Page 21 of One Savage Union

She likely imagined worldwide debuts as a classical pianist.

She craved standing ovations and awards, not parties celebrating the ultimate prize of a man's name.

My name.

I imagine there were no fantasies of white dresses or Rolls-Royce Phantoms delivering her to lifelong purgatory. Her career and independence meant too much to her to get caught up in the fairytale of matrimonial bliss.

Still, you can't be a woman in America without the wedding machine being jammed down your throat. Thanks to cable television, she knows what a wedding is supposed to look like. However, nothing on TLC or Bravo could prepare her for this moment.

Lucia stands beautifully in my office, trying to ignore her sore behind, wearing the same filthy dress in which she waskidnapped. She’s also nursing a growling stomach. I hear the evidence as I hold tightly to her wrist. She’s reached behind her and snuck no less than five mints from my desk since we’ve been here.

She’s trembling, not with fear, but with fury. I admire it, truly. She holds her head high despite knowing there’s no way out. She’s magnificent in her defiance—an inferno refusing to be extinguished. And God help me, I crave her submission just as much as I desire that fire.

The priest clears his throat. I prefer to use a judge in a situation like this. And that was my plan, until the judge I hired was found slaughtered in his chambers an hour ago.

Leo.

“Shall we begin?” He presses.

Lucia doesn’t even look at him. Her gaze is locked onto mine, those deep brown eyes seething with hatred. She speaks before I can, her voice steady.

“I won’t do this.”

A slow smirk tugs at my lips. “Oh, but you will.”

“I’d rather die.”

I step closer, closing the space between us, my grip tightening around her wrist. “Dramatic, la mia piccola palla di fuoco. But we both know you don’t mean that.”

She jerks, trying to free her arm, but I don’t budge. And then I see it. The flicker of something calculating in her eyes. She’s planning something.

I let her believe I don’t notice as she subtly shifts, her fingers inching toward her sleeve. It’s almost admirable, her desperation. The way she’s willing to grasp at any possibility of escape, even when the odds are stacked against her.

Then, in a flash, she moves, fingers closing around a hidden ice pick. My little warrior. Clumsy but brave.

She lunges, aiming straight for my throat, but she’s predictable. Before the blade can touch me, I catch her wrist in midair, twisting just enough to send the weapon clattering to the floor. Her sharp cry of pain barely registers.

The priest steps forward, ready to intervene, but I lift a hand.

“No,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “Let her have her fight.”

Her chest rises and falls with each ragged breath. She’s panting, her entire body rigid with anger, but I see that flicker of regret behind her bravado.

I grip her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze. “That was a mistake, Lucia.”

“Go to hell,” she spits.

I chuckle, stroking my thumb over her jaw. “Oh, Lucia. You are going to learn, my love. You will fight, you will rage, but in the end? You will submit.”

She shudders, and for a split second, I wonder if fear courses through her-or something else.

The priest, looking increasingly uncomfortable, clears his throat again.

“Priest, leave us,” I command him. “Wait outside the door. It seems my Piccola Ragazza needs a reminder of why we’re here.”

Lucia gasps and pulls against my grasp. "Hold on," she shouts. "I thought you said we were coming upstairs to meet a judge. Do you mean to tell me you dragged an actual man of the cloth into this blasphemous sham of a wedding?”

Looking uncomfortable, the priest quickly exits the room, and Mario comes out of the shadows and steps closer to Lucia and me. From the surprised look on her face, she must not have realized he was in the room.

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