his tongue further into her mouth.

When Desi thought she would pass out, he finally released her, but instead of allowing her to escape, he finished tearing the dress from her body. Without pause, he dragged her panties down her hips, baring her to his gaze.

In a lifetime of abuse, Desi had never felt so violated as she did in that moment, with Giovanni’s cold eyes running dispassionately down her body. He was trying to make a point, but how far would he go to do it? She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, that she’d learned her lesson, that she wouldn’t be so loose with her words or her temper again, but he spoke first.

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