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“You can call me Mr. Valiente.” My bark is equally as ferocious as my bite.
“Then you may call me Mr. Notelli.”
A sly grin takes over my face as he puffs out his chest in defense.
“Deflate that ego. You and I both know I won’t be treated with anything but respect. Don’t dare spit on my shoe, Giuseppe. This deal is at my mercy. Don’t fuck it up.” This gains Emelia’s attention, and that’s when our eyes lock. I take notice of her cut cheek, and my shoulders square.
“Giuseppe, is that a mark on my future wife’s face just days before we are to be wed?” I step up to her, and she retreats when my hand extends to touch her cheek. Our eyes lock, her brown ones a stark contrast to my green ones.
“What’s this on your face?” I grip her chin and tilt her head to fit directly in line with my gaze.
“If she gets a little out of line, a heavy hand will do the trick, like I told you on the phone,” her father responds, and it’s in a tone that stokes my rage—a simple statement as if repeating the weather.
Did he not heed my warning?
Emelia’s eyes never waver from mine, and I see her own raging storm behind them, millions of secrets she holds—tales she could tell of how awful her father is to her or the horrors this house has seen. All of which could be used for my selfish agenda.
This provokes me. One thing I have always stood by, and most call it old fashioned, is you don’t fuck with women who are members of the familia. I keep her chin in my hand, assessing the mark, from the thin laceration to the bruising around it, shades of yellow, purple, and blue.
My words finally come. “I do not care if you are her father. You see—arranged or not, she is going to be the wife of the most dangerous boss this country has ever seen, and you are not excluded from his wrath. It only builds the strike against you that I find myself having to repeat this, as you didn’t hear me clearly the first time.” I let go of her chin, not leaving my spot in front of her.
“Hit the queen of my outfit ever again, and you will see exactly why I’m so feared. Don’t touch what is mine,” I growl, my jaw tightening, then releasing repeatedly as I pull my gaze from my betrothed and adjust only my head to stare at her father.
Giuseppe tries to hide the gulp, but I’ve observed the fear of God in so many eyes that I know it when I see it. Turning my expensive pointed shoes, I step up to him.
“Lastly, don’t ever tell me how to handle my wife. You must have grown impaired with your memory, since I told you this once before.”
He nods, a gesture I didn’t expect. Being a boss, you don’t let others come into your home and bark demands or insults. I’ve done both in less than five minutes. But then again, I have too many people who will take my side in this war if he and I were to get into one. The man would be wise to politely break bread with me.
I glance back at Emelia, and I don’t miss the way she looks at me, like I’m a damn mystery. To her, I’m a stranger. While I will not love or treat her like some treasure, I won’t let others hurt her. If she is weak-looking or poorly represented, then that becomes a reflection on me.
“The arrangement hasn’t started yet. You are showing a hefty amount of disrespect to the head of this house and this state.” He attempts to sound bigger than his nod let on moments ago.
I put my hands in my pockets and lift my shoulders. I suspected after that moment of submission that he wouldn’t say anything back. I will give him some points for finally standing tall in his own establishment. But I will always have more to say, in order to get the last word. Call it a character flaw that I have.
“Then we shall call it off and continue to build alliances against one another. Why not? I like a little fucking chaos.”
He swallows thickly, his eyelids tightening, and I watch him hold back all the things he wants to say to me. All of which he knows I wouldn't tolerate.
“Honey, let’s not square off. We’re here to celebrate the joining of states. Please, let’s not spoil dinner.” His wife, Isabelle—a wise woman, clearly—steps in and pats his chest softly. With one more look of pure disdain, he turns and gestures for us to go inside.
“Future Mrs. Valiente, lead the way,” I tell Emelia. When she continues to just eye me fiercely with so much focus and interest, I drop my chin and raise my brows.
“Oh yes, sorry. This way,” she stammers, staggering a bit as she moves into place. She wears a white sundress, and it hugs her body nicely as her hips sway while she walks.
I’m not disappointed with the extra prize I get with this deal. I’m a red-blooded male. I am feral and like to fuck that way. She will break and mold for me. My own personal toy. One I can fuck whenever and however I want.
Emelia’s hips—they’re perfect and thick enough to grab, control, and help throw her around like a rag doll. Rough touches, heady fucking, with screams of pure ecstasy is how I like it.
The trick will be coming to terms with having a wife. Being tied down isn’t for men like me. Yet, I don't think I will ever truly be tied down, even when I’m married. I could still have women on the side. Emelia is an arrangement, a way to bear an heir.
We both know the rules. She doesn’t seem like a stupid woman who would think there will only ever be her for as long as my cock is still functioning. However, if she enjoys the way we fuck, I wouldn’t complain having that body under me at all times of the fucking day.
As we walk, she peers at me over her shoulder, her brown orbs admiring me. And although I have no lack in confidence, I still appreciate it.
Stepping into the dining room, I see the table set with a feast meant for dozens of men. It is a typical Italian meal, with many types of pasta, wine, cheese, and cannoli.
“This spot is meant for you,” Emelia speaks, and her voice is a raspy one. It’s feminine but has this spice to it that makes her sound sensual. It will be fucking intoxicating coming from her lips when we’re in the throes of passion.
