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“You live to please me. You live to give me children. And lastly, you live to do as you’re fucking told.”
I bite down on his hand, drawing blood and a chunk of his skin.
The taste of metal fills my mouth, as does the taste of my own fear. My fight-or-flight kicks in even more as I knee him in the groin.
I live to what? Hell no. Fuck off.
My hair falls over my face as I stumble forward.
“Get the fuck off me! Jesus Christ!” My breath feels tense. I try to take in more air, but I’m still winded from how he slammed me against the wall. “Let me teach you how this is going to work. You lay one fucking finger on me, and I will cut it off in your sleep, got it?”
The wine and food I ate today rise up in my throat, begging to be released. I never get angry. I tend to be dramatic—but never angry.
I spit on him as he falls onto the other side of the wall, grabbing thethingI just hit. What an asshole.
“You don’t fuck with a Romano, Kirill,” I say.
He reaches into his pocket. The only time a man reaches into his pocket in a situation such as this is to pull out a weapon.
I’m sure no woman has ever threatened him before, fearful of what his reaction would be to their harsh words and empty threats.
Before I have any time to connect my body’s reaction to my senseless thoughts, a man steps in front of me, blocking the view and pushing me back against the wall. His height has nearly half a foot on me.
Startled, the only thing I can do is look at his back. The neck of his suit has the symbol of a spade embedded in it.
Genovese.
Giovanni Genovese is the only man who wears his suits with that embroidery on it.
His hand finds mine as he clicks his gun and steps toward the man who attempted to touch me.
I feel worthless. Like a bag of rice that was sold to a man like Kirill. What the hell was Papa thinking?
“Wrong girl,” Giovanni says, kneeling down to the coward. Instead of shooting him, he kicks his face into the wall.
He backs up, looking at me. I don’t realize how shocked I must look until he whispers, “It’s fine.”
“I handled that fine. I didn’t need your help.”
He ignores me, bringing his attention back to Kirill, who is currently spitting blood, sounding like he’s choking on his own mistakes.
“And your intentions with the girl?” Giovanni asks with a voice too calm and collected for this situation. His voice could make men piss themselves. Based on the stories I’ve heard, I think he actually enjoys hurting men.
His hand runs through the black curls on his head, veins popping out of his skin.
“Just wanted to talk to her,” Kirill lies.
Giovanni holds the gun right between his eyes. “A rapist and a liar?” He lets out a sarcastic laugh. Shaking his head, he pulls three bullets from his gun. “Say, to celebrate this wedding, let’s play some Russian roulette, huh?”
“No.” The old man is nearly pleading for his life now. I want to laugh at the irony.
“This will be so fucking fun,” Giovanni says.
I don’t know what to do in this situation. I want the man to bleed for what he attempted, but I don’t want my family at war.
Shivers run through my entire body. I don’t even know what to think. Giovanni is my family now, as much as I don’t want to admit it.
Carlo Ricci inherited his father’s rule. The third most powerful family from Sicily, with the Genovese being the most powerful. In this moment I can’t think of anything else to be thankful for. I always hated what they do, but I need it now.
