Page 21 of Brutal Union
Tonight's appearance isn't random. The Torrelli family is here, along with representatives from Detroit. After twelve days of speculation about the Bernardi princess's fate, they need to see her with me, willing or not. They need to understand that the alliance they feared is dead, replaced by something far more permanent.
"Smile," I murmur against her ear as we pass the Torrelli table. "You're representing the Rosetti name tonight."
Her spine stiffens under my touch, but she lifts her chin in that defiant way that makes my cock ache. Twelve days since I stole her from that altar, and she still fights me with every breath. Except when her body betrays her. Except when shepresses her thighs together, trying to ease the ache my proximity causes.
The VIP booth overlooks the entire dance floor, positioned so everyone can see us while maintaining our privacy. I slide in first, then pull her against me, her thigh pressed to mine, my arm draped across her shoulders. She fits against me perfectly, like she was carved from my missing pieces.
"This is humiliating," she hisses, but her nipples are hard against the silk, visible to anyone who looks.
"This is business." I signal the waitress for our usual: whiskey for me, champagne for her. "Every family needs to see you're mine now. No confusion. No questions."
The waitress, a blonde who usually flirts, takes one look at how I'm holding Valentina and keeps her eyes down. Smart girl.
"I'm not your trophy," Valentina says, but she doesn't pull away when my fingers trace her bare shoulder.
"No," I agree, watching her shiver at my touch. "You're so much more than that."
Twelve days of her fighting me, and I'm starting to crave the battle as much as the victory. She's changing something in me I didn't know could change. The way she stands up to my family, the way she refuses to break is intoxicating.
The champagne arrives, and I watch her take a sip, her throat working as she swallows. Everything she does is elegant, even her fury. Especially her fury. Around us, conversations pause as people notice the Bernardi princess in my booth, wearing my fortune in diamonds, branded by my presence.
At the next table, I see Torrelli's wife, perfectly coiffed, dead-eyed, moving only when her husband permits. She's what mafia wives become after years of captivity. The comparison must occur to Valentina too because she tenses.
"Dance with me," I say, standing and extending my hand.
"I'd rather drink bleach."
"Liar." I lean down, my mouth close to her ear. "Your body knows the truth even if your mind denies it."
Her face flushes, but she takes my hand, letting me lead her to the dance floor. The crowd parts for us, everyone recognizing the Don and his stolen bride. The music shifts to something slower, sultrier, and I pull her against me until no space exists between us.
"Everyone's staring," she says, her hands on my shoulders.
"Good." I press my palm to her lower back, feeling the heat of her skin through the silk. "Let them see how perfectly you fit against me."
We move together, and despite her resistance, she follows my lead flawlessly. Her body knows mine, responds to it, even as her mind rebels. I can feel her heart racing where her chest presses to mine, feel the slight tremor in her hands.
"You chose this dress," I say against her temple, breathing in her perfume.
"It was the only option that wasn't completely hideous," she lies, but her breath catches when I spin her, then pull her back tighter.
"You chose it because you wanted me to look at you exactly like this." My hand spans her waist, thumb stroking just under her breast. "Because you remember how I reacted in that boutique, seeing you in red."
"You're delusional."
But she doesn't deny it. Can't, when her body is practically melting into mine, when every movement makes her breath hitch. The song ends, but I hold her for a moment longer, letting every man in this club see that Valentina Rosetti is completely, irrevocably mine.
We return to the booth, and I position her even closer than before, my thigh pressed to hers, my arm around her shoulders. She doesn't fight it this time, accepts the intimacy like she'slearning her place. My fingers play with her hair, twirling the dark strands while I nod to various associates who approach to pay respects.
Each one looks at her with want they try to hide. Each one knows better than to let that want show too clearly.
I take a sip of my whiskey, studying her profile in the club's dim lighting. "I noticed some books missing from my library. Military strategy texts—Clausewitz, Sun Tzu, Caesar's Commentaries."
Her fingers tighten on her champagne glass, but she doesn't look at me. "How fascinating."
"They're the editions with my personal notes. Years of analysis." I watch her throat work as she swallows. "You wouldn't happen to know where they went?"
"Maybe you misplaced them." She lifts her chin in that defiant way that tells me she's lying. "You've been distracted lately. Kidnapping brides takes focus."
