Page 12 of Brutal Union
"Weakness?" Valentina sets down her glass with deliberate control. "Is that what you think the Bernardi family trades in?"
"Among other things." Sofia's smile widens, scenting blood. "Though I suppose spreading your legs for an alliance was more desperation than weakness."
The temperature drops ten degrees. Valentina's knuckles go white around her napkin, but before she can respond, Luca leans forward with that unsettling grin.
"Speaking of spreading legs," he says conversationally, "when do we get to sample the merchandise? Family discount, right Marco?"
Faith looks up, probably to scold him, but I don’t give her a chance.
My fist slams into the table before thought catches up to action. The wood cracks, crystal jumping, wine sloshing. The sound echoes through the room like a gunshot. The splintered mahogany cuts into my palm, but I barely feel it through the rage.
"She's under my protection." My voice comes out deadly quiet, the tone that makes grown men piss themselves. "That extends to family. Especially family."
Luca holds up his hands in mock surrender, but his pale eyes dance with interest. He's studying my reaction, filing it away. Faith touches his arm, a gentle reminder that pregnancy makes her nervous around violence, and he settles back like a leashed wolf.
"Protective," Alex observes mildly. "That's new."
"That's final," I correct, letting them all see the violence lurking beneath my suit.
Valentina watches me with those dark eyes, not with fear but with something like curiosity. She's examining my violence the way other women study flowers, with detached interest rather than terror. Fuck. Even her analytical gaze makes me hard.
"Boys and their toys," Sofia sighs dramatically. "Though I suppose if you're going to collect a Bernardi princess, might as well be a pretty one."
"I'm not a toy," Valentina says quietly, but there's steel beneath silk. "And I'm not weak. Whatever assumptions you've made about Bernardi women, I suggest you reconsider."
"Assumptions?" Sofia arches one perfect eyebrow. "What else would you call a woman traded between families like cattle?"
"A survivor." Valentina's voice cuts through the room. "I survived twenty-three years with my father. Twenty-three years of being groomed as a bargaining chip while watching him destroy everything he touched. You think your disapproval will break me? Your brother's violence? This pretty prison?"
She stands, hands flat on the table, addressing the room like she's holding court. The movement makes her breast brush my shoulder, and the contact shoots straight to my cock. I shift in my seat, grateful for the table's coverage.
"I've been slapped for speaking at family meetings. Locked in my room for questioning orders. Watched my mother die for trying to leave. I learned to smile while bleeding, curtsy while furious, and plan while everyone dismissed me as decoration." Her eyes find each of my siblings in turn. "So no, Sofia. I won't break in a week. I won't break at all. I'll survive this the way I've survived everything else."
Christ, her defiance makes me want to bend her over this table and show my entire family exactly who she belongs to. Make her scream my title again while they watch.
The silence stretches taut. Then Dante does something that shocks everyone.
He smiles.
Not his usual ghost of expression, but an actual smile. His hands move in quick signs that Ana translates: "She has spine. Good. Marco needs someone who won't fold."
"Well fuck," Alessandro says, raising his glass. "The princess has teeth."
Even Sofia looks mildly impressed, though she hides it behind another sip of wine. The tension shifts, not friendly but no longer actively hostile. Valentina has passed some unspoken test, proved herself worthy of more than contempt. Every approving glance from my siblings shifts something between us.
"Twenty-three years," Nico says quietly from his post by the window. "That's a long time to play prisoner."
"Not prisoner," Valentina corrects, sitting back down with fluid grace. "Student. I learned everything about how this world works from watching my father fail at it."
The insult to her father hangs in the air, bold and deliberate. My family exchanges glances, recalibrating their assessment of the Bernardi princess who speaks of her own father's failures without flinching.
"Perhaps not a week then," Sofia concedes, the closest she'll come to approval.
Dinner continues with less blood in the water. Ana tells a story about catching Dante composing at three AM, his way of processing the week's violence. Faith mentions plans for the nursery, her hand protective over her small bump while Luca watches with an intensity that would terrify anyone who didn't know him. Alex regales us with tales of his latest "negotiation" with the dock unions, which definitely involved more than talking based on his scraped knuckles.
My wife lifts her wine glass to her lips, and I remember those lips stretched around my name as she came. My cock throbs, and I shift again, the ache becoming unbearable. Four days ofsleeping beside her, inhaling her scent, feeling her warmth, and not touching her is its own exquisite torture.
When plates empty and conversation lulls, Valentina stands and begins gathering dishes. The simple domestic gesture stops everyone cold.
