Married To The Devil I Hate

Chapter 6

It takes me nearly an hour to finally get out of that damn wedding dress.

Without a maid or a sister to help me with the dozens of tiny satin buttons lining the back, I have to awkwardly reach behind myself, straining my muscles until my shoulders ache. When the heavy dress finally pools around my ankles on the cold floor, I let out the longest breath of my life.

I step out of it like I am stepping out of a trap. I leave the dress crumpled in the corner of the massive bathroom, a white dress of the girl I used to be.

Rosa had left a garment bag hanging on the closet door while I was downstairs in the training room. When I unzip it, my heart does a strange, uncomfortable flip. Inside is an entire wardrobe of brand new clothes. They aren't generic, either.

There are casual jeans, soft cashmere sweaters, and elegant dresses. I pull out a dark, yellow long sleeved dress. When I slip it on, it fits my body absolutely flawlessly.

A chill runs down my spine. The hem hits just above my knees, the waist is perfectly tailored, and the fabric hugs my curves without being too tight. Luca knew my exact measurements. He didn't just guess. He had this wardrobe prepared for me long before my father ever signed that piece of paper.

“I’ve been watching you for years,” his deep, raspy voice echoes in my head, making my skin prickle.

What the hell did he mean by that?

I try my best to ignore the bloody mafia empire my father ran. I stayed away from the clubs, the meetings, and the dangerous men. Yet, the deadliest monster of them all had his eyes locked on me the entire time.

A sharp knock on the bedroom door cuts off my racing thoughts.

"Signora," a guard’s voice calls out through the thick door. "The boss is waiting for you in the dining room. Dinner is served."

I look at myself in the mirror one last time. My hair is loose now, falling in soft waves past my shoulders. My eyes look wide, but the absolute panic from this morning has hardened into a cold, defensive anger. I am not going to let him see me cower. If I am going to live in this cage, I am going to make sure the devil knows I have claws.

"I'm coming," I call out, opening the door.

The guard is a massive, stone-faced man named Marco. He doesn't look at me, keeping his eyes strictly forward as he guides me down the winding hallways of the west wing. The mansion feels even bigger at night. The shadows stretch long across the floors, and the only sound is the rhythmic clicking of my low heels against the stone.

We reach a pair of grand double doors on the ground floor. Marco pushes them open, stepping aside to let me enter.

The dining room is ridiculous. A massive, polished table stretches down the center of the room, easily long enough to seat twenty or thirty people. High backed chairs line the sides, and a massive crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, casting a sharp, bright light over the space. But only two places have been set one at the very head of the table, and one at the opposite end, completely miles away.

Luca is already sitting at the head of the table.

He has changed out of his sweaty gym clothes and is wearing a crisp, black button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his dark tattoos. His pitch black hair is damp and combed back. He is holding a heavy crystal glass of red wine, swirling the dark liquid slowly. When I step into the room, his eyes snap up, locking onto me with that terrifying, predatory focus.

He doesn't stand up. He just watches me walk the incredibly long distance down the side of the table until I reach my chair. A silent waiter steps out of the shadows, pulling the heavy chair out for me. I sit down, smoothing the fabric of my dress, refusing to look at my husband.

The waiter immediately places a plate in front of me. It looks incredible a perfectly seared filet mignon, roasted asparagus, and small potatoes.

The scent of garlic and rosemary fills the air, and my stomach lets out a quiet rumble. I haven't eaten a real meal since yesterday morning. But I look across the long table at Luca, and my appetite instantly vanishes.

"Eat, Sophia," Luca says. His deep voice easily carries across the room.

"I'm not hungry," I say coldly, crossing my arms over my chest.

Luca takes a slow sip of his wine, setting the glass down with a soft click. "We are not doing this game again. You need to eat. I don't keep a weak, starving wife in my house."

"Then let me go," I snap, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. "If my presence is such an inconvenience to your perfect, organized life, open the front gates and let me walk out. I'll take a bus. You can tell my father whatever the hell you want."

Luca's jaw clenches slightly, a tiny muscle ticking beneath his sharp jawline. "You are not leaving this house, Sophia. We discussed this. You are mine. Your life as a Romano is completely finished."

"Why?" I demand, leaning forward, my eyes blazing as I stare down the length of the table at him. "Why did you demand me in the treaty? You told me this morning that you’ve been watching me. What the hell does that mean, Luca? I don't know you. I have never seen you before yesterday. Why are you so obsessed with keeping me locked in this f*****g house?"

The silent waiters quickly disappear from the room, sensing the explosive tension building between the two of us. The heavy doors click shut, leaving us entirely alone in the room.

Luca looks at me for a long, agonizing moment. He doesn't look angry; he looks completely, dangerously calm. He slides his chair back and stands up.

My heart does a panicked flutter as he begins to walk down the side of the long table. He moves with a slow, deliberate grace, like a panther tracking its prey. He keeps his blue eyes fixed on mine, forcing me to watch him close the distance between us. With every step he takes, the air in the room feels thicker, heavier, making it harder for me to breathe.

He stops right beside my chair, towering over me. The scent of his cologne washes over me, completely erasing the smell of the food.

"You want to know why I watched you?" Luca asks, his voice dropping to a low, lethal purr. He reaches down, his large, warm hand gripping the back of my chair, leaning in so close I can see the tiny flecks of dark blue in his eyes. "Because in our world, Sophia, everything is filthy. Every politician is bought, every cop is crooked, and every woman is trying to climb her way up the bloody ladder. Your father is a snake. Your capos are cowards. But you..."

He reaches out with his free hand, his long fingers gently catching a strand of my hair, twisting it slowly. His touch is light, almost gentle, but it feels like a high voltage wire pressing against my skin.

"You stayed away from the dirt," Luca whispers, his eyes dropping to my lips before snapping back to mine. "I watched you go to your university classes. I watched you take your little sister to the park. I watched you look at this ugly, violent world with disgust. You were the only pure thing left in Chicago, Sophia. And I decided a long time ago that when the time came to break your father, I was going to take his most precious piece."

A wave of hot, furious indignation crashes through my chest. He talks about me like I am a painting he saw in a gallery, a beautiful object he just decided to buy and add to his collection. He didn't see a human being; he saw a trophy to steal from my father.

"I am not a piece of property," I hiss, my voice shaking with pure rage. I slap his hand away from my hair, standing up from my chair so I can look him in the eye. "I am a person! My father didn't own me, and you sure as hell don't own me either! You think you're some god who can just decide my fate? You're a monster, Luca. A cold, heartless f*****g monster who hides behind guns and walls because you're too afraid to let anyone close to you!"

Luca’s eyes flash with a sudden, dark fire. The calm mask slips, revealing the dangerous, brutal dictator beneath. He steps closer, completely invading my space, his chest pressing against mine. "Watch your mouth, sweetheart," he growls, his voice a dangerous warning. "I have killed men for saying far less to me."

"Then kill me!" I scream, completely losing my mind. The stress, the fear, the isolation of the last forty eight hours finally explode inside me. "Go ahead! Shoot me! It has to be better than sitting at this stupid table, pretending to be your perfect little puppet!"

I look down at the table, my eyes landing on the heavy crystal glass of red wine the waiter had placed near my hand.

Without a single second thought, I grab the glass by the stem and hurl it directly at his face.

Luca’s reflexes are inhuman.

In a split second, he ducks his head to the side. The heavy glass misses his temple by a fraction of an inch, flying past his ear and smashing against the dark paneling of the wall behind him.

CRASH.

The glass shatters into a thousand tiny pieces, exploding across the floor. Thick, dark red wine splatters across the wallpaper, dripping down.

I stand there, my chest heaving, my hand still raised in the air, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. My heart is pounding so loudly I can hear it in my ears. I just threw a glass at him. I just tried to take his head off.

The double doors of the dining room instantly burst open. Marco and three other guards sprint into the room, their hands flying to the guns holstered under their jackets. "Boss!" Marco shouts, his eyes wide as he looks at the shattered glass and the wine dripping down the wall.

I freeze, my blood turning to cold. This is it. They are going to shoot me.

Luca doesn't look at the guards. He doesn't look at the wall. He keeps his freezing eyes completely fixed on my flushed, terrified face. Slowly, deliberately, he raises a single hand, signaling his men to halt.

"Out," Luca commands, his voice incredibly quiet, but laced with a power that makes the guards instantly stop in their tracks. "Leave us. Now."

"But Boss, she—" Marco begins, looking at me with pure hostility.

"I said out, Marco," Luca repeats, his tone dropping an octave.

The guards swallow hard, bowing their heads before backing out of the room, closing the heavy doors once again. The silence returns, heavier and more suffocating than before.

I brace myself. I tighten my muscles, waiting for him to grab me, to scream at me, to show me the infamous brutality everyone in Chicago fears.

Instead, Luca slowly looks down at the tiny drops of red wine that splattered across the shoulder of his crisp black shirt. He reaches up, casually brushing a drop away with his thumb. Then, he looks back up at me.

To my absolute, complete shock, the corners of his mouth slowly pull up into a dark, twisted smirk.

His blue eyes darken, turning a deep, stormy shade of midnight blue as he looks at me. There is no anger in his face. There is no desire to punish me. Instead, his gaze is burning with a dark, terrifying amusement and a massive, undeniable wave of pure hunger.

He steps over the shattered glass on the floor, closing the final inch of distance between us. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his hot breath making my entire body shiver.

"I was worried you were going to be boring, Sophia," he whispers, his raspy voice sending a dangerous, unwanted spike of heat straight to my core. "But it seems my little wife has a bit of the devil in her, too."

He pulls back, giving me one last lingering, heated look that makes my knees feel weak, before turning on his heel and walking out of the dining room, leaving me alone with the ruins of our dinner.