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“The one thing I don’t have. A bride.”
That renders her speechless. Finally, she bites out a bewildered laugh. I don’t blame her.
The girl doesn’t know how I operate yet. She doesn’t know that I’m an all-or-nothing sort of man, and that once I make a decision, it’s made for good.
“A man like you—just write a fucking check and get shipped one,” she says. Technically, I could.
“I’m afraid they don’t have what I want in stock.”
She finally gives up the fight with her ruined dress, tits out and swelling with every breath. I cup one in my hand just to watch her gasp.
“Don’t—”
“You come to my territory, you play by my rules, princess. Everything here belongs to me. Now, that includes you.”
“My friends—”
“Will be able to leave here completely unharmed. That’s the best deal that I will offer you, Contessa.”
“Tessa,” she spits and knocks my hand away, “It’s just Tessa.”
“Always knew you’d grow up to be embarrassed by that name. Contessa suits the heir of a dying dynasty, don’t you think? Nobody considers your family royalty anymore. So daddy has to go and name his daughter after a royal fucking title. The last desperate breath of a dying empire trying to remember its glory days.”
“Look, I don’t know about any of that! I don’t care about my father’s business. We don’t talk. I’m not the leverage you think I am. This is a waste of your time, so just—”
I push her against the wall again. A soft gasp leaves her lips, tinged with a vulnerable whimper.
“Is that why you want someone to take charge of you so badly? Daddy failed in his duties and now this is what turns you on?”
She doesn’t answer, trembling and flushed with both fear and arousal. My sheer presence affects her. Being powerful doesn’t do it for me much anymore. Once you climb to the top, people’s fear and respect become expected. The norm. But there’s something in the way she looks at me, like she can’t resist her own wanting. That look is better than a drug.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she whispers.
“I know you want me to fuck you.”
She doesn’t deny it. The tension that stretches between us had grown heavy and electric.
We stand on the edge of a storm that is about to start churning and throw our worlds into chaos.
I hold out my hand. One last chance.
“Come on, princess. I’ve been the monster under your bed your whole life. It’s about time we got to know each other.”
3
Contessa
In a fit of suicidal bravery, I utter two very dangerous words to Salvatore Mori:
“Make me.”
He makes me.
I don’t know what else I expected.
As far as birthday wishes go, I don’t remember asking to be slung over the broad shoulder of a handsome 6’4 mob boss and carried off, but here we are.
Salvatore Mori is a gorgeous paradox. He wouldn’t look out of place on the front cover of GQ magazine, and he would fit right in on the homepage of the FBI’s most wanted list—mugshot style. If human attractiveness has an equation, some kind of Bad Boy Golden Ratio, this man has cracked the code.
