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‘Capo, Signora Malvini has returned. Shall we ensure she remains in the house?’ one of the bodyguards asked, his tone wary after spotting her too.

‘No, I will do that…’ I murmured as a slow-burning anger fed the inferno in my gut.

And that was not all I intended to do to her, I thought bitterly, aware that my need for her had got so much worse since yesterday, after my misguided attempts to control it. My fear at finding her gone had been nothing short of unhinged.

I headed out of the annexe to confront the woman who was about to learn, once and for all, what it meant to be Dante Malvini’s wife.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Evie

‘Eva!’

I lifted my head to see Dante stalking towards me across the wet grass barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants—fury bristling in every stride.

I straightened my spine and braced as I waited for him to reach me.

Cold fury glittered in his blue eyes, the tensed muscle twitching ominously in his jaw while his pecs lifted with each elevated breath.

He was angrier than I’d ever seen him. And I could not have cared less.

I had prepared myself for this reaction during the long, invigorating run through Central Park, while I’d formulated my plan to get him to finally start listening to me… And, more importantly, actually start hearing me.

I already knew that getting him to talk to me—about anything other than what he expected of me—was going to be a tall order. But that was not going to stop me telling him. About me. About what I wanted, what I needed. Because I was pretty sure—after examining and re-examining his behaviour last night—he didn’t even have the first clue about that.

I’d known the longer I stayed out, the more likely it was he would find me gone—and then lose his ever-loving mind because I had dared to leave the house without his permission.

But even prepared as I was, I couldn’t contain my shock when he reached me and—instead of saying anything—bent down and hefted me onto his shoulder. He began marching across the garden towards the metal staircase that led to the house’s main living quarters on the first floor.

‘What the…?’ Getting my wind back, I started to struggle. ‘Put me down!’

‘Silencio!’ He slapped my bum—the stinging sensation radiated across my arse, a humiliating reminder of how he’d handled me when he’d kidnapped me.

This time, though, I wasn’t scared. I was incandescent with rage.

‘I’m your wife, you son of a bitch, not your trophy, or your captive. Not any more. Let me go!’ I shouted at the top of my voice.

He grunted out some response in Italian but kept going up the staircase, through the terrace doors and into the main salon.

I began to punch his back as hard as I could and kick like mad, while still calling him all the worst names I could think of in Italian, because that was one of the few things I had become fluent in, thanks to Vito’s men.

It didn’t do a lot of good of course, because the man was strong as an ox and twice my size. But still it felt exhilarating to finally fight back—while he carted me up the sweeping marble staircase to our bedroom.

He kicked open the door to our bedroom and flung me on the bed. We were both breathing heavily, our fury with each other out of control.

‘You will do as I say…’ he demanded in an echo of last night, then grabbed my ankles to drag me down the bed.

‘No, I won’t,’ I huffed, attempting to kick him as he wrestled off first one running shoe and sock, then the other.

‘You are my wife—you are forbidden to leave the house unless I say so,’ he huffed back, his breathing as harsh and furious as mine.

‘That’s not being a wife. It’s being a prisoner!’ I yelled, attempting to batter him as he grabbed my yoga pants and whipped them off too.

I scrambled up the bed, the scent of him, the feel of those rough hands on my skin, turning my fury to something else. Something visceral and erotic and scarily intense. My core pulsed with need, my nipples tightening in my sports bra, my panties already soaking wet.

He climbed up the bed after me, his gaze meeting mine, and I saw my own fierce desire reflected in his lust-blown pupils. Our fight had turned him on as much as me.

I could feel his erection through his sweatpants as he settled over me, subduing my struggles with his weight. Grasping my wrists, he anchored them above my head, his gaze meeting mine, our shattered breathing the only sound.