Page 34 of Brutal Union
"She's my sister." Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, desperation replacing fury. "Please. Marco, please. You have the power to stop this."
"At what cost?" I study her face, the way desperation makes her even more beautiful. "What would you give me to save your sister?"
"Anything." The word comes out immediately, no hesitation. "Everything."
"Dangerous words, principessa."
"I mean them." She rises on her toes, bringing our faces close again. "Save my sister, and I'll stop fighting. I'll be your perfect mafia wife. I'll warm your bed, bear your children, stand beside you at every family gathering. I'll choose you, truly choose you, not just come home but stay home."
The offer hangs between us, tempting and terrible. Everything I've wanted offered freely, but for the wrong reasons.
"You'd whore yourself to save her?"
Her chin lifts. "I'd do anything to save her. The question is, are you man enough to protect what's yours? Or does your protection only extend to things that benefit you?"
The challenge in her voice makes my cock hard despite the gravity of the situation. This woman, my wife, standing here negotiating with me like an equal, using my own possessiveness against me.
"If I do this," I say slowly, "if I stop this wedding, save your sister, there's no going back. You're mine completely. No more resistance, no more pretending you don't want me, no more sleeping on the far edge of the bed like proximity to me is poison."
"Yes."
"You'll beg for my cock. Scream my name. Submit to everything I want to do to that perfect body."
Her breath catches, but she holds my gaze. "Yes."
"And if you're lying? If you go back on this deal?"
"I won't." She presses closer, until I feel every curve against me. "Save Alice, and I'm yours in every way you've been waiting for. This isn't just about protection anymore, Marco. This is about whether you're the man I'm starting to believe you are, or just another monster using women as currency."
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Luca: "Wedding scheduled for tomorrow night. They're moving fast."
Twenty-four hours to stop a wedding, save her sister, and claim what's been mine since I carried her from that altar. The game has changed, the stakes raised beyond anything I anticipated.
I push back from the bookshelf, already calculating what it will take. The Irish won't give her up easily. Blood will spill. Men will die. But looking at Valentina now, tears on her cheeks and steel in her spine, I know I've already decided.
"Pack a bag," I tell her. "We're going to get your sister."
The relief in her eyes is almost worth the war I'm about to start. Almost as valuable as what she's promised in return.
"Marco." She catches my arm as I turn to leave. "Why? Why would you do this?"
I look back at her, this woman who came home to me, who chose her cage, who's about to become mine in every way that matters.
"Because you're a Rosetti now," I say simply. "And Rosettis protect their own."
The truth is darker, more possessive. I'm not saving Alice out of kindness. I'm doing it because Valentina asked, because she offered herself completely, because the thought of her grateful and willing in my bed is worth burning Chicago to the ground.
12 - Valentina
The leather seat sticks to my bare thighs as Marco’s Escalade cuts through Chicago’s empty dawn streets. His cologne fills the confined space, mixing with gun oil and danger, making my nipples peak beneath my dress despite the terror coursing through me. My fingers trace the Bernardi estate layout on his tablet, marking guard positions from memory while my stomach churns with equal parts fear and something darker: anticipation.
"The wine cellar entrance here," I mark the spot with a trembling finger. "Father never posts guards there because the lock is electronic. He thinks technology is more reliable than men."
"Rookie mistake," Alex says from the backseat, his voice smooth as aged whiskey despite the gun visible beneath his jacket. "Technology doesn't have instincts. Can't smell when death walks through the door."
Marco's hand covers mine on the tablet, his thumb finding my pulse point. The touch is meant to steady me, but it sends liquid heat straight to my core. Twenty-four days since he stole me, and my body still responds to him like he owns it. Which, I suppose, he does.
"How many guards inside?" His breath stirs my hair, and I have to fight not to lean into him.
