Eight o'clock came too damn fast.
I stood in my Upper East Side penthouse, staring at my reflection. The black cocktail dress Marco demanded hugged my curves like second skin, expensive silk whispering against my thighs when I moved. I'd picked it because it was conservative enough to keep some dignity, but tight enough to remind him I wasn't some desperate college girl who needed her bills paid.
My hands shook as I put on lipstick. Same shade of red I'd worn to David's funeral. Fitting, since tonight felt like another burial.
The doorbell rang at exactly eight. No surprise—Marco struck me as the type who used punctuality as a power play. I took one last look around my penthouse, memorizing details I might never see again. The ivory leather sofa David said cost too much. The Central Park view that cost us an extra million. The life I was about to walk away from.
I opened the door to find Marco completely transformed. Gone was the tailored businessman from my office. This version wore dark jeans that hugged his lean hips, black cashmere that showed off his broad shoulders, and leather boots that probably cost more than most people's rent. He looked younger. More dangerous. Like sin wrapped in expensive packaging.
"Right on time," he said, eyes obviously approving as they scanned my dress. "You clean up nice, Victoria."
"Let's just get this over with." I grabbed my overnight bag from beside the door. "The sooner this arrangement starts, the sooner it ends."
Marco's smile was all teeth. "That's where you're wrong. This ends when I say it ends."
Before I could respond, he took the bag from my hands and slung it over his shoulder. The casual gesture felt possessive, like he was already claiming my belongings along with my body.
"My driver's waiting downstairs," he said, placing his hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the elevator. The touch burned through the silk of my dress, sending unwanted heat straight to my core.
The ride down forty-two floors passed in silence. Marco stood close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and masculine that made my head spin. When the elevator doors opened to reveal a black Bentley waiting in the circular drive, complete with a driver who didn't even glance our way, reality slapped me awake.
This wasn't some rich boy playing at danger. Marco Castellano had real power, real money, real connections. And I'd just signed myself over to him for a whole year.
"Having second thoughts?" Marco asked as he helped me into the car.
"Too late for second thoughts," I replied, settling into leather seats that probably cost more than my first car.
"Good. Because after tonight, there's no going back."
The drive to his place took twenty minutes through Manhattan traffic. Marco made casual conversation about weather, the stock market, everything except what was about to happen between us. It was worse than threats—this polite pretense that I hadn't just become his personal property.
His penthouse took up the top three floors of a building in TriBeca, the kind of real estate that cost twenty million minimum. The elevator needed a key card and fingerprint scan to reach his floor. More security than most banks.
"Welcome home," Marco said as the doors opened straight into his living space.
My breath caught. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, while the interior looked like it'd been designed by someone with unlimited money and no sense of warmth. Everything was sharp angles and cold surfaces—black marble, steel fixtures, furniture that looked more like art than something you'd actually sit on.
"Drink?" Marco headed for a bar that looked fully stocked with top-shelf everything.
"Scotch. Neat." If I was going to do this, I needed alcohol to numb reality's sharp edges.
He poured two glasses of what looked like twenty-year-old single malt, then handed me mine. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and I hated that my pulse jumped.
"To new arrangements," Marco said, raising his glass.
I drank without toasting. The scotch burned going down, which was exactly what I needed.
"Your room's upstairs," Marco said, setting his glass aside. "But first, let me show you around. You'll be living here for the next year, so you should know the layout."
He led me through rooms that looked like magazine spreads—a kitchen with restaurant-grade appliances, a dining room with a table for twenty, a library with first-edition books I'd bet he'd never read. Everything beautiful and expensive and completely impersonal.
"And this is the master bedroom," he said, opening double doors to reveal the most decadent space I'd ever seen.
The bed was enormous—king-sized at minimum—with a black leather headboard that looked custom-made. More floor-to-ceiling windows, another stunning view, and a bathroom visible through glass doors that left nothing to the imagination.
"This is where you'll be sleeping," Marco said, watching my face.
"I thought you said I had my own room."
"You do. When I don't need your company." He moved closer, backing me against the doorframe. "But most nights, Victoria, you'll be right here. In my bed. Under me."
The words should have sounded crude. Instead, they sent liquid fire racing through my veins. I took another sip of scotch to cover my reaction.
"Speaking of requirements," Marco continued, reaching into his pocket. "There are rules."
He handed me a folded piece of paper. I opened it to find a list written in his bold handwriting:
You'll be available whenever I call, day or night2. No contact with former colleagues or friends without permission3. Your phone will be monitored for security4. Social functions require appropriate dress and behavior5. What happens in this penthouse stays private6. No other men. Ever.
"Number six seems a little one-sided," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
"My arrangement, my rules." Marco plucked the paper from my fingers and tossed it aside. "Any questions?"
A hundred questions. But only one mattered. "What if I can't go through with this?"
Marco's hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb stroking my skin with surprising gentleness. "You can. And you will. Because deep down, Victoria, part of you wants this. I could see it in your office today."
"You're delusional."
"Am I?" His other hand settled on my waist, pulling me closer until our bodies almost touched. "Your pulse is racing. Your pupils are dilated. You're breathing like you just ran a marathon. Those aren't signs of fear, sweetheart. That's arousal."
I wanted to deny it, but my body was betraying me. Heat pooled between my legs as Marco's thumb traced my lower lip. When had anyone last looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous at the same time?
"I should unpack," I whispered.
"Later." Marco's voice had gone husky. "First, we need to establish the terms of our relationship."
Before I could ask what he meant, his mouth was on mine.
The kiss was nothing like I expected. Not rough or demanding, but soft and coaxing. His lips moved against mine with the skill of someone who'd had plenty of practice seducing women. His tongue traced my lips until I opened for him, and then he was inside, tasting like scotch and promises I shouldn't believe.
I kissed him back before I could stop myself. My hands fisted in his cashmere sweater, pulling him closer as two years of celibacy and loneliness crashed over me. Marco groaned into my mouth, and the sound made something primal inside me respond.
He backed me toward the bed without breaking the kiss, his hands roaming my body with the confidence of ownership. When my legs hit the mattress, I realized how far I'd let this go.
"Wait," I gasped, pulling away. "I need—this is moving too fast."
Marco's eyes were dark with desire, but he stopped immediately. "What do you need?"
"Time. Space. I just—" I ran a shaking hand through my hair. "I'm not some call girl you hired for the night. This is my life we're talking about."
"I know exactly what this is." Marco stepped back, giving me room to breathe. "Take all the time you need to process. But Victoria, understand something—this arrangement starts tonight. You're mine now, whether you're ready or not."
The possessiveness in his voice should have terrified me. Instead, it sent another jolt of heat straight to my core. What was wrong with me?
"I'll go put my things away," I said, grabbing my overnight bag.
Marco caught my wrist as I passed. "Your room's the second door on the left. But Victoria?" He leaned close enough that his breath whispered across my ear. "Don't keep me waiting too long."
I practically fled upstairs, my heart hammering. The second door opened to reveal a guest bedroom that was still larger and more luxurious than most people's master suites. A king bed with white linens, another spectacular view, a bathroom that was all marble and gold fixtures.
I set my bag on the bed and tried to process what I'd gotten myself into. Downstairs was a man young enough to be my little brother, who'd just kissed me like he owned me. And God help me, I'd kissed him back like I wanted to be owned.
My phone buzzed with a text. Marco: Dinner in an hour. Wear something comfortable.
I stared at the message, then typed back: This is insane.
His response came immediately: Get used to insane. It's your new normal.
I spent the next hour unpacking and trying to convince myself I could handle this arrangement. It was just business. Transactional. I'd spent twenty years in finance—I understood contracts and negotiations and keeping emotions out of deals.
But when I went back downstairs wearing jeans and a silk blouse, Marco was in the kitchen cooking. Actually cooking, not reheating takeout. He'd changed into jeans too, and the casual domesticity of the scene made my chest tight.
"Didn't figure you for the cooking type," I said, accepting the wine glass he offered.
"My grandmother insisted all her grandsons learn their way around a kitchen. Said women weren't put on earth to serve men." Marco stirred something that smelled incredible. "She was a smart lady."
"Was?"
"Cancer took her five years ago." Pain flashed across his features. "She would've loved you, actually. Always said I needed someone who could stand up to me."
The casual way he talked about us having a future made me uncomfortable. "This isn't permanent, Marco. One year, remember?"
"A lot can change in a year." He plated what looked like restaurant-quality pasta and set it in front of me. "Eat. You're going to need your strength."
The threat—or promise—sent another shiver through me. I took a bite of pasta to avoid responding. It was delicious, which somehow made everything worse. Marco Castellano was supposed to be a dangerous criminal, not someone who cooked gourmet meals and talked about his grandmother.
"Tell me about your marriage," he said, settling across from me with his own plate.
"That's personal."
"Everything about you is personal to me now." Marco's green eyes locked on mine. "Were you happy with David?"
I twirled pasta around my fork to buy time. "We were... compatible."
"That's not what I asked."
"Happy enough." The lie tasted bitter. David and I had been business partners more than lovers, even before his death. "Why does it matter?"
"Because I want to know if he satisfied you. If he made you come. If you faked it to protect his ego." Marco's voice was matter-of-fact, like he was discussing the weather.
Heat flooded my cheeks. "That's none of your business."
"Wrong answer. Try again."
"I'm not discussing my sex life with you."
Marco set down his fork and leaned back. "Victoria, you signed a contract that makes your body my property for the next twelve months. Your pleasure, your orgasms, your sexual satisfaction—all of it belongs to me now. So yes, your sex life with David is absolutely my business."
The crude words shouldn't have aroused me. But sitting across from this beautiful, dangerous man who was staking claim to my body made moisture pool between my legs.
"David was... adequate," I finally admitted.
"Adequate." Marco's smile was predatory. "How often?"
"Marco—"
"How. Often."
"Once a week. Maybe twice." I took a large gulp of wine. "It wasn't the priority in our relationship."
"And you never came?"
My silence was answer enough.
Marco stood and moved around the table until he was behind my chair. His hands settled on my shoulders, thumbs working small circles against the tension there.
"Five years of marriage," he murmured, "and your husband never bothered to learn your body. What a waste."
His touch was making it impossible to think straight. "We should talk about boundaries—"
"The only boundary is your safety." Marco's hands slid down to cup my breasts through my blouse. "Everything else is negotiable."
I gasped at the contact, my nipples hardening instantly under his palms. When had anyone touched me like this? With such confidence, such ownership?
"I can make you come until you scream," Marco whispered against my ear. "I can show you pleasures David never dreamed of. All you have to do is stop fighting me."
His words went straight to my core. I was wet, aching, desperate for something I'd convinced myself I didn't need. When Marco's fingers began working the buttons of my blouse, I didn't stop him.
"That's it," he murmured as my shirt fell open. "Let me see you."
He turned my chair so I was facing him, then knelt between my legs. His hands skimmed over my black lace bra, thumbs teasing my nipples through the fabric until I was arching into his touch.
"Beautiful," he said, reaching behind me to unhook my bra. "Perfect."
Cool air hit my exposed breasts, making my nipples tighten further. Marco's eyes went dark as he took in the sight of me half-naked in his kitchen.
"Tell me you want this," he said, hands resting on my thighs.
I should say no. Should maintain some shred of dignity. Instead, I heard myself whisper, "Yes."
Marco smiled and leaned forward to take my left nipple into his mouth. The sensation shot straight to my core, making me gasp and clutch at his dark hair. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, using his tongue and teeth until I was writhing in the chair.
"Bedroom," he said against my skin. "Now."
He stood and pulled me with him, leading me through the penthouse while I clutched my open blouse. In his bedroom, he turned to face me with an intensity that made my knees weak.
"Last chance to change your mind," he said. "Once we do this, there's no going back."
I thought about David, about my empty marriage and lonely bed. About two years of celibacy and the ache between my legs that Marco's touch had awakened.
"I don't want to go back," I said.
Marco's smile was triumphant. He reached for the hem of his sweater and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. My breath caught at the sight of his bare chest—lean muscle and olive skin, with that intriguing tattoo on his wrist and another over his heart that looked like Italian script.
Then his hands were on my blouse, pushing it off my shoulders. My bra followed, leaving me topless in front of this beautiful young man who was looking at me like I was a goddess.
"Perfect," he murmured, reaching for the button of my jeans. "Fucking perfect."
He undressed me slowly, reverently, until I was standing naked in his bedroom while he knelt to remove my panties. The sight of him on his knees before me was almost too much to process.
Marco rose and began working on his own jeans. When he pushed them down along with his boxers, I couldn't suppress a gasp. He was beautiful everywhere—long and thick and clearly ready for me.
"Don't worry," he said, correctly reading my expression. "I'll be gentle. At first."
He guided me backward until my legs hit the bed, then laid me down like I was made of spun glass. The leather headboard was cool against my back as Marco positioned himself between my thighs.
"Tell me what you like," he said, fingers tracing patterns on my inner thighs that made me shiver.
"I don't—David never asked—"
"David was an idiot." Marco's fingers found my wetness, stroking gently. "What about this? Do you like this?"
I moaned as he explored me with skilled fingers, finding spots David had never bothered to discover. When Marco slid one finger inside me, then two, I arched off the bed.
"That's it," he encouraged. "Let me hear you."
He worked me with his fingers while his thumb found my clit, circling with just the right pressure. Within minutes, I was climbing toward something I'd only read about in romance novels.
"Marco," I gasped. "I'm going to—"
"Come for me," he commanded. "Let go."
The orgasm hit like lightning, making me cry out as waves of pleasure crashed over me. Marco worked me through it, murmuring praise until I collapsed against the pillows.
"My turn," he said, positioning himself at my entrance.
He entered me slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size. When he was fully seated inside me, we both groaned at the sensation. He felt incredible—thick and warm and so deep I could barely breathe.
"God, Victoria," he panted. "You feel amazing."
He began to move, setting a rhythm that built the tension between us. His technique was flawless—varying angle and speed until I was climbing toward another peak. This wasn't the mechanical coupling I'd known with David. This was art.
"Harder," I demanded, surprising myself with my boldness.
Marco smiled and complied, driving into me with more force until the bed was shaking and I was making sounds I'd never made before. The pleasure built and built until I was desperate for release.
"That's it," Marco groaned, his own control starting to slip. "This is what David owes us—"
The words were barely audible, lost in the rhythm of our bodies, but they hit me like ice water. "What did you say?"
Marco's eyes went wide, like he'd revealed something he shouldn't have. "Nothing. I didn't—"
But it was too late. Even lost in passion, I'd heard him clearly. David owes us. Not me. Us.
Before I could process the implications, Marco's rhythm became erratic and he came with a groan, spilling himself inside me. The sensation pushed me over the edge again, and I cried out as another orgasm tore through me.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, both breathing hard. Marco's arm was around me, holding me against his chest like I might disappear. The domesticity of it was almost worse than the amazing sex.
"I need to shower," I finally said, extracting myself from his embrace.
"Use the master bath," Marco said sleepily. "Towels are in the cabinet."
The bathroom was as impressive as the rest of the penthouse—marble everywhere, a shower that could fit six people, and a tub that looked like it could double as a swimming pool. I turned on the rainfall showerhead and stepped under the spray, trying to process what had just happened.
I'd just had the best sex of my life with a man young enough to be my little brother. A man who might have killed my husband. A man who'd let slip something about "us" and what David owed, confirming there were secrets I didn't understand yet.
I was shampooing my hair when I heard the bathroom door open. Marco stepped into the shower behind me, his hands immediately going to my waist.
"Room for two," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.
I let him wash my hair, his fingers massaging my scalp with surprising gentleness. But when I turned around to rinse the soap away, I saw something that made my blood freeze.
Marco's back was covered in scars.
Not surgical scars or accident scars. These were deliberate—thin white lines crisscrossing his skin in a pattern that spoke of systematic torture. Someone had taken a whip or belt to this man's back, repeatedly, leaving marks that would never fully fade.
"Marco," I breathed, reaching out to trace one of the scars.
He spun around, catching my wrist before I could touch him. His eyes were suddenly cold, guarded.
"Don't."
"Who did this to you?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does matter." I stepped closer, not caring about our nakedness. "Someone hurt you. Badly."
Marco's jaw tightened. "Ancient history."
"Is that why you're doing this? Some kind of revenge—"
"Leave it alone, Victoria." The warning in his voice was unmistakable.
But I couldn't leave it alone. Those scars told a story of pain and abuse that explained so much about the darkness I saw in Marco's eyes. Someone had broken this beautiful man, and I had a sinking feeling it was connected to David and the debt that brought us together.
"We need to talk," I said.
"No, we don't." Marco stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel. "What we need is for you to accept that some things are private."
"Not if they involve my husband."
Marco paused in the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Your husband is dead, Victoria. Has been for two years. What matters now is the arrangement between you and me."
He left me standing alone in the shower, water cascading over my skin while questions multiplied in my mind. Who were the "us" Marco had mentioned? What did David really owe, and to whom? And most importantly—what had David done to earn the kind of hatred that would drive someone to seduce his widow?
I finished my shower in silence, my body still humming from Marco's touch but my mind spinning with possibilities I wasn't sure I wanted to explore. When I finally emerged from the bathroom wearing one of Marco's silk robes, I found him in bed, apparently asleep.
But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he was breathing. Marco Castellano was as awake as I was, probably wondering how much I'd guessed and what I planned to do about it.
I climbed into bed beside him, careful not to let our bodies touch. The sheets still smelled like sex and expensive cologne, a reminder of how completely I'd surrendered to this man I barely knew.
"Marco?" I whispered into the darkness.
"Go to sleep, Victoria."
"Who hurt you?"
A long pause. Then: "The same person who killed your husband. Sweet dreams."
Before I could respond, Marco's breathing evened out into what sounded like genuine sleep. But his words echoed in my mind, along with the memory of those terrible scars and the pain I'd glimpsed in his eyes.
Someone had tortured Marco Castellano. Someone who was also responsible for David's death. And somehow, I was caught in the middle of a revenge plot that ran deeper than a simple debt collection.
As I lay in the darkness listening to Marco breathe, one thought kept circling through my mind: I'd signed a contract with a man who was either my salvation or my destruction.
The problem was, I was no longer sure which I wanted him to be.