Page 49 of Forbidden Sins

It’s not a real courtship, I want to blurt out. If it were, I would have the opportunity to say no at the end of it, to deny Vito if I don’t want him. But I’m not going to get that chance. This is a formality, like everything else leading up to the day of my wedding will be, a performance for the sake of my father’s pride and sense of himself. He wants to think of himself as generous, as a good father, and so he’s doing this.

“I expect you to welcome him,” he continues firmly. “Vito expects a certain type of wife, Estella. He is old-fashioned, as am I. He holds the old values and ways close to his heart.” My father pauses. “He will expect submission, Estella. Obedience. A pleasant demeanor and a welcoming smile. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I whisper. The word tastes like ash on my tongue. “I understand.”

My father smiles, pleased at how quickly I’ve capitulated. I want to vomit. “You may go,” he says, glancing back at the papers on his desk. “Vito will arrive late next week, as soon as his affairs in Boston are tied up. You have time to prepare yourself for his arrival.” He glances up at me. “Remember, Estella. I expect your best behavior.”

I nod, forcing myself up out of the chair. It’s an effort to walk slowly to the door, to hold the tears back until I’m outside of the room. My eyes burn, and it’s not until I’m in the hallway that I lean back against the wall, one hand pressed over my mouth as tears start to leak from my eyes.

This is unbearable. But I will have to bear it, somehow.

For Sebastian’s sake, if nothing else.

16

SEBASTIAN

Imanage to emerge from my room just in time to find out that Vito fucking Bianchi is moving into the Gallo household.

Healing from the beating that Antony and his men gave me has been absolute hell on earth. There were moments, over the past several days, where I wished he’d just fucking killed me. Just put a bullet in my head and finished me off, so I wouldn’t have to endure the suffering of healing from the wounds he inflicted.

Particularly the damage he did to my cock.

I’m still not a hundred percent sure I’m going to be able to use the fucking thing again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was his intent, after finding me with his daughter. For the first few days, getting an erection was unthinkable, even though my cock looked swollen to full-size constantly, thanks to the beating. I couldn’t touch my fucking balls without excruciating pain, but I had to, or risk getting an infection from not cleaning all of the wounds that Antony left me with, over every inch of my fucking body.

Then, yesterday, the swelling went down enough for my body to consider functioning again. I woke up from a dreamabout Estella, nearly screaming in pain as my cock valiantly tried to get hard, only to send the second-worst pain I’ve ever felt ricocheting through my entire body. This morning was pretty much the same. I’ve had morning wood every day of my goddamn life, and now it’s become just another method of torture.

Serves me fucking right,I think as I get dressed slowly and laboriously, taking inventory of my other injuries. The bruises have started to turn an ugly green and yellow that covers basically all of my front and sides from my face down to my knees. The welts have gone down somewhat, but the cuts are still ugly and healing, especially the two that I had to stitch on my own, sitting on the bathroom floor that night and alternating between stitching and nearly passing out.

I don’t know what would have happened if Estella hadn’t come to me that night. I might have died for all I know, wallowing in my own pain and misery until a fever hit and took me off from sepsis or something like that. No one was going to come take care of me, as far as I know, but maybe Antony would have called a doctor in the morning. He said he wanted me to live to suffer through the rest of this, so maybe he just wanted me to stew in it overnight.

Whatever the plan, I’m still alive now, and I can’t stop thinking about Estella, kneeling beside my bed in that green dress, looking so much like an angel that I thought I actually died for a second.

I would never have expected her to take care of me like that. A part of me knows I should be angry that she put me at risk again, more than herself, but I can’t be. I know how afraid she must have been, how badly she must have needed to see if I was alive.

The house is chaos when I emerge, reminiscent of Estella’s twenty-first birthday. I swallow hard, pushing that day out of myhead as I make my way down the hall, looking for someone who can explain what’s going on. The staff is moving too quickly for me to speak to anyone, and I turn down another hall, moving at a slower pace than I’d like…and coming to an abrupt halt when I see Estella.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her since the night in the garden. She’s wearing running shorts and a loose t-shirt, her hair up in a ponytail, bits of it clinging to her face and neck with sweat. Her cheeks and neck are flushed, and she looks utterly fucking gorgeous.

“Sebastian.” She breathes my name, and the way she says it immediately dispels any thoughts I might have had that I over imagined what happened in the garden, or later that night when she came to my room.

She feels the same way I do. And that just makes what we both have to do that much harder.

“Estella.” I keep my voice as neutral as I can. “What in the holy hell is going on around here? Why is everyone running around like the President is visiting?”

Estella’s face instantly drains of blood, and I know the answer is nothing that I want to hear. She stands perfectly still for a moment, her jaw working as if she’s trying to speak and can’t.

“My father picked a husband for me,” she says finally. “Vito Bianchi. He’s coming to stay with us for a little while, to court me before the engagement is made official.”

Her voice sounds so empty, so hollow as she says it, that it feels like every word is a dagger to the chest. She sounds defeated, hopeless, and all I want to do is go to her and hold her, tell her that I’ll fix this, that I’ll protect her from it somehow.

But I can’t. And if I try, Antony has made the penalty for it very clear.

“Vito Bianchi,” I repeat it, and Estella nods slowly.

The choice horrifies me. The thought of that man marrying Estella, touching her—I feel my stomach twist with nausea, threatening to make me vomit up nothing. Antony couldn’t have picked a worse one of the four for her, and a part of me wonders if it’s a punishment—if it’sherpart of the punishment, for being caught out in the garden with me.

But just as quickly as I think it, I know it’s not true. Antony might be furious, but he wouldn’t stake his family and empire’s future on consequences for his daughter. He chose the man he thought would be best for the future of everything he’s built, and that man happened to be Vito.

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