Page 15 of Brutal Union
"Or what? You'll shoot me?" I lift my chin, defying him even as my pulse quickens. "Go ahead. It would be better than this."
"No." His voice drops to that dangerous whisper that makes heat pool low in my belly. "But your sister Alice is still unmarried. Still available for the Irish alliance your father so desperately needs. Though I hear the O'Brien's youngest son has… particular tastes when it comes to young brides."
Ice floods my veins. "You wouldn't dare touch Alice."
"I took you from your wedding altar. Do you really think I'd hesitate to collect her too?" He leans closer, bergamot mixing with something darker, the scent of violence from whatever business he handled before collecting me. "One call to your father. That's all it would take. He's already lost one daughter. He won't risk losing both."
My hands shake. "Don't use Alice as leverage against me."
"Then don't make me." He exits the car with fluid grace, coming around to my door. When he opens it, his hand extends like we're arriving at a gala instead of my continued captivity. "Come. Giovanna is expecting us."
I ignore his hand, climbing out on my own. But his fingers catch my elbow anyway, guiding me toward the boutique with that possessive touch I've grown to expect. To hate. To crave when I'm alone during the day, my fingers between my legs, imagining it's him.
Inside, expensive leather and French perfume assault my senses. Soft lighting, thick carpet, the kind of silence that only comes with astronomical price tags. An elegant woman in her fifties emerges from behind a silk curtain.
"Don Rosetti," she greets him in accented English, actually dropping into a slight curtsey. "Such an honor. It has been too long since a Rosetti wife graced my boutique."
"Giovanna." He acknowledges her with a nod. "This is Valentina."
"The new Mrs.Rosetti." Her eyes assess me with professional interest. "Bella, bella. She will look magnificent at the familygatherings, no? The other families will see the Rosetti power in how she presents."
My stomach turns. Even this stranger sees me as his possession, a reflection of his family's status.
"Whatever she needs," Marco tells her, settling into a leather chair like a king on his throne. "Everything befitting a Rosetti wife. She represents our name now."
The fitting room might as well be a stage, and I'm the reluctant performer.
Each outfit Giovanna brings requires me to strip, change, and present myself for Marco's approval. He sits in that leather chair like he owns the world, which in Chicago, he essentially does. Those dark eyes track every movement as I emerge in designer dress after designer dress.
My hands tremble as I strip again, skin prickling under his gaze. Each dress feels heavier than the last, weighted with his approval or dismissal. Silk whispers against my skin like secrets. Cashmere soft as his threats. Lace that scratches like my conscience.
"No," he says to a conservative black sheath. "Too funeral."
"No," to a bright blue cocktail dress. "Too loud. She's a Rosetti, not a party favor."
"Better," to a cream silk that makes me look virginal. His mouth curves at that one, and I want to tear it off just to spite him. Instead, my fingers find Mother's rosary in my pocket, but even the smooth beads can't calm the heat pooling between my thighs.
Mother would have loved this boutique, before Father crushed her spirit. Before she tried to run. Before her car wrapped around that tree on a perfectly clear night. Now I'm here, being paraded before the man who took me, Marco Rosetti, the same predator who's been watching me since I threw that wine at him.
"The red," he says when I emerge in a gown the color of fresh blood. His knuckles go white on the chair arms, and for a heartbeat, I see something raw beneath his control. Not just possession, but need. "Keep that one."
"It's too much," I protest, but my voice comes out breathy.
"It's perfect." His voice roughens. "You'll wear it to the next family dinner. Let everyone see what belongs to me."
Heat floods my cheeks, my chest, pooling low in my belly like liquid fire. My legs clench involuntarily, and I know he sees it, sees everything my body confesses.
"The lingerie department is through there," Giovanna says, gesturing to another door. "Should I pull some options?"
"I will choose them myself," Marco says without looking away from me, rising to his feet. The hunger in his eyes makes my core clench with shameful need.
I quickly undress in the changing room, grab the next dress and storm toward what I think is another changing room, desperate to escape his penetrating gaze. But I open the wrong door, stepping into racks of silk and lace instead. I'm standing there in only my underwear, plain white cotton that suddenly feels obscene, when his sharp intake of breath makes me freeze.
His eyes go predatory dark, traveling from my face down my barely covered body with a hunger that makes me want to run and submit in equal measure. The look is pure possession, pure want, and my traitorous body responds with a flood of wetness between my legs. I can smell my own arousal, sweet and shameful, and I know he can too.
"Marco," Giovanna's voice breaks the spell. "Should I—"
"Out." He doesn't look away from me. "Everyone out."
