Page 40 of The Madman and his broken Princess
“What now?” Niccolo asked.
My gaze followed the long strands of shiny hair down Amelia’s arm. Her face was that of royalty. She would be the princess by my side. “You need to organize a wedding.”
Niccola paused. “Wedding?”
“A wedding. I have waited long enough. I won’t waste any more time. It will happen in two weeks and needs to be splendid. I want people to talk about it for years to come. Invite everyone who needs to attend.”
It would be a show and Amelia’s public submission. Everyone would see me marry a Lamorgese, and Amelia would be mine forever.
“You realize that the Camorra is still in a difficult situation? I don’t think any of the Underbosses or Falcones will be able to make it on such short notice.”
“I won’t wait for anyone. In two weeks, Amelia will be my wife.”
Huge blue eyes regarded me in shock as she struggled into an upright position. Holding her gaze, I hung up. The car pulled up next to the private jet. I motioned at it. “Our next ride. It’ll take us home.”
Amelia licked her lips, the gesture flipping my stomach in the most frustrating way. Amelia’s power over me was too great. “You didn’t even ask me to marry you.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Would you say yes?”
She tucked a strand behind her ear, then looked away toward the jet, biding her time. My heart clenched in a way that reminded me of the day I’d read her letter. She could cause me pain without even putting a finger on me, and she was wholly unaware of her power. Or maybe she was simply good at playing innocent…
“Don’t bother lying,” I said with menace. “Your consent is irrelevant. Where we’re going, only my word matters.” I shoved the door open and got out, drawing in a deep breath of fuel-saturated air. Usually, when someone enraged me like Amelia, they died.
Amelia slipped out of her door before I could open it and rounded the car. She stopped in front of me. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt, a way-too-ordinary style for my future wife. She belonged in splendid dresses.
Her expression became pleading. “I have to tell Flavia that I’m leaving. She’ll be worried sick if I just disappear, and she needs me to watch Luciano. I can’t just disappear without a trace.”
“You did with me,” I snarled. “Don’t remind me of Flavia’s role in your disappearance, or I might change my mind about sparing her.”
She swallowed hard. “You can’t force me to marry you. You’ll ruin everything we ever shared. We used to be friends. Isn’t that worth anything to you?”
Rage roared in my head. I grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed her against the side of the car. My men rushed toward the jet to give us space. They knew better than to be near me when I was in a mood.
I’d rarely bothered trying to tune down my rage and the need for bloodshed in the more than two years since I’d become Underboss. There was no need to. Now, however, with Ameliaback in my life and her newfound talent to enrage me, it was a skill I needed to learn. “We aren’t friends anymore. Right now, we are nothing but captive and captor. Soon we will be lovers, husband and wife. Whatever was between us before, you ruined it by running.”
Her expression fell. Did she finally understand what she’d done? Or did she prefer to stay oblivious? “Don’t force me to marry you, Nestore. You’re better than that.”
I glared at the enraging girl before me. “Oh no, you will become my wife. I’ll parade you around as my trophy until the end of all days. You will be the memorial of your father’s fallen kingdom and the mark of my triumph, Amelia Lamorgese.”
She tried to shove me away, but I held her tighter. She was much smaller than I was, and I had worked on my strength every day since I’d left my cell.
I leaned down until her hot breath ghosted over my cheek. My lips brushed her throat, inhaling her sweet scent, slightly sweaty from a day of work, but still perfect, way too perfect. I bared my teeth and bit down into her soft skin, wanting to leave a mark. She gasped, her body tensing under my hands, her breath stuttering in her chest.
She tasted better than any fantasy of hers. I couldn’t wait to taste the rest of her, to draw out more pants of pain from her pink lips.
Irubbed the spot where Nestore had bitten me, knowing the subtle soreness meant I’d have a bruise, which had definitely been his intention. I winced more from shock than pain—not that there wouldn’t be more pain. There would be. Nestore would make me pay with pain and humiliation. I had run from him, and in Nestore’s eyes, that made me almost as guilty as my father.
Nestore Romano hated my last name for everything my father had done to him and his family. But me… he hated me for the single act of running away. Every act of kindness and affection before my perceived crime was irrelevant.
I could see it in every menacing twist of his lips, in every harsh look, and in the fierceness of his touch.
I would become his wife.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to talk him out of it. I wouldn’t be able to run either. Nestore wouldn’t let me succeed a second time. He had searched for me for more than two years. My stomach filled with strange warmth at the thought. I wanted to believe he’d done it because he loved me, but I feared it was more out of hurt pride and fury. Could this kind of dedication, obsession even, be blamed on love?
Still, remembering his words about how I was in his heart and head, my own heart clenched with emotions. Even if I got the chance, could I really run again, knowing what it would do to Nestore? Last time, I hadn’t allowed myself to consider Nestore’s pain for more than a fleeting moment. I had been too wounded, too desperate to save myself to extend that kind of courtesy toward Nestore.
I slanted a cautious look over to Nestore. He sat several seats down from me on the private jet. I wasn’t sure if he couldn’t stand my presence or if he didn’t trust himself around me. Considering the rage in his eyes, I was surprised he still controlled himself this well. He was looking out of the window at the night sky. The city lights spread out below. Soon we would land in Los Angeles. His expression was devoid of the rage and hatred it usually carried around me. He looked almost peaceful. With that look, he reminded me of the boy of his early capture—the boy who laughed and smiled, the boy with kindness in his heart. My father had carved it out of him. I wanted to believe a tiny part of it was still buried deeply within, and I’d be the one to draw it out of him. I was stronger than the girl from two years ago. But was I strong enough to beat Nestore’s darkness?
