Page 35 of Brutal Union
"Six during the day. Two at the main entrance, two patrol the grounds, two inside." I close my eyes, picturing the rotation I memorized as a child. "But Father might have increased security for the wedding."
"Doubt it," Alex glances at us from the backseat, his green eyes knowing. "Men like your father assume their daughters are too broken to rebel. No offense, sister-in-law."
The casual use of my new title makes something twist in my chest. "None taken. He's right. I was too broken. Until…"
I stop myself before saying 'until Marco.' But his thumb strokes across my knuckles, and his dark eyes hold mine with that possessive satisfaction that makes my core tingle.
"The wedding's tonight," Marco says, his voice carrying that deadly calm that means someone's about to die. The sound makes my pussy clench. "We get Alice out before noon."
Alex's laugh is sophisticated menace. "Nothing says 'til death do us part' like stealing the bride. Though in our family, that's usually more literal."
Despite everything, I almost smile. But then Marco's hand slides to my thigh, possessive even while planning war, and I lose my breath entirely.
"Once we're inside," I continue, forcing focus through the haze of his touch, "Alice's room is on the second floor. Third door on the right. We shared it until…" Until Mother died. Until Father moved me to the other wing, punishment for looking too much like the woman who tried to leave him.
"Quick and clean," Marco says, but his fingers tighten on my thigh, and I know he's thinking about after. About what I promised him if he saves Alice. My body floods with heat at the memory of my desperate bargain:Save my sister, and I'll stop fighting. I'll be yours completely.
"Unless dear Papa has other plans," Alex adds with dark elegance. "Then we improvise with style."
The estate appears through morning mist, and my throat closes. Marco's hand moves to my neck, thumb pressing against where my pulse hammers. "Ready, principessa?"
"No," I breathe, hyperaware of his touch. "But Alice needs me."
"And you need us," he murmurs, low enough that Alex can't hear. The words hold promise and threat in equal measure.
The wine cellar entrance opens with Father's birthday. The cellar stairs descend into darkness that smells of aged Barolo and childhood terror. I threw up here the night Mother died, and I swear I can still smell the acid fear.
"Guard," Marco whispers, his body pressing against my back, and God help me, even now my traitorous pussy clenches at his proximity.
Carlo stands at the top of the inner stairs. Kind Carlo who taught me to ride bikes. My feet freeze.
Alessandro flows past like expensive smoke, his arm sliding around Carlo's throat with elegant efficiency. "Pleasant dreams," he murmurs as Carlo's eyes close. He lowers him carefully, checking his pulse. "He'll wake with a headache and a story worth telling."
The care in the gesture makes my chest tight. These killers showing mercy because I need them to.
The house feels like a mausoleum. My feet know every creaking board, every painful memory. Marco's hand on my lower back guides me, his thumb finding the dimple at my spine through my dress, possessive even in my childhood home.
Alice's door is cracked open. I push it wider and my heart stops.
She's wearing Mother's white nightgown. It looks like a wedding dress, or a funeral shroud, draped over my baby sister's drugged form. Her eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide.
"Alice," I whisper, rushing to her.
"Val?" When she finally rouses, eyes blinking against the drugs, her voice is thick. "Father said… said you're a Rosetti whore now."
The words sting, even knowing it is Father talking. "I'm here to save you, baby."
"Can't… Christopher is… Father says…"
"Father says a lot of things." I smooth her hair back, fighting tears. "Most of them are lies."
The door slams. The lock clicks like a coffin nail.
"How touching."
Alonzo stands flanked by three guards, guns drawn. He's wearing his best suit, the one for special occasions like selling his daughters.
"I knew you'd come," he says with that particular blend of disappointment and satisfaction he perfected over years. "My weak, sentimental daughter."
