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My cock almost explodes in my pants. I almost wish it did, so I’d be able to think straight, make the right choice here. She’s clearly asking me to be her first. She’s almost twenty-one, a full-grown woman. And fuck, shedoesget to give her body to whoever she damn well wants, right? What the hell is this mafia hypocrisy about all their brides being untouched virgins? Those motherfucking men bang everything with a hole before they’re old enough to drive. Fuck their rules. Fuck them all.
Do it, Zedd.
That’s why you came here.
That’s whyshecame here.
My eyes flick around the mostly empty stands. Not enough cover here, not even in the back row. She’ll be screaming like a witch being burned if we get on this train, and we need privacy.
My throat tightens as my well-trained mind goes over a mental map of the entire tennis center. I scoped out the inner hallways earlier, found several private locations ranging from single-occupancy handicap restrooms to janitor closets big enough for two.
But although I’d take her anywhere with wild abandon, Amelia deserves better. Her first time isn’t going to be hunched over a bathroom sink or pressed up against a pile of mops and brooms. She’s a princess and she deserves more.
More than this.
More than me.
It’s over.
You love her too much to take the risk, Zedd.
You’ll never know the sweet taste of her pussy.
But at least you know what it feels like to love someone enough to let them go.
And so I let her go.
I turn and walk the fuck away.
7
AMELIA
Fuck him.
Fuck men.
Fuckallmen.
I storm through the Four Season’s lavish lobby, my maid hurrying behind me, Father’s two bodyguards flanking me like I’m the First Lady of the United States. The elevators leading to the Penthouse suite are ready and waiting, and when I get to the room I head straight for the master bedroom and slam the door and lock it tight.
Throwing myself on the king-sized bed I try not to burst into tears, do my best not to hammer the bedspread with my fists like a child throwing an epic tantrum.
Except Iama child, willalwaysbe a child in this primitive mafia world where women are property, used for their fuck-holes and their wombs, all of it done under the guise of “protection” and “privilege.”
“Privilege, my ass,” I grumble, rolling myself onto my back and staring up at the ceiling. “It’s prison, not privilege. And I want out.”
But I’ve been through this a hundred times before. There is no realistic way to get out of this life. Not without hurting the Family, hurting Zedd, hurting myself.
And now, with my arrangement sealed with Ralph Romero, there’s no getting out without putting all of us in real physical danger. Zedd is right that the Romero Family outnumbers and outguns us. They own Atlanta, and their territory reaches all the way into Northern Florida. And Father is right—an alliance between the Romero and Volini Families makes sense because of how the borders of our territories line up. I know how mafia politics works. It’s not so different from nation-state politics.
Shared borders are the number one cause of wars.
If your neighbors aren’t your allies, they’re your enemies.
My arranged marriage will seal a permanent peace between the Romero and Volini Families.
And me breaking that arrangement will guarantee war.
