Page 23 of Brutal Union
Antonio's scream cuts through the club as I continue breaking his hand one bone at a time. Blood pools on the marble floor beneath our booth as compound fractures tear throughskin. The precision of it, the control, makes it worse than random violence. This is artistry.
"She's mine," I growl, still crushing what remains of his hand. "My wife. Under my protection."
His soldiers step forward but freeze when my men materialize from the crowd, weapons visible. The smart patrons are already backing away, giving us space. The stupid ones pull out phones until my security makes them reconsider.
Antonio writhes at our feet, cradling his destroyed hand against his chest. White bone fragments protrude through torn skin. He'll never use that hand properly again. Every time he tries to hold something, he'll remember the price of touching what belongs to Marco Rosetti.
I stand, pulling Valentina up with me.
Blood spreads across the white marble, dark in the club lighting. Antonio whimpers, trying to crawl away, leaving a red trail. The sight should disgust my wife. Horrify her. Should make her pull away from the monster she married.
Instead, she presses closer.
The heat of Valentina's body against mine tells me everything.
She's aroused. By the violence. By watching me destroy a man for daring to touch her. I can smell it on her, that sweet scent stronger now, mixing with perfume and champagne. Her nipples are hard against my chest where she presses close, and when she shifts, I feel her legs squeeze together, her hips dancing.
But there's something else too, the rapid pulse at her throat that speaks of fear, not just arousal. The way her fingers twine together.
Security arrives to remove Antonio, dragging him out while he bleeds and moans. The other patrons give us a wide berth,conversations resuming but quieter, everyone hyperaware of what just happened.
Across the club, movement catches my eye. Christopher O'Brien sits at the bar, watching us with calculated interest, his pale hair brushed back to expose every inch of his ferret face. He raises his whiskey in a mock toast, his smile sharp as glass. The younger O'Brien brother, smarter than Liam, more dangerous because of it. He's been too quiet since the wedding.
"Problem?" Valentina asks, following my gaze.
"Not yet," I say, but we both know that's temporary. "You're shaking," I observe, my hand on her waist.
"Yes," she admits, but doesn't pull away. If anything, she moves closer, seeking my heat, my presence, even as I feel her internal struggle.
"You liked it," I say against her ear, not a question.
Her breath hitches. "That's sick."
"That's honest." My thumb strokes her waist through the silk.
She turns her face into my chest, hiding her expression, but I feel her body's response. The way she melts against me, how her hands clutch my jacket, the slight roll of her hips seeking friction.
"Shut up," she whispers, but there's no heat in it.
The club continues around us, but we exist in our own sphere. Her arousal perfumes the air between us, making my cock twitch.
"Let's go," I say, starting to guide her toward the exit.
"No." She stops, looking up at me with dilated pupils, flushed cheeks. "Not yet."
"Why?"
"Because if we leave now, I might…" She stops, biting her lip.
"Might what, principessa?"
She laughs, bitter and beautiful, but doesn't answer.
I trace her jaw with my fingers, feeling her lean into the touch despite herself.
"I hate you," she says, but her hands are still clutching my jacket, keeping me close.
"I know." I kiss her forehead, gentle despite the violence still singing in my blood. "But you're starting to need me anyway."
