AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Nick
Marco approaches down the hall, his eyes on me, only a hint of murder in them. At least his lip is repaired, the split almost unnoticeable.
“She’s getting ready for tonight,” I caution him. “Knock first.”
Turning, I tell my men, “He can come and go as he pleases. To you, he is part of the family.”
“I’m a Scalingi.” He puffs his chest out.
“Look, kid.” I keep my voice as even as I can. “I’m sure you’re tough as fuck over at the Scalingi house. But here, you are a guest. I expect you to act accordingly.”
“I’m free to leave?” he challenges.
Damn, this kid is full of piss and vinegar. I was probably a lot like him when I was his age, but that was over a decade ago. “What are you, 17, 18?”
“Fifteen.” His pride could choke an elephant, and his defiance reminds me of his sister.
The tilt of his head, the look in his eye--perhaps he got those traits from my Sophia. Even so, he needs to know who is the master of this house.
“All right, 15. Behave. Everyone here knows the score. You’re my bride’s brother. Keep your shit tight, and everything will be fine.”
“You can’t just take her like this.” He steps to me. Not in my space, not quite begging for me to hit him, but close.
“Did you make that objection when your father sold her to Antonio Tuscani?” I step to him. In his space. Begging him to make a move. Because I’m nobody’s bitch. I want this kid to like me, to eventually see me as a brother, but I don’t take shit. Not even from him.
His gaze darts away and then back to my eyes. “I told my father to leave her alone, to let her do what she wanted.”
Now, there’s a notion. “What did she want?”
“I mean.” He shrugs and eyes me suspiciously, but continues, “She always liked to write. Not books, but she had a million magazines and loved to read culture stuff. Clothes and shit. Art. Whatever the newest trends are.”
“She would write?” The idea piques my interest. I intend to spend plenty of time learning about my bride, examining every bit of her to try and understand this insatiable need for her and the lightning-fast connection we have, but getting a head start never hurts.
“Yeah.” He seems to loosen up just a little, his shoulders not so high, his temper fading.
I step back. “Stories?”
“Like, she’d I guess sort of pretend she worked for those magazines or websites? And she’d write her own little essays.”
“You read them?”
“Pfft. I don’t read that shit.” He looks at the burly guards outside her door. “Too, um, girly. I’m not into that. Just porn for me. And mechanic magazines. Motorcycles. Stuff like that.”
I smirk. He’s read her work.
He continues, “But I know she’s a good writer. You’d think she was in some penthouse in New York or going to that fashion week bullshit. That’s how good she is. But she wasn’t allowed to do what she wanted.” He frowns, his young face momentarily turning into a much older one. “Our father would’ve flipped if he’d known. So she hid it, and eventually, she stopped.”
“Why?”
“Because my father decided she’d be better as a bride to the Tuscanis than anything else. When she found out he’d promised her to Antonio…” He meets my gaze. “She just stopped.”
Interesting. I file away that information, intending to take it out and look at it later. There’s even more to Sophia than I imagined, and it only makes me want her more. But I promised her--and myself--that I would wait. No matter how badly I want to go in there and speak to her, kiss her, fuck her, make her moan, I won’t. This union is going to be holy, and then I’m going to make our bond so solid that nothing will ever shake it.
“What do you think you’ll get out of taking her like this?” The swagger is back, as if Marco just remembered he’s supposed to be playing the heavy.
“A queen.” I can’t put it any more directly.
“You mean a plaything.”
