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Like his older brother, Marcello had never touched me. Never even tried to kiss me. He usually watched as the others humiliated me. It was as if Luca and Marcello wanted me to suffer.
Marcello slid his hand up my throat, tapping his fingers against my skin, feeling my pulse pound. “Wear the navy blue dress.”
“I’ll wear whatever I want.”
He groaned, his grip tightening as his fingers skated down my arm, creating tiny bumps in his wake. “I know what my brother likes. And what makes his cock hard will make him happy.”
“Would that dress make your cock hard?”
A guttural sound escaped his throat as his lips brushed my ear. He flattened my back against his chest, forcing me to feel how much he liked this dress. Rock hard, he clutched my throat, his fingers branding my skin. I tilted my head to the side to give him better access to my neck, hoping he would press his lips to my hot flesh. Too stubborn to take the bait, he released his grip on me.
Damn him.
I lifted the hanger from the rack and spun around to face him. Holding the wrap dress in front of my body, I stared into the mirror. The navy blue chiffon stopped mid thigh with a thin belt that tied around the waist.
“You’d only have to tug here.” I pulled on the belt. “And it would fall off.”
“If I were Luca,” he said as his eyes raked over my body, “I wouldn’t even bother with the belt.”
I licked my lips. “I’m not talking about Luca.”
Marcello shook his head. “Get dressed. Before your meeting with Luca, we’re going into town.”
I flashed a grin, excited by the thought of fresh air and sunshine.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he said with an attitude. “I can see the wheels turning into that beautiful brain.”
I gave him an angelic smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it, boss man.”
* * *
We rode in silence through Devil’s Creek, with Marcello behind the wheel and 90s rock music floating through the speakers. His choice in bands told me something about him, though Marcello Salvatore was still a mystery. He was always quiet and reserved, unlike his older brother, who had no problem overstating his authority.
Kurt Cobain’s voice belted through the car, and I tapped my fingers on my thigh to the beat of “Heart-Shaped Box” by Nirvana, one of my favorite bands.
As we rode into town, I leaned on the armrest, invading Marcello’s personal space. “Why is there a gate separating our houses from The Hills? This wasn’t here before.”
Marcello pointed at Beacon Bay, the small coastal community to the right of Devil’s Creek. Locals called it Beggars Bay because of past incidents and the significant difference in wealth.
“My father used his political influence to put gates around Devil’s Creek to keep out the beggars. We had too much crime from the surrounding towns.”
We rolled through a guarded gate, and Marcello waved at the man sitting in the booth.
“Are you sure it’s not so your father can control who’s allowed in and out of Devil’s Creek?”
“That too.”
From the outside, it looked like a wealthy neighborhood. With its sprawling mansions and manicured lawns, Devil’s Creek was a way of life for these people. Much like me, they lived in their gilded cages disguised as mega-mansions, all under the pretense that following Arlo’s rules would get them what they wanted. But this kind of happiness had a steep price.
With his eyes on the road, Marcello drove for another ten minutes in silence. He parked in front of a boutique called Caio Bella.
“Let’s go,” he said as he opened his door.
“What are we doing here?”
“Luca ordered you new clothes.”
I climbed out of his Maserati with a groan, still tired from my lack of sleep. “I have enough clothes in my closet. I don’t need any of Luca’s charity.”
