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Were it not for the elders, I’d still be running the underground fighting rings and managing debts, never rising beyond the role of executioner. Hell, I’d probably be where Nico is now.
“Marriages are to forge alliances,” Cecilia continues, “not make worse enemies.”
“Is there a better match, or a stronger bloodline, than the Loveras?”
“I’ve provided many fine suggestions over the years—”
“And have we ever gotten close to finding a weakness in the Lovera’s defenses?”
That, Cecilia has no answer for. Her eyes lower, mouth set in an unhappy frown.
“The girl serves two purposes at once. Let me see how Gio acts now that he’s on the backfoot.”
She drops her gaze, letting the topic go. She has no choice but to defer to me. It’s for the better. I won’t be talked out of it, and the woman doesn’t have that many breaths left to waste them trying to persuade me.
I draw the men’s attention toward our war efforts and bring the meaning to that which can be changed.
Now that I’ve had a taste of her, I’ll marry Contessa or no one at all.
6
Contessa
My new digs: a four-poster canopy bed, a cozy window nook overlooking the lawn, an antique wardrobe and dresser set made redundant by a spacious and very empty dressing room, and an attached bathroom with a separate bathtub and walk-in shower. I have spent the morning scrutinizing every inch of this room, getting to know its tasteful cream-and-gold color scheme all too well. It has a vintage classiness with modern standards.
What it doesn’t have are any secret doorways or passageways cleverly hidden in the walls. Not even a secret fantasy world hidden in the back of the wardrobe. I checked.
All I find in my scouring of the room is a cheap plastic pen, forgotten in one of the drawers of the nightstand. I spend a few lazy minutes contemplating my odds of using it as a weapon. The custom print job on the side advertises some hotel in Chicago. It feels like neither of us are meant to be in this room, but we’ve somehow both been carried here, one way or another.
I sigh and throw myself back into bed sheets, the mattress squeaking. Last night pulses behind my eyelids whenever I close them. With absolutely nothing to occupy myself with, no phone or TV, not even a book, my thoughts turn endlessly toward last night. When I close my eyes, I can feel him there, his body heat between my legs, his hands on my thighs. If I let the fantasy run too long, I ache to touch myself, but his growl still echoes in my thoughts—I don’t even want your own fingers between your legs without my permission. I’ll show you how you should be taken care of.
I have no reason to listen to him. Salvatore would never know. But somehow, his order keeps my hands above my waist and the hunger between my legs.
Besides, there’s nothing I could do to myself that he couldn’t do better, my treacherous thoughts whisper. Even those thoughts I’m hearing in his voice.
A soft knock at the door shakes me out of the monotony. I clutch the pen in my fist just in case. The lock clicks and the door swings open. My well-aimed glower is not so well-aimed at all. My eyes drop from where I expect to see Salvatore, down several inches, to stop on a short girl with a mop of dark brown curls and a softly freckled face.
She balances a tray of food against her hip and carries about a dozen bags on the other arm.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly, the word landing flat and awkward between us.
“…Hi?”
A man stands just past the doorway, almost out of sight. I toss the comforter over my legs, trying to hide the fact that I’m still half-naked from the waist down, but he stays back in the shadows of the hallway.
“Sorry. This is—I’m no good at introductions. I’m Ava,” she says, all in a single breath.
“They asked me to make sure you have everything you need. I brought you breakfast and some clothes.” Her words pitch as she almost upends the tray of food.
Unable to sit and watch her struggle, I take the tray from her so she can set the endless number of bags on the floor.
“Thank you…”
I’m not sure if gratitude is the appropriate response in my situation, but good manners are hard to shake. “Where’s Salvatore?”
She glances over her shoulder, toward the doorway, but gets no answer from the man standing guard there.
“That’s a little above my paygrade,” she admits. “Do you need him?”
