Page 6 of Brutal Union
Bulletproof. Of course it's bulletproof. My fist bounces off without even leaving a mark.
The sprawling penthouse unfolds before me in vertical opulence. Italian marble beneath my bare feet, cold and unforgiving. Paintings that belong in museums, not private homes. A kitchen that could feed fifty, though I doubt he hosts dinner parties. Every surface gleams with the kind of perfection that money can't just buy. It commands.
I clutch Mother's rosary tighter, the wooden beads my only anchor in this sea of excess. Her prayers couldn't save her from this world. They won't save me either. But the familiar weight in my palm keeps me from shattering completely.
The elevator requires a keycard. The one beside it, marked SERVICE, requires the same. I try both anyway, pressing the call button until my finger aches. Nothing. The stairs I finally locate are behind a door that won't budge no matter how hard I pull. Even the terrace door, leading to what must be a spectacular view, remains locked.
Forty floors up. No way down except through him.
The silence stretches as I start exploring systematically. Twenty minutes isn't enough time to search properly, but I try. My stomach growls, but I won't eat his food. Won't drink his water. Won't use anything in this prison that isn't absolutely necessary. My throat burns with thirst, but I ignore it. This is the only control I have left: what I allow into my body.
The silence presses against my ears. No traffic sounds penetrate the bulletproof glass. No voices from other apartments. Just me and the soft hum of climate control, recycling the same trapped air over and over.
By the time I've searched what I can reach, I know he'll return any moment. The master bedroom with its California king and silk sheets I'll never touch. Guest rooms that have never hosted guests. A library lined with first editions that makes my heart jump. A gym that smells of his sweat and violence. Each room more beautiful than the last. Each room another bar in my cage.
In his office, I notice the details that scream mafia more than wealth. A map of Chicago with territories marked in red, a photo of him with his brothers all in dark suits at what looks like a funeral, a crystal decanter with amber liquid that probably sealed blood deals.
The Irish won't take this quietly. Blood will spill because of me. Whatever happened at the cathedral after he carried me out, his brothers positioned like soldiers, Dante's hand on Liam's throat, the chaos erupting as we left, it's only the beginning.
The Ming vase is in my hands before I realize I've picked it up. Some dynasty, some century, probably priceless. The weight feels good. Solid. Real.
I hurl it at the wall with every ounce of rage in my body.
The shatter is magnificent. Porcelain explodes across marble, thousand-year-old pottery becoming worthless shards. The sound echoes through the penthouse, sharp and final. For one glorious second, I've destroyed something of his.
"Feel better?"
I spin. He's leaning against the doorframe, watching me with those dark eyes. How long has he been there? How did I not hear him enter? There's a speck of blood on his white cuff. Someone else's blood from whatever happened after he left me here.
"I'll break everything in this place," I promise, already reaching for another priceless object.
"Break whatever you want." He pushes off the doorframe, moving toward me with that predator's grace. "I'll just buy more."
The casual dismissal of my destruction makes me want to scream. Of course he can buy more. Men like him always can. Why does his casual wealth make my stomach flutter when it should disgust me?
I back away, but there's nowhere to go. He's between me and the door, and the windows at my back might as well be prison bars.
"You've been watching." It's not a question. There must be cameras everywhere. "Watching me like some caged animal in your private zoo."
"Always watching," he confirms, still approaching. "Did you really think I'd bring you here and not monitor every move?"
His cologne hits me as he gets closer. Bergamot and something darker, more dangerous. The scent overwhelms my senses, makes my head swim. I press back against thebulletproof glass, wishing I could melt through it, fall forty floors, end this before it really begins.
He stops just out of reach, studying me. "You didn't eat."
"I'll starve first."
"No, you won't." His certainty makes my skin crawl. "You're too smart for that. Too practical. You'll fight me, principessa, but you won't destroy yourself to do it."
I hate that he's right. Hate that he knows me well enough to predict my limits. "How long have you been planning this?"
"Long enough." He reaches past me, his body caging mine without quite touching, and adjusts something on the window. The tint changes, darkening the glass until the city disappears. Now it's just us, reflected endlessly in the black mirror. "The judge will be here any moment. Just as the afternoon light turns golden."
My blood turns to ice. "What judge?"
"The one who'll make you mine in every way that matters. Legal. Binding. Forever."
The judge looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. His hands shake as he arranges papers on the coffee table, not meeting my eyes. Smart man. He knows what kind of monster he's serving today. Knows this is family business, the kind that ends in blood or bondage. Not a priest. Luca found someone more flexible with morality than Father Molina would ever be.
