Married To The Devil I Hate

Chapter 13

When Luca’s mouth crashes down onto mine, My fingers tangle tighter into the damp, dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer until the rough, covered wool of his overcoat scratches against the bare skin of my chest.

I gasp into the kiss, and he takes advantage of the sound, his tongue sliding past my lips to claim me completely.

A low groan vibrates from deep within his chest, a sound of pure satisfaction that sends a dangerous, terrifyingly hot spike of adrenaline straight to my core.

Below us, in the foyer, the quiet shuffling of his capos and the rhythmic clicking of firearms signify his men dispersing. They don't dare look up at the grand staircase. They don't dare interrupt the Devil when he is finally claiming his prize.

When Luca finally pulls back, his breathing is heavy, his lips wet and darkened by the deep red lipstick he has smeared across my face.

His blue eyes are wide, blown out with a mixture of raw exhaustion and a primitive, unyielding hunger. He stares down at me, his large hand still firmly cupping my jaw, his thumb smoothing over the tiny drop of a rival's blood he had accidentally painted onto my skin.

"Inside," he rasps, his voice rougher than I have ever heard it.

He doesn't let go of my waist. He keeps his massive, heavy arm anchored around me, physically guiding my steps as we turn away from the staircase and head down the corridor toward the master suite. My legs felt weak, my mind spinning so fast I can barely process the floor beneath my boots.

We step into the bedroom, and Marco immediately closes the heavy double doors behind us, the thick lock sliding into place with a loud, click.

The room is cast in a deep, flickering crimson glow from the dying embers of the hearth. Luca doesn't turn on the lights. He stands in the center of the dark space, his chest heaving under his ruined black shirt. Slowly, he slides his heavy black overcoat off his broad shoulders, letting the blood splattered garment drop carelessly to the floor.

I stand by the edge of the bed, watching him. The silence between us is thick, heavy, and pulsing with a new, terrifying frequency.

"You're bleeding again," I whisper, my eyes landing on his left arm.

The white medical tape I had carefully applied earlier is soaked through, a fresh, jagged blood line seeping through the bandage where the stress of the assault had ripped my stitches open.

Luca glances down at his arm, his expression completely blank. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," I snap, the lingering trace of my defiance flaring to life. I walk over to the bathroom, my flat boots silent against the rugs, and retrieve the medical tray Rosa had left out. When I walk back into the bedroom, Luca has collapsed into the heavy armchair by the fire, his head tilted back against the dark, his eyes shut tight.

I kneel on the floor directly between his legs, setting the tray down on the rug. The heat radiating off his body is suffocating.

"Take off your shirt," I murmur, my hands reaching out to hover over the buttons.

Luca opens his eyes, the blue depths reflecting the orange glow of the fire. He doesn't move. He just watches me as I reach out and begin unbuttoning his shirt. My fingers brush against the burning skin of his chest, and with every button I undo, more of his violent history is revealed. His torso is a canvas of raised white lines, bullet scars, and dark, intricate tattoos that map out the syndicate he commands.

I pull the fabric away from his broad shoulders, carefully sliding it down his left arm to avoid pulling at the torn flesh. The wound is nasty, oozing fresh blood down his biceps.

"Marco told me about," I say softly, keeping my eyes strictly focused on pouring the clear antiseptic onto a fresh cotton pad.

Luca’s entire body goes entirely rigid. His relaxed, exhausted posture vanishes in a split second. "What did he tell you?"

"He told me about the war," I say, pressing the damp cotton pad directly against the bleeding surface.

Luca lets out a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth, his uninjured right hand gripping the armrest of the chair until the wood groans under his strength. But he doesn't pull away from my touch.

"He told me you spent three years maneuvering my father into a corner," I continue, my voice shaking slightly as I wipe away the blood from his skin.

"He said you manipulated our supply lines. You bought our politicians. You let us think we were winning, just so you could isolate us from the Commission."

I stop cleaning the wound. I lift my head, my eyes locking onto his intense, freezing stare.

"He said the peace treaty wasn't a compromise," I whisper, the reality of the words made my blood freeze all over again.

"He said you tore the entire Chicago underworld apart... just to force my father to give me to you."

The fire crackles in the hearth, throwing long, monstrous shadows across the walls of the suite. Luca doesn't deny it. He doesn't blink, he doesn't flinch, and he doesn't offer a single word of apology. The calm, terrifying mask of the Don settles over his sharp features.

"Marco talks too much," Luca says, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

"Is it true?" I demand, my hands clenching into fists against his thighs. "Did you cause a three-year war that cost dozens of lives, just to trap me in this house?"

"Yes," Luca answers instantly, the unapologetic honesty of his confession hitting me like a physical blow. He leans forward, bringing his face so close to mine I can feel the erratic heat of his breath against my lips.

"Every single word of it is true, Sophia. Your father thought he was a genius, but he was just a rat running through a maze I built for him. I controlled every single variable of that conflict. And the end goal was always you."

"Why?" a sob tears out of my throat, a mixture of horror and a dangerous, unwanted confusion. "Why me, Luca? I didn't know you. Why would you do something so monstrous for a girl you had never spoken to?"

Luca reaches out, his split, blood-stained knuckles gently catching the bottom of my chin. He forces me to look at him, refusing to let me look away from the fire burning in his eyes.

"Three years ago, your father hosted a gala at the Drake Hotel," Luca whispers, his voice dropping to a low, mesmerizing tone.

"It was the first and only time he ever brought you to an official function. You were eighteen. You wore a simple, light blue dress, and you spent the entire night sitting in the corner, looking at the bosses and the capos with absolute, pure disgust."

His thumb strokes my lower lip, his touch incredibly light despite the violence radiating off his body.

"I was standing on the balcony, watching you," Luca continues, his eyes darkening into a deep midnight blue. "I watched a politician try to put his hand on your waist, and I watched you stab his hand with a cocktail fork without blinking. You didn't smile. You didn't try to charm anyone. You were surrounded by the most dangerous monsters in this state, and you looked at us like we were garbage. You were pure, Sophia. You were the only thing in that room that hadn't been bought, sold, or corrupted by blood money."

He takes a deep breath, his chest pressing against my hands.

"I decided that night that I was going to take you," Luca confesses, his voice laced with an unhinged, beautiful certainty. "I knew if I just asked for you, your father would use you as leverage. He would make demands. He would try to infiltrate my syndicate. So I decided to break him instead. I systematically destroyed everything he loved, until the only thing he had left to offer me to save his own miserable life was his daughter."

I stare at him, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to burst through my ribs. The sheer scale of his obsession is terrifying. He didn't just buy a trophy; he rearranged the entire landscape of the city just to put a ring on my finger.

"You're insane," I choke out, the tears finally spilling over my eyelashes.

"Probably," Luca agrees softly, a dark, twisted smile touching the corners of his mouth. He reaches down, his massive hands wrapping around my waist, and with one effortless movement, he lifts me off the floor and pulls me onto his lap.

I gasp, my legs straddling his thighs, my sweater brushing against his bare, scarred chest. He wraps his arms tightly around my waist, locking me against him, burying his face into the crook of my neck.

"Hate me all you want, Sophia," he murmurs against my skin, his voice thick with a dark, heavy exhaustion. "But you are here now and you are mine."

I sit there, completely captured in his embrace, listening to the heavy, steady thud of his heart against my chest. The horror of what he did is there, cold and undeniable. But beneath the horror is the memory of him throwing his body over mine in the SUV, taking the glass and the bullets to keep me alive.

Slowly, against every shred of common sense I possess, my hands rise. I lay my palms flat against his broad, warm shoulders, my forehead resting gently against his collarbone.

"Let me finish the bandage," I whisper into the dark room.

Luca lets out a low, content sound, his grip loosening just enough to let me work. In the quiet, flickering light of the fire, I finish wrapping the gauze around his arm, securing the tape with steady fingers. When I am done, I don't move away.

Luca stands up, holding my body against his as he walks over to the massive, king-sized bed. He lays me down on the sheets, before climbing in right beside me. He doesn't try to undress me. He doesn't force anything. He simply pulls my back against his solid chest, his massive, tattooed arm wrapping around my waist, anchoring me to his side.

The scent of his cologne and the fading trace of blood surrounds me completely. As I close my eyes and let the darkness finally take over.