Married To The Devil I Hate

Chapter 8

The afternoon light filters through the floor to ceiling windows, pulling me from a restless, dream-filled sleep. I am lying in the exact center of the massive, king sized bed, completely tangled in the dark gray sheets. My eyes feel heavy and swollen from crying. The memory of last night hits me like a physical blow to the chest.

Luca shattering my cheap burner phone in his massive fist. The terrifying, completely absolute promise he made to burn my family's house to the ground if I ever tried to contact my little sister again.

I roll over onto my back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. I am a prisoner.

A sharp knock on the heavy double doors interrupts my dark thoughts. Before I can even answer, the door clicks open. Rosa, the stern-faced housekeeper, marches into the bedroom. She is carrying a large, black garment bag over her arm and a velvet jewelry box in her hands.

"Good afternoon, Signora," Rosa says smoothly, her tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.

"The boss has requested your presence tonight. You are attending a gala in the city. A event hosted by the underworld elite. You have two hours to get ready."

I sit up, pulling the thick black quilt tightly against my chest. "I don't want to go to a gala," I say, my voice raspy and completely exhausted. "Tell him I am sick."

Rosa stops at the foot of the bed, raising a single, severe gray eyebrow. "I do not deliver messages like that to the boss. You are his new wife. He wishes to present you to the city. You will get up, you will bathe, and you will wear what he has chosen for you."

She lays the garment bag perfectly flat on the mattress and unzips it.

I stare at the dress, my breath catching slightly in my throat. It is a stunning, floor length gown made of black silk. It is entirely backless, with a dangerous, plunging neckline and a high slit up the leg. It is the kind of dress designed to make everyone in the room stare. It is a dress meant for a mafia queen.

"He expects you downstairs at exactly seven o'clock," Rosa adds, setting the velvet jewelry box on the nightstand before turning on her heel and marching out of the room.

For a long time, I just sit there. I want to rip the black silk to shreds. I want to scream. But the memory of Luca’s freezing blue eyes flashing with murderous rage stops me. I have to play the game. If I want to survive the Devil of Chicago, I have to learn how to walk through his fire without getting burned.

An hour and a half later, I am standing in front of the massive bathroom mirror. The black silk dress clings to my body like a second skin. It highlights every curve, making me look older, sharper, and incredibly dangerous. I brushed my hair until it shone, letting the long waves fall perfectly over my bare shoulders. I applied dark, smoky makeup around my eyes, hiding the redness from crying, and painted my lips a deep, matte red.

I open the velvet box Rosa left behind. Inside rests a heavy, glittering diamond necklace and a pair of matching teardrop earrings. They must cost more than a mansion. I clip the freezing metal around my neck, the diamonds resting perfectly against my collarbones.

I don't look like myself anymore. I look like a property. Extremely expensive, highly guarded property.

"You look incredible."

I gasp, spinning around instantly.

Luca is leaning casually against the doorframe of the bathroom, his arms crossed over his massive chest. He is wearing a custom tailored, pitch black tuxedo that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. His black hair is styled back, but a few stray locks fall over his forehead, giving him that wild, untamed look. His eyes are slowly dragging up and down my body, taking in every single inch of the black silk.

The sheer hunger in his gaze makes my heart hammer wildly against my ribs.

"How long have you been standing there?" I demand, hating how breathless my voice sounds.

"Long enough," Luca murmurs. He uncrosses his arms and steps into the bathroom. The space instantly feels entirely too small. He stops right in front of me, his massive frame completely trapping me against the counter. He reaches out, his rough, calloused fingers gently trailing down my bare arm. The contrast between his lethal, violent hands and the soft silk of my dress sends a chaotic, burning shiver straight down my spine.

"Don't touch me," I whisper, though my body stubbornly refuses to pull away from his heat.

Luca ignores my words entirely. His hand slides around to the bare skin of my lower back. The dress is completely open in the back, and his hot palm rests directly against my spine. I gasp at the contact.

"Tonight is our first public appearance since the wedding," Luca says, his voice a low, raspy rumble that vibrates through my entire body.

"Every single rat in this city is going to be watching us. They are going to look for weakness. They are going to see if my new wife is a frightened little girl, or if she knows who she belongs to."

He leans down, his lips brushing dangerously close to the shell of my ear. I can smell his intoxicating cologne.

"You will smile, Sophia," he orders softly, his fingers pressing firmly into my bare back. "You will stand by my side, and you will play the perfect, devoted wife. Do you understand me?"

"And if I don't?" I challenge, tilting my chin up to glare into his dead, freezing eyes.

Luca’s lips curve into a dark, arrogant smirk. "If you don't, I will remind you exactly who is in charge, right in front of everyone. Don't test me tonight, wife. Play the game."

He drops his hand, leaving my skin absolutely burning where he touched me, and turns to walk out of the room. I take a deep, shaky breath and follow him, knowing I am walking straight into a den of wolves.

The drive into downtown Chicago is tense and entirely silent. We sit in the back of a heavily armored SUV, surrounded by a motorcade of Luca's best men. I stare out the tinted window at the glowing neon lights of the city. We pull up to the front of a massive, opulent art museum that has been completely shut down for the private event.

Paparazzi and onlookers are held back behind velvet ropes by dozens of massive security guards. The flash of cameras illuminates the rainy night like lightning.

The door opens. Luca steps out first, buttoning his tuxedo jacket. He turns and offers me his hand. I swallow the lump of dread in my throat, placing my trembling fingers into his palm.

The moment I step out of the car, the cameras go completely wild.

Luca’s hand immediately slides off my fingers and wraps firmly around my bare waist. His grip is tight, possessive, and entirely inescapable. He pulls my body flush against his hard side, silently guiding me up the red carpet. I force a polite, empty smile onto my lips, playing the role of the happy, untouchable wife.

Inside, the gala is a masterclass in sickening wealth and hidden danger. Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, illuminating priceless paintings and statues. Men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns drink champagne and laughing softly. But I know exactly what this is. Every man in this room is a killer, a boss, or a corrupt politician bought and paid for by mafia blood money.

As we walk through the crowd, the sea of people literally parts for Luca. The respect and pure terror he commands is staggering to witness.

His hand never leaves my waist. Even when he stops to speak to an associate, his fingers remain curled tightly against my bare skin, a constant, burning reminder that I am completely trapped.

"De Santis," a slick, oily voice calls out.

We stop. A man in his late forties, wearing a garish silver tuxedo, approaches us. He has a greasy smile and eyes that slide instantly from Luca’s face down to the plunging neckline of my dress.

"Lorenzo," Luca greets him coldly.

"I haven't had the pleasure of properly meeting the new bride," Lorenzo says, stepping entirely too close. He extends a hand toward me, his dark eyes lingering on my chest with disgusting hunger. "You look absolutely edible tonight, Mrs. De Santis. Vincenzo Romano certainly hid a treasure away."

A wave of pure disgust washes over me, but before I can even react, the temperature in the room seems to drop a hundred degrees.

Luca does not shake Lorenzo’s hand. Instead, his grip on my waist tightens painfully. He takes a half step in front of me, shielding my body from Lorenzo's gaze.

"Watch your f*****g eyes, Lorenzo," Luca says. His voice is perfectly calm, quiet enough that only the three of us can hear it, but it is laced with such pure, concentrated murder that the older man physically recoils.

Lorenzo pales, dropping his hand immediately. "No disrespect intended, Luca. Just paying a compliment."

"Compliments are for women who are available," Luca growls, his eyes narrowing into lethal slits. "This one is mine. If you ever look at my wife like that again, I will cut your eyes out of your skull and feed them to my f*****g dogs. Walk away."

Lorenzo swallows hard, nodding frantically before turning and practically running back into the crowd.

I stare up at Luca, my heart hammering in my chest. He just threatened to mutilate a man over a simple, disgusting look. The absolute, unhinged possessiveness rolling off his massive frame is terrifying. But as I stand pressed against his side, shielded from the dangerous men in the room by his sheer presence, a sick, twisted realization hits me.

I hate him. I hate everything he represents. But when his arm is wrapped around my waist, fighting off the rest of the monsters in the dark... I have never felt safer in my entire life.

"Are you okay?" Luca murmurs, looking down at me. The murderous rage instantly vanishes from his eyes, replaced by a strange, intense heat as he looks at my flushed face.

"I'm fine," I whisper, entirely unable to look away from his gaze.

"Good," he says softly, his thumb slowly stroking my bare skin one final time. "Let's get the hell out of here."

He keeps his hand firmly anchored on my lower back as he guides me away from the party and toward the private VIP exit. My skin is absolutely burning under his touch, my mind swirling with dangerous, conflicting emotions as we step out into the cold Chicago night.