Page 1 of Red Retaliation
CHAPTER
1
Arianna
Three Hours Earlier...
HE CALLED ME A WHORE. Hetreatedme like a whore. Every day. But none more so than when he fucked me. Pressing my face down into the satin pillows on the super-king bed - the bed that had cost thousands of pounds and the one he had specially commissioned - made him feel important. He enjoyed throwing his money about. And he had lots of it.
He had lots of everything: power; kudos; respect. That’s a hilarious concept because he sure as hell showed none to me. But this was what I’d been brought up to expect. What I’d been taught, schooled and conditioned for.
Since the day I was born into the Galvatore family as the eldest daughter of Emiliano - a man feared by all and just as much as the Bristonis, I was a bargaining chip. And because of this stupid, idiotic, insane tradition within families such as mine, I was the ‘thing’ to fuse these two oh-so influential and powerful families together. Me - Arianna Galvatore, who before getting past the point where I’d lost interest in brushing dolls’ hair to make them beautiful, I’d been taught that beauty and obedience was what all girls and women should strive to achieve.
I was also informed a lot more than that was expected from me.
I, in particular, must be beautiful, poised andperfect. Because if I wasn’t, Roberto would not marry me.
But marry me he would because that was what had been arrangedbetween our fathers the minute I was born, exactly five years and five days after Roberto.
It was easy. I would cement the union, and our families would be joined - a powerful and lucrative decision for all parties.
Except me...
But like the dutiful daughter and woman I grew up to be, I did as I was told. And my life could not have been worse because I hated Roberto Bristoni. Hated him with a passion.
My husband was the most abusive, controlling and disrespectful creature to ever walk the earth. This said a lot considering what the men were like in the families I knew, but Roberto held the ultimate accolade of that title.
There was no point in pleading to be released from my personal hell. Who would I speak to? My father? He’d orchestrated the sale of my life and body without so much as a second glance to ask if I was happy about it. What did that matter? I was merely a pawn in the overall outcome.
My mother was no better. Her take on life was to be a good wife. To put up and shut up:‘Women like us don’t have opinions, Arianna. We are obedient and act on what is expected of us, come what may. That is what we do.’
I understood my parents’ reasoning. It was what they believed was right and what they felt was in my best interest. However, it felt the very opposite because marrying Roberto wasn’t whatIwanted to do.
But my opinion made no difference.
I mentioned being unhappy once. I tried to anyway. Without getting as far as finishing my sentence, let alone telling my mother what wasreallygoing on behind closed doors in the massive Knightsbridge home my husband owned that served as my prison, my words were cut short with the simple,‘He’s your husband, Arianna.’
Except he wasn’t anymore.
I force my eyes in the bed’s direction where my husband lies flat on his back, his lifeless eyes staring like dead fish at the high expanse of the mirrored ceiling.
I swallow the impulse to laugh.
Instead, I shake.
The trembling starts at the ends of my long, professionally manicured nails and travels up my fingers and along my slender arms, where it splinters off in various directions, taking up residence in every other part of my body.
This vibration gets stronger. It’s so intense that the blood on my hands, which sprayed from the gaping wound in Roberto’s neck, is so plentiful that drops flick off to stain the crisp whiteness of the Egyptian cotton sheets.
Yes, the last time my husband called me a whore was the final time.
And do you know what? I’m glad I killed him.Morethan glad.
Because the one thing I am not and never will be is awhore. Roberto is the only man who has ever known my body, and that will not change. After this nightmare, I will let no man near me ever again.
Not caring that my hands caked in congealing blood are sticky and uncomfortable, I pull off my wedding and engagement ring combo. These Cartier rings Roberto commissioned are undoubtedly exquisite, as well as costing the earth, but to me they’re merely a symbol of two years of misery and torment.
Casting a contemptuous glare at Roberto’s now flaccid cock resting against his thigh, I move to the bed, a small part of me waiting for him to spring up, grab me around the throat and pin me down to take what he wants, like usual.
