Page 18 of Brutal Union
The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes through my body. I'm left trembling against the wall, breathing hard, squirming to ease the ache he's built and abandoned.
My fingers find Mother's rosary again, but even her memory can't cool the fire he's lit in my blood.
I'm not just losing this war.
I'm starting to wonder if I want to win it at all.
Later that night, I can't sleep. The red dress hangs in the closet like a taunt, and my skin still burns from everywhere he didn't touch. The penthouse is quiet—Marco left for "business" hours ago, and the guards are posted outside, not in.
I slip from the bedroom in bare feet. The hallway stretches before me, moonlight painting silver paths across Italian marble. I've memorized the apartment's layout during my captivity, know which boards creak, which doors are always locked.
His study door is cracked open.
I shouldn't. It's probably a trap, another test. But the glimpse of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves draws me like a magnet. I push the door wider, breath held.
The study is magnificent and intimidating, just like its owner. Dark wood, leather chairs that probably cost more than cars, and books. Thousands of books lining three walls, their spines catching the city lights through the windows. First editions, rare manuscripts, texts in Latin, Italian, Russian.
My fingers trail along the shelves, reading titles. Philosophy, history, poetry—and then I find them. An entire section devotedto warfare and strategy. Sun Tzu, Clausewitz, Machiavelli, Caesar's Commentaries. These aren't showpieces; the spines are worn from use, some bookmarked with strips of leather.
I pull out "On War" by Clausewitz, flipping through pages covered in Marco's handwriting. His notes are meticulous, connecting historical battles to current territory disputes, analyzing where generals failed and why. His mind works in layers I hadn't expected from a mere thug with a gun.
A bitter smile curves my lips. Perfect.
I select three books—ones with the most extensive notes—and tuck them under my arm. If he wants to control my body, my movements, my clothes, fine. But he doesn't get to control my mind. These books will be my small rebellion, my fuck you to his authority.
Back in my room, I hide them under the mattress like contraband. Which, in a way, they are. Tomorrow, when he's gone again, I'll read every note he's made. Learn how his mind works. Find his weaknesses.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll leave some notes of my own.
The thought makes me smile for the first time since he stole me from that altar. It's a small victory, probably meaningless, but it's mine.
I fall asleep dreaming of military defeats and margin notes written in defiance.
7 - Valentina
Three Irish soldiers are in my husband’s penthouse, and I’m crouched behind his desk in a silk nightgown, counting their footsteps on Italian marble while Marco’s voice promises death.
"You picked the wrong fucking night."
Twelve days since he stole me from the altar, and Liam's pride has finally overridden his fear. The protocol Marco explained yesterday floods back: if anyone breaches the penthouse, hide behind his desk in the office. Don't come out until he says.
My heart slams against my ribs as I press myself smaller behind the massive desk. The marble floor is ice against my bare feet, the thin nightgown offering no protection against the cold or the fear coursing through me. I'd been dreaming of that red dress, of the hunger in Marco's eyes when he saw me in it, when the sound of breaking glass shattered my sleep mere hours after I'd finally drifted off.
Through the gap beneath the desk, I can see into the living room where shadows move in deadly choreography. More glass shatters, closer this time. The distinctive accent of Irish voices fills the space, harsh and threatening in the night.
"Where's the girl, Rosetti?"
"Come find out," Marco's voice is calm with a dark edge.
My hands shake as I pull my knees to my chest. Behind me, I hear furniture crash, something heavy hitting the wall with enough force to make the floor vibrate.
"The O'Briens want their bride back," one calls out. "Your theft dishonored our family."
"Three boys with knives?" Marco's laugh is soft, deadly. "This insults us both."
The first attacker moves, and Marco becomes something inhuman. The precision of his violence steals my breath: one fluid motion to disarm, another to break the man's wrist, a third to drive a knife between his ribs. The sound of breaking bone, wet and final, makes bile rise in my throat. The Irish soldier drops, blood pooling on Italian marble.
I press my hand over my mouth to muffle my gasp. Iron floods my mouth where I've bitten my tongue to keep from screaming. This is what he is. What I've been sleeping beside for twelve nights. A killer who moves like death itself, beautiful and terrible both.
